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It’s quiet when he wakes with a gasp, the chilled hands and fathomless eyes that sought him in sleep too real, and he’s already reaching frantically for his wand before he realizes he’s not in some threadbare tent that smells like rotten cabbages, but tucked in on the Weasley’s well-loved couch. He still needs his wand though, but before he can search much more, a familiar voice speaks quietly, “There’s blood on your hands.”

The words settle like weight in his chest. “I know I-”

A scoff sounds before Ginny’s crouching in front of his knobby knees and unclenching his hands. “Don’t be thick, I mean literally. Didn’t want you to bleed all over everything.”

Harry blinks once, twice, then looks at his open palms, carmine trailing in little rivulets from crescent shapes littering his lined skin.

Her hands are in his now, and a life affirming thrum shivers through his body and it’s like he’s finally real again after months of feeling like nothing more than a shell of a person. But luckily – or unluckily – she doesn’t see it, intent as she is on her task as she wipes the dried blood away with a cool, damp cloth. And maybe it’s the haze of his accidental nap, or the rush of having her so close, but Harry’s mind is suddenly back in that sunlit time, and he finds his mouth moving before he can second guess himself, “I think – ” I made a mistake.

Ginny looks up at him, wand poised over his palms and a smirk on her lips. “You. Thinking. Sounds far fetched to me.”

He starts again, “I think I – “ but his voice dies in his throat when he sees the thin scar, silvery against her neck.

She studies him for a moment, and he almost thinks – hopes – the familiar warmth is still there as she smiles softly. “Well I think your brain is turning to mush all shut up in here.”

Muddled as he feels, Harry doesn’t write the teasing jape of for what it is, and Ginny frowns. “Now Harry – “

Then his hand is at her neck, thumb tracing that same scar along her hairline, and despite the heaviness, a smile tickles at his lips. “Just – please don’t make me socialize.”

“I think I know you better than that Harry James,” Ginny answers wryly as her hand finds his. She tugs them both to their feet and they’re halfway out the door when Harry asks, “Where are you taking me, miss?”

Her grin is full and bright when she turns back. “Fancy a fly, Potter?”