Romancing the Sorcerer's Stone

Chapter 10: Silver Stars

Ginny wakes in the early morning to a series of loud thumps, muffled swearing, and a spectacular crash. She darts into the living room, wand raised and dressing gown clutched tight to her chest, to find—

Harry, sprawled out on the floor, wincing and scowling as he rubs his knee, where a dark bruise blooms.

She sighs and lowers her wand, turning back to the warmth of her bed.

"Where the devil did that come from?" Harry exclaims sulkily behind her.

She turns back to scan the room in surprise. Nothing seems out of place.

"Where did what come from?"

He jabs a finger at the coffee table. "That... menace. Who in their right mind would put a table there?"

She frowns, wondering absently if he'd hit his head when he fell. "Harry," she says, exasperated, as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and strives for patience, "you put that table there when you bought it. Remember? It's been there six months, at least."

His mouth falls open, then closes with a startled click. "I... I haven't been gone six months, surely?"

She purses her lips, considering. "No-o, but you've not stayed for more than a day in at least that long. I'm not surprised you didn't remember the coffee table was there. Are you coming to bed, or shall I ask Breezy to make breakfast?"

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding meeting her gaze. "I, uh, actually only have a minute. I just stopped by to get something out of my desk."

"All right, well, I trust you know where that is. I'm going back to bed." She rubs her eyes, yawning widely.

"Oh, and Harry—"

She peers back around the doorframe just in time to see him apparate away.

She sighs. She can't help it. "Say hello to Malfoy for me," she mutters, then flops back into her too-large bed.

I wonder if Astoria has any plans today... she thinks blearily, as her eyes drift closed and exhaustion rushes in to replace the fading adrenaline.

—

Ginny stares down the length of the empty table, waiting for Harry.

After the war, Harry had spoken at Malfoy and his parents' trials. He'd refused to tell her what he'd said, and the whole thing had been kept disgustingly confidential, but whatever it was was enough to tip the scales in the Malfoys' favor. Oh, they hadn't gotten off completely, of course — they'd been forced to spend nearly all of the vast Malfoy fortune on reparations and rebuilding. And they'd done so with a surprising lack of complaint — with grace, even. They'd give up the Manor too, deeding it to the War Memorial Foundation, to be used as a museum of Wizarding History, leading up to the war.

Malfoy'd told them later that it wasn't a hardship — none of them had wanted to live in the manor, after Voldemort's occupation. Still, even Ron had been impressed at their willingness to move forward. She supposes that's what had led, indirectly, to Harry and Malfoy's odd partnership.

Malfoy had turned his persuasive powers, clever brain, and shrewd business acumen to rebuilding the Malfoy fortune by selling off his family's antiques. Harry had been directed to him when he decided to sell off the more... questionable things he'd found in Number 12 Grimmauld Place and the Black and Potter vaults, and, somehow, a simple business transaction had blossomed into a strange sort of friendship and then a partnership.

It suits them, she thinks wistfully, this life of madcap dashing about, chasing hints of hidden treasure and Dark artefacts. She just wishes, sometimes, that Harry would look up and really see her, instead of memories of the girl he thought he knew in school. Wishes that his eyes weren't always flitting away from her, seeking the glitter of golden wings. It hasn't escaped her notice — though she rather thinks it has his — that he and Malfoy are still dancing around one another, chasing a hint of gold.