SUMMARY: Harry/Ginny bubblefic for Em Meredith's birthday bubblebook. Spoilers through Half-Blood Prince plus speculation for the future.

Twelve Grimmauld Place didn't feel at all like home, even though Ginny had spent nearly six months hiding in its grim confines during the height of Voldemort's power. Probably a strange place for Ginny to go in search of solace, but Grimmauld Place offered her a small measure of privacy now that the Burrow was full to overflowing with Weasleys, Hermione, Harry, Fleur, and Neville Longbottom.

Of course, it wasn't just the crowd of people that made the Burrow unbearable. Mum was still overprotective -- never mind the fact that Ginny had played a major role in the Troubles and had single-handedly destroyed the last Horcrux at great risk to herself. And Ginny was nearly 17 besides. Yet her mum still treated her as if Dementors were looming around every corner, lying in wait for the youngest Weasley.

Nearly a month after the Troubles had ended (or, if you believed Remus Lupin, ended for now), Ginny had grown tired of the Burrow. She knew they were all still a bit stunned that it had ended, and that they had prevailed, despite their heavy losses. Still, Ginny could only take so much of Fred and George's diminished personalities and Hermione's fretting over Ron and her Mum's scared, sad pinched face and, most especially, Harry's presence.

Ginny wasn't tired of Harry, she just couldn't stand being around him nonstop while he continued to disintegrate and, being Harry, refused to allow anyone to help him.

She wondered what it said about her that when she'd chosen to run away from Harry, she'd run to Harry's house. She wondered if her assumption that Harry spent his time away from the Burrow right here at Grimmauld Place was correct. He wasn't here now, but the thought made her shiver, just a little, and hasten toward the grand staircase, still shaking Floo powder out of her hair.

Climbing the stairs presented something of a challenge, since Ginny's leg had never quite managed to heal all the way. With a grimace, she grabbed the ornate carved handrail and pulled herself to the top, muttering curses under her breath. Madame Pomfrey claimed she'd be nearly as good as new, with time. Ginny had gotten off lightly, and she knew it was selfish to feel sorry for herself over a stupid leg injury, but the only time she really moved freely these days was on a broom.

"Lumos," Ginny murmured, blinking a little in the light beaming from the tip of her wand. Sirius had hated Grimmauld Place so much that he'd never bothered to alter its snooty, old-fashioned furnishings, and once Harry had inherited it, he couldn't bear to alter anything. Whenever Hermione or Ginny or Luna had suggested a quick sprucing up spell, Harry had said he didn't want to waste his time and energy redecorating (even though the major players in their small, determined army were spending the majority of their time in Grimmauld Place's musty confines). Ginny inferred that Harry must've felt that changing anything at all would be some kind of confirmation that Sirius was dead.

So Grimmauld Place moldered on, as sour and unwelcoming as it was when Sirius inherited it. She hadn't been back in nearly a month, and she'd almost forgotten just how dreadful the place looked, and how disapprovingly the Black family portraits glared down at her intrusive self. (They used to hiss horrible slurs at Ginny and Hermione, until Cho Chang had come up with a Muting Spell; Ginny could still read "Mudblood" on their sneering lips, but at least she didn't have to hear it hour upon hour.)

Ginny passed Harry's room without looking inside. She wondered when he would decide to leave the Burrow and move here to his own place. She could feel it coming -- he stayed at the Burrow mostly out of guilt. Ron and Fred and George were injured fighting his fight, and Harry had decided that he deserved to stay in the Burrow day after day and watch them suffer. His capacity for self-flagellation drove Ginny mad, but she didn't feel comfortable enough with him these days to confront him. They'd spent months living here together -- among groups of other people, of course -- but every moment of it was frustratingly innocent. With a quick shake of her head, Ginny reached for the doorknob and opened the door to the lush bathroom at the end of the hall.

The Grimmauld Place bathroom was nothing like the one at the Burrow, needlessly glamorous where the Burrow was cheerful and functional. Here, elaborate stained glass windows cast reddish light along the walls in the shape of two twisted serpents, and two intricately carved sinks stood side by side, their porcelain not nearly as lustrous as it once was. She whispered a command to her wand, which glowed a soft blue to counteract the ghoulish red stained glass. On the whole, the effect was best summed up as "fallen from grace," and the bathroom was a microcosm of the house.

Ordinarily, Ginny didn't relish spending much time here. The one thing, however, that Grimmauld Place had in its favor was a truly beautiful clawfoot bathtub. When Harry'd invited them all to stay there during the height of the Troubles, every single girl had all but swooned at the sight of the bathtub, envisioning long relaxing soaks at the end of each grueling patrol shift. It hadn't worked out that way, of course. For one, there were far too many people crammed into Grimmauld Place for anyone to spend more than ten minutes in the shower. For another, no one really relished downtime after a while -- too many horrifying memories that only staying busy kept at bay.

Ginny knelt beside the tub, feeling that familiar hot ache in her chest when she turned on the spigots. She adjusted the water temperature with a muttered spell, getting a bit teary when she pulled a nearly empty bottle of Muggle bubble bath from her bag.

Seven months seemed like it should be time enough to come to terms with losing one's father, but Ginny wasn't sure that hollow ache in her chest would ever truly go away. Dad had nicked the bubble bath from the Ministry's Muggle archive years ago, when Ginny was eight or nine. The younger, indignant Ginny had crossed her arms and pointed out that she was neither fussy nor a baby. As it turned out, her Dad's gift had come in quite handy over the years, providing her a perfect excuse to take over the kids' bathroom at the Burrow for hours at a time.

As the tub filled, she slipped out of her robes and undergarments, standing before the cracked mirror to pull her long red locks up into a messy knot. Sighing with relief, Ginny savored the silence. Her mum's voice still had that shrill, panicky edge to it, and Hermione's was little better, considering how much emotional energy she spent trying to keep Ron in good spirits about his recovery.

She slid into the water, letting it rise around her as she settled in, turning the spigots off with a silent spell -- silent spells were the last thing she'd learned before leaving Hogwarts to join the fight full time. The warm, soothing water swirled around her, small bubbles dissipating with small pops. She hummed softly under her breath, feeling some of the tension seeping from her muscles as she soaked, resolutely refusing to dwell on the dark and painful past.

Her good intentions didn't last very long here without anything to distract her.

Late at night, she'd wondered, lying in her bed, what it felt like for Ron. Here, in the warm, soothing embrace of her bath, she remembered Harry describing the agony of re-growing his arm bones. She couldn't imagine what fresh hell it must be for Ron, who'd been left completely boneless by a particularly mean-spirited Death Eater named Ambiorix.

She knew his name and she remembered his face, because Ambiorix would get what was coming to him, Ginny vowed, even if he'd managed to evade Dumbledore's Army so far. (It should really be called Harry's Army, but as was typical of Harry, he refused the honor and took only the responsibility.) Fred and George had spent time searching for Ambiorix, and sometimes she worried more about them than Ron. Ron's wounds were physical, while the twins had already killed Narcissa, who'd murdered their father. Neither Fred nor George had been the same since.

Ginny couldn't bear to lose another member of her family. Silently, she let the tears flow. Tears for her father, for her mother's grief, for her brother's pain, for Hermione's suffering, for her brothers' guilt, for Harry's despair.

Ginny heard movement downstairs and froze, her adrenalin surging. She grabbed her wand from the lip of the tub -- she'd learned during the Troubles to keep it always at hand -- and listened hard. In addition to the complex protective spells on Grimmauld Place, Hermione and Luna had charmed several objects in each room of the house to provide rudimentary surveillance. Ginny closed her eyes and murmured, "Perspicere Mantle." The drawing room flickered to life behind her eyes, jumping a bit like a Muggle filmstrip until she focused on the figure collapsed in the chair nearest the door.

As it had every time since she was ten, Ginny's heart turned over at the sight of Harry, even this tired, triumphant, traumatized version of Harry. She opened her eyes, letting the image fade. The least she could grant him was his privacy in his own house. He'd realize her presence soon, if he hadn't already, and when he did, she would finish her bath and leave him be.

Sliding lower in the heated water, Ginny resolutely wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Ginny?"

Startled, Ginny nearly sat upright in the tub. Harry'd found her already, and she hadn't even heard him approach. She wondered if that was a good sign or a bad sign. On the one hand, she was relieved to know she could relax her guard so much; on the other, the Troubles had not receded far enough in the distance for her to indulge herself quite yet.

Ginny told herself to relax -- it was just Harry, after all -- but her entire body remained tense as she answered, "Yeah, Harry. It's me. Sorry to barge in uninvited."

"Nonsense," he replied, his voice muffled only a little by the door. "You're always welcome."

She couldn't think of a single thing to say in response.

"Well," Harry continued, sounding awkward now, "I'll be--"

"Come in here for a minute," Ginny interrupted impulsively. As soon as the words left her mouth, she could feel her face blazing with embarrassment. Thankfully, he couldn't possibly know that from outside the bathroom. "I'm -- There are bubbles," she added hurriedly, lifting her wet palms to her cheeks in a vain attempt to force her complexion back to normal.

"Oh," Harry answered after a long silence. "Well, then..."

Ginny's heart did that slow flip-flop as the door inched open, revealing Harry, his shoulders stooped, his head tilted down, his gaze fixed resolutely on the floor beneath his feet. She simply stared at him for a few long moments, unsure what to say now that he'd obeyed her command. He looked exhausted, too skinny by half, and his shoulders were bunched up near his ears as he stood there, practically thrumming with tension. She ached to give him a big hug, but aside from the obvious impediment (her being naked and in a bathtub), she had no idea how he would react. They hadn't really talked in months; they'd communicated about Dementors and Horcruxes and battle strategy, but nothing about themselves. She missed him fiercely, even though they'd been in close proximity for nearly a year, first living here, and then at the Burrow.

"You don't have to stand in the doorway," she chided. Harry glanced quickly at her and away, and she waved him closer. "Please, Harry."

He moved cautiously, edging closer as if she were a cranky Hippogriff instead of a girl who would never mean him any harm. His skittishness hurt someplace deep, but she forced herself to ignore it. The past year had left him... diminished, somehow, even as it magnified his legend in the eyes of the whole Wizarding world.

With a small sigh, Harry leaned against the wall near the end of the tub, sliding down until he sat on the tiled floor, his robes puddling around his hips. "Better?" he asked, his voice still tense.

"Better," she admitted. After a moment, she asked, "How did you know it was me?"

Harry pushed his glasses up a bit, studiously keeping his face averted, leaving her to try to read the tilt of his profile. "The bubbles have a certain... scent," he admitted, sounding bashful. "I recognized it."

Something burned hot in Ginny's chest; she had taken only a handful of bubblebaths in the past year, yet Harry remembered the scent. If she wasn't mistaken, Harry's cheeks were flushed as he sat there. She stared at his familiar profile, hating that they were so awkward with each other. "Muggle bubble bath," she told him, searching desperately for a conversation starter. When Harry merely murmured an acknowledgment, she threw the pussyfooting routine out the window (she wasn't any good at it anyway) and asked forthrightly, "How are you, Harry, really?"

"Fine," he answered by rote. "I was lucky." It was his usual response, and it frustrated her. She could've recited it along with him he'd said it so much in the past month. Harry shrugged one shoulder and kept his face averted. "I didn't really get hurt, Ginny."

Bollocks, she thought, having seen for herself the scar tissue crisscrossing his back. "The scars--?" she began, but he cut her off, turning his head to ask, "How's your leg?" His eyes burned into her, blazing with that intense fire she remembered from their brief time together.

Her entire body was tense, and she concentrated on relaxing her muscles one by one, paying particular attention to her right thigh. Her hamstring gave its familiar throbbing protest, and Ginny's hand dropped under the thick layer of bubbles to knead her leg. The rough, raised scar on her flesh didn't even register anymore; she didn't care about it.

"Healing," she answered, her voice coming out high and strange. Was it possible that he still--?

"I could get someone to look at it," Harry offered, his eyebrows lowering as he watched her, his concern obvious.

"It's fine," she answered briskly. They all had scars, all except Hermione, who came through the Troubles physically unscathed. Ginny knew, however, that Hermione wished fervently that she'd been injured in Ron's place. Ron glowered at her whenever she said it and called the idea dimwitted, but Ginny, who'd wished for years to take on some of the load Harry insisted on carrying alone, understood Hermione perfectly.

Harry stared at her a moment, that stubborn anger surfacing in his expression before he turned his face away again. "You should have someone look at it, Ginny," he added, sounding grim.

"Yeah," Ginny shot back, too frustrated to watch her words, "and you should talk to someone."

Harry's head jerked back around, and his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "What's that mean?"

"Just what it sounds like," she answered, lifting her chin. She was tired of aching for him from afar, tired of watching him suffer in silence because that's how he thought he should handle things. She was especially tired of him thinking that he could only confide in Ron and Hermione, because it was both wrong (Ginny had been as close to Harry as Ron and Hermione, at least for a while) and far too convenient (Harry's guilt over Ron's injury and Hermione's constant worry kept him from talking to them about his troubles).

"I told you I'm fine," Harry repeated, sounding nearly as stubborn as she.

"And I told you that I'm fine," Ginny answered, determined to win this particular argument.

"You're not fine," Harry argued, gesturing toward her. "You're injured."

"It'll heal," she dismissed, shifting in the water, yearning to sit up and shake him by his shoulders, but trapped beneath the bubbles by her modesty. "It's much better than it was. The curse just glanced off me--"

Harry was shaking his head while she spoke, and finally erupted with, "You could have been killed!" His voice was loud, amplified by the tile.

"So could you!" Ginny practically shouted back. She slapped her palm against the surface of the water for emphasis, splattering the walls with displaced water. "So could we all have been, Harry. It was a war."

"It was my battle," he argued, his hands fisted at his sides. He'd half-turned to face her, less concerned with the delicacy of the situation than with their argument. "It was my responsibility to destroy those Horcruxes--"

"Bugger that," she interrupted heatedly, remembering how very close she'd come to being killed, and how Harry had panicked, suggesting she should sit out the rest of the Troubles, maybe hide in a Muggle hospital. At the time, Ginny'd assumed Harry was treating her the way her brothers did -- as if she were too young and too stupid and too rash to be an asset. Looking back, Ginny wondered if Harry'd reacted as he did for a different reason. "Dumbledore told you about the power of love, Harry, I don't know why you can't believe him, even now."

"Love didn't kill Voldemort," Harry answered, his voice rough with anger.

"It certainly did," Ginny shot back, her fingers gripping the edge of the tub so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Baffled, Harry shook his head. "I don't know what you're on about, but Voldemort considered me his mortal enemy, and then he made me so by killing my family."

"I know that, Harry," Ginny answered impatiently. "That's not what I'm talking about." Absently, she massaged her thigh again, remembering the tragic look on Hermione's face as she knelt beside Ron's boneless body, shouting after Ginny and ordering her to come back. Ginny had ignored her -- just as Hermione was compelled to stay beside Ron, Ginny was compelled to go on and ensure that Harry would survive his battle with Voldemort. But Harry still didn't understand. "The Horcruxes--"

"Were my responsibility," Harry repeated in that bullheaded way of his.

Throwing her hands in the air in frustration, Ginny didn't register the arcs of water she sent all over the bathroom. "Harry, every Horcrux required at least two people to successfully retrieve it. Even if you'd wanted to do this alone--"

"Of course I wanted to do this alone!" Harry exploded, jumping to his feet and pacing in the small bathroom. "Do you think I wanted to see Ron like this? Do you think I wanted what happened to your father?"

Ginny winced, a fresh stab of pain stealing her breath momentarily. "Harry--"

But he didn't appear to hear her, his arms flailing as he moved with sudden, frenetic energy. "Do you think I wanted you to be injured because I couldn't finish the job?"

"Finish the job?" Ginny echoed, frowning. "Harry, you did. Voldemort is dead because of you."

"Not because of me," he argued, running a hand through his hair until it stuck up at even more extreme angles. "I didn't destroy the last two Horcruxes. You and Hermione--"

"So that's somehow..." Ginny shook her head, searching for words, "that makes what you did less of a triumph?" she asked, incredulous. "Because you didn't do it completely alone?"

"That's not what I'm saying," Harry stopped, glaring down at her, his eyes flashing with anger. "I don't care about triumph. I killed Voldemort, and I'm glad he's dead, and I'm glad I did it, but I don't consider it a triumph."

"I do," Ginny told him, reaching for the towel she'd left folded on the counter beside the tub. She'd be damned if she'd lie there and let him tower over her, shouting nonsense.

"Killing someone isn't easy," Harry muttered darkly, "and it doesn't feel good."

Blinking, Ginny paused in the act of pulling the towel into position. She studied Harry closely, his shoulders heaving with emotion, his eyes sparkling suspiciously behind his glasses. Her voice low and soft, Ginny said, "Harry?"

His name seemed to jerk him back to the present, and his eyes widened as the towel registered. "Oh," Harry said, whirling to face the other direction. "Sorry." He gestured toward the door. "I'll just--"

"Don't you dare," Ginny ordered, standing in the tub and quickly wrapping the towel around her torso. She stepped out onto the fluffy bath mat she'd brought over from the Burrow and wordlessly unplugged the tub, letting the water begin to drain. "Harry?"

He was still breathing heavily, his arms wound tightly around his midsection. "Yeah?"

"Turn around." He choked a little, his body becoming still more tense, which Ginny hadn't thought was possible. Lifting one hand, she touched the back of his neck, prompting a shiver, then settled her palm against his shoulder. "Harry."

He obeyed, turning with jerky, awkward movements, his wide eyes meeting hers, then skipping away as his gaze skimmed down her towel-clad body. It felt absurdly intimate, much more intense than Ginny expected. Harry's hands curled into fists, pressed tightly to his thighs, and he seemed incapable of speech.

Ginny murmured a quick spell to make sure her towel would stay put, then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his ribcage. Harry shuddered, as if her touch were painful, and she very nearly retreated. Then his arms lifted slowly, settling around her shoulders as his head dipped down.

"Oh, Harry," she murmured, embracing him more firmly. His robes felt rough against her damp skin, and the sensation made her shiver.

"Ginny," he mumbled, turning his face into her neck as his grasp on her tightened almost painfully. He leaned into her, surrendering to her embrace. She could feel the hot, wet tears falling onto her bare skin, and felt answering tears well up in her eyes.

"It's okay, Harry," she soothed. "You're okay."

He shook his head vehemently, then nuzzled against her throat until she shivered a little. "I don't know what to do," he confessed in broken tones.

"What do you mean?" Ginny asked, her arms holding him as close as possible. As much as she hated that he was in pain, at least he was finally, finally feeling something, finally reacting to the past year. The past seven years, really. No one should have to deal with this sort of trauma on his own.

"I feel--" He broke off on a sob. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Harry," she told him fiercely. "You wouldn't be you if you didn't feel regret after taking a life."

Harry stiffened in her arms, pulling back to regard her with red eyes. He shook his head wordlessly, reaching up to wipe the tear tracks from his cheeks.

Ginny grabbed his robes with her hands, keeping him close. "Harry?"

"I don't," he said, his tone flat, his expression unreadable again.
Puzzled, Ginny asked, "You don't what?"

"I don't feel regret," he confessed, the words tumbling from him now. "I'm glad Voldemort is dead. I wish Snape was dead. I wish Malfoy was dead."

Ginny's grip tightened on his robes, the soft fabric crumpling in her grasp. "Draco didn't kill anyone, Harry, and Snape promised Dumbledore he'd protect Draco, even--"

"I don't care," Harry interrupted with that cold, hard anger he reserved for Snape and Malfoy. "I don't care that Dumbledore made him promise--"

"Just like he made you promise with that first Horcrux, Harry," Ginny interrupted, wondering if he would hear reason now. "He made you do something you didn't want to do, something that seemed like it was hurting Dumbledore."

Harry took another step back, his expression stony. "That's not the same. There's a reason they're called Unforgivable curses, Ginny."

His robe stretched out between them, and she finally released him, feeling bereft. "I don't forgive Snape or Draco," Ginny answered. "And they're getting what they deserve, Harry." She ignored his derisive snort and continued, "You know that Dumbledore would never want you to do something out of anger and vengeance."

"Except kill Voldemort," Harry pointed out.

"That wasn't vengeance," Ginny argued. At his skeptical look, she amended her statement. "It wasn't all vengeance. If Voldemort had killed your parents and nothing more, that would've been vengeance."

Harry stared at her, his expression unreadable. "It was vengeance," he insisted.

Ginny shook her head, crossing her arms over her towel. "Voldemort was much, much more than the murderer of your parents, Harry, and you know it. You didn't only kill Voldemort for personal vengeance. You killed him because if you didn't, he would've killed you and many others."

"Ginny--"

"And," she continued, ignoring his interruption, "you do feel regret because you think that you killed him out of vengeance. But you know, Harry, deep down that it's not true."

"You think too highly of me," Harry answered slowly, the anger in his voice replaced by sorrow.

Ginny actually smiled. "No, you think too lowly of yourself."

Harry's brows knit together, and he sounded honestly surprised when he asked, "What?"

"I know you hate the publicity, and people asking for your autograph, but..." She shrugged, struggling to put it into words. "The things you've done, Harry--"

"Anyone would have done the same," Harry interrupted, his gaze skittering away from her now.

The fact that he honestly believed that was the only thing that kept her from slugging him out of frustration. "No, they wouldn't," Ginny argued. "Not many people at all would have done what you've done. Not many people could."

"You destroyed two Horcruxes yourself," Harry countered. "I couldn't have killed him if you hadn't. And you would've killed Voldemort if you'd been there instead of me."

Ginny nodded resolutely. "I would have. I would have killed him because of what he's done to the Wizarding world, and I would have killed him for my father, for my mother, for Ron, for Neville's parents, for Dumbledore, for Cedric, for Sirius," Ginny took a step closer, waiting until she was sure he was looking, really looking at her, "for your parents, Harry, and I would have killed him for you."

It was probably too much honesty, but Ginny wasn't sure what else would get through to him. So she stood there, stripped naked before him, and waited for his response.

Harry's lips tightened and he swallowed hard a few times, but he never broke her gaze. After a long, long moment, he dipped his chin and said, his voice low, "I killed him for all of them, Ginny." He stopped, his hand reaching out for hers, clutching her fingers with his. "I killed him for you, too."

As declarations went, it was more gruesome than most, but Ginny knew exactly what he meant. Finally he understood what Dumbledore had said about the power of love.

Ginny held fast to his hand, not letting him run away from this, not yet. "I know," she answered softly.

Squeezing her hand gently, Harry took a shuddering breath. "Killing someone..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Ginny stood there, silent, letting him dictate the direction of their conversation. She'd gotten through to him, but she could see he was still grappling with his conscience. She couldn't solve that for him, but she could listen while he worked it out. She wanted to be the one he trusted, to be the one that he turned to for a sympathetic ear, for comfort.

But Harry pulled away, letting her hand go with what seemed like reluctance. "I can't explain it, Ginny," he said tiredly. "I'm not the same."

"None of us are," she countered. She thought of Fred and George, sitting listlessly at the table in the Burrow's cluttered kitchen, no jokes, no pranks, not even a sarcastic remark for entire meals. She thought of the worry lines etched on Hermione's face as she fed Ron, who hated being helpless and hated having missed the final battle, and who was still taking his anger out on Hermione. She thought of her mother, sitting mute beside her father's body for nearly an hour, unable to truly believe he was gone.

They were all different.

But Harry was already shaking his head, already retreating into himself. "It's not the same," he told her miserably. "I used an Unforgivable curse."

"It was kill or be killed, Harry," she countered. "That's self-defense."

He turned away, head bowed. "I know that," he admitted, "but I don't really believe it. Not yet."

Ginny watched him drift toward the door, watched him walk away from her, and told herself she was strong enough to survive this, too. "Harry--"

"I just need to make sense of it," he interrupted, a note of pleading in his voice. "I need to..."

"Forgive yourself," Ginny supplied. Still facing away, he nodded his head, acknowledging the truth in her words. Ginny knew it would take time, maybe a lot of time, but she also knew that they'd taken the first step toward righting what lay between them. She had so many things she wanted to say to him, so many promises she wanted to make, but she knew Harry wouldn't hear them right now. Instead, she told him quietly, "I'm right here, Harry."

In the doorway, Harry stiffened, turning his head so that she could see his profile. "Ginny," he began, "I can't -- Right now, I just..." He shrugged. "I can't."

"I know," she told him, letting him hear the sorrow and the hope in her voice. "I know that, Harry. Just remember that I'm here."

THE END