At half-past two in the morning, she tiptoes downstairs and finds him right where she left him, sitting upright in the windowsill, his posture alarming, clutching one of Molly Weasley's crocheted pillows as though it were a life raft, his wand - as ever - within arms' reach. They're barely staying afloat, the lot of them, and even Ginny Weasley - especially Ginny Weasley - knows this.

“Look at you, Harry. Look at us,” she whispers, scooting up close beside him and resting her chin on his shoulder. Awake, he never makes room for her. Awake, he's unapproachable, always practicing spells, sizing up maps, and pacing, pacing, always pacing. She doesn't dare burden him with what are - after all - just one young girl's trivial cares and concerns, not then. Asleep, he's reachable - vulnerable even - just like everyone else.

“I always used to think someday you'd turn around and see I'd been waiting for you all this time.” Her brain registers the use of the past tense and wonders momentarily if she's the same girl she was at ten years of age, the little girl who kicked up her heels and chased after the Hogwarts Express as it picked up steam. It's funny, she thinks; she's been playing catch-up all these years. “It is funny, isn't it?” she asks the darkness, double-checking, “That you were always going to leave me behind in the end…”

“It's alright, you know,” she says after some time, seeking to reassure him even in sleep, reaching out to touch his arm as she does so. She's closer to him now than she's been in weeks since Dumbledore's funeral. Perhaps closer to him than she's ever been. It's a painful realization, one that makes her eyes sting and her throat threaten to close up.

“Why won't you talk to me?” she wonders aloud. The lateness of the hour changes her too. For once, there's no one to impress. No reason to put on a brave face when she's feeling anything but. “Hermione says - Hermione - she says I can't make you talk.” She laughs weakly, swiping at a renegade tear. “Well, Hermione always knows best, right?”

She half-expects him to give an answer - waits for it even. And when it doesn't come (typical, she thinks, with something bordering on resignation), she barrels on recklessly.

“I really did l-l-love you - you know that, don't you? I thought that would be enough to see us through, but it's not.” She brushes his bangs aside and lets the moonlight fall across his scar. Maybe, just maybe, she never would have given him a second thought, were it not for that infamous scar, but none of that matters now. All that matters now is that she says what's on her mind - what's in her heart - before he awakes and this sort of - this sort of intimacy becomes impossible again - that she plays her hand before she loses her nerve. “I can't—I can't be your escape, Harry. I can't go on pretending everything's fine, when nothing is. I can't be your escape, when what you need is a - well - when all you need her.”

She reels away from him suddenly - before her resolve to do the right thing can crumble - and is halfway across the room before she dares to look back. “If you ever need me, Harry, you know where to find me. I'll be right where you left me.”