Hinny

The corridors of Hogwarts were bathed in the amber glow of a late October sunset, casting long, skeletal shadows against the stone walls. For Harry Potter, the castle had finally begun to feel like a home rather than a battlefield. The war was over, the rebuilding was well underway, and for the first time in his life, he felt a lightness in his chest that had nothing to do with flying. That lightness had a name, and her name was Ginny Weasley.

He was waiting for her near the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, leaning against a suit of armor with a goofy, lopsided grin. They had planned to take a walk down to the lake before dinner—a rare moment of peace away from the stares of younger students and the heavy expectations of the wizarding world.

"Harry?"

He looked up, his heart doing its customary little flip. Ginny was walking toward him, her red hair swaying against her shoulders. But as she drew closer, Harry noticed something was off. Her steps were stiff, almost clinical, and her eyes—usually bright with a fierce, mischievous spark—were cold and narrowed.

"Hey, Ginny," Harry said, pushing off the wall. He reached out to take her hand, but she pulled away as if his touch were a stinging jinx. "Everything okay? You look a bit... pale."

The girl who looked like Ginny took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. "I've been thinking, Harry. A lot of thinking. About us. About everything."

Harry felt a cold prickle of dread crawl up his spine. "What do you mean? We were just talking about the Hogsmeade trip this morning. We were fine."

"We weren't fine," she snapped, her voice sounding slightly higher than usual, strained with an emotion Harry couldn't quite place. "You just assume we are because you're Harry Potter. You think the world revolves around your needs, your trauma, your 'destiny.' I'm tired of it."

Harry recoiled as if she’d slapped him. "Ginny, where is this coming from? If I’ve done something to upset you, just tell me. We can fix it."

"There's nothing to fix because I don't want to be with you anymore," she said, the words coming out in a sharp, rehearsed rush. She crossed her arms, looking him up and down with an expression of pure disdain. "I’m done being the Girl Who Waited. I’m done being an accessory to your hero complex. I want someone with... pedigree. Someone who isn't constantly surrounded by death and tragedy. Frankly, Harry, you're exhausting."

The silence that followed was deafening. Harry felt the air leave his lungs. This wasn't the Ginny who had fought beside him in the Department of Mysteries. This wasn't the girl who had sent him Valentine’s poems or held him while he mourned Fred.

"You don't mean that," Harry whispered, his voice cracking. "Ginny, look at me. You love me. You told me—"

"I lied," she interrupted, her lip curling. "Or maybe I just convinced myself because it was what everyone expected. The Chosen One and the Weasley girl. It’s a boring story, Harry. And I’m bored of you."

She turned on her heel, her cloak billowing behind her.

"Ginny, wait!" Harry stepped forward, reaching for her arm, but he stopped himself. The look she had given him—the sheer, unadulterated loathing in those brown eyes—paralyzed him.

He watched her walk away until she disappeared around the corner. Harry stood frozen in the middle of the hallway. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. When Sirius had fallen through the veil, Harry had felt a searing, explosive rage, a desperate need to strike back at the world. But this was different. This was a hollow, soul-crushing emptiness. It felt as if someone had reached into his chest and scooped out everything that made him human, leaving only a cold, dark vacuum.

He slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold stone floor. He didn't cry. He couldn't. He just stared at the opposite wall, his mind replaying her words like a cursed loop. *I’m bored of you.*

***

Around the corner, tucked into a deep alcove behind a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, "Ginny" came to a halt. She leaned against the stone, panting heavily. Her hands were shaking. Slowly, the transformation began to take hold. Her red hair shortened and turned a pale, shimmering blond. Her features shifted, bones clicking and snapping as her face narrowed and her skin grew paler. The feminine curves of the Gryffindor uniform suddenly felt suffocatingly tight on a broader frame.

Draco Malfoy gasped as his own body returned to him. He tore at the tie around his neck, gasping for air.

He should have felt triumphant. He had done it. He had struck the Boy Who Lived in the one place where he had no armor. Ever since the trials, ever since Harry had stood up in court and saved Draco and his mother from Azkaban, Draco had been drowning in a toxic cocktail of gratitude and jealousy. He hated that he owed Harry his life. He hated that Harry had come out of the war as a saint, while Draco was a pariah.

But mostly, he hated the way Harry looked at Ginny Weasley. He hated the effortless warmth they shared, the way they seemed to have a world of their own that no one else could touch. Draco wanted that. He wanted to be the center of someone’s universe, but instead, he was the boy who had made all the wrong choices.

"That'll show him," Draco hissed to the empty alcove, though his voice lacked conviction. "Let’s see how the Great Harry Potter handles being discarded like trash."

He peered around the tapestry. Harry was still there, a crumpled heap on the floor. From this distance, he looked small. Not like a hero. Not like a savior. He looked like a boy who had lost the only thing that made the world worth living in.

A pang of something that felt dangerously like guilt twinged in Draco’s chest, but he pushed it down. He adjusted his robes, wiped his face, and began to walk toward the dungeons. He had the real Ginny’s wand hidden in his pocket—he’d Stunned her in the library and hidden her in an unused classroom behind a stack of old desks. He needed to get back and "wake" her up before anyone got suspicious.

***

Three days passed, and the atmosphere in Gryffindor Tower had become funereal. Harry hadn't gone to a single class. He hadn't eaten. He sat by the window in the boy’s dormitory, staring out at the Forbidden Forest with eyes that looked sunken and lifeless.

Ron and Hermione were frantic.

"Harry, please," Hermione pleaded, sitting on the edge of his bed with a tray of toast and tea. "You have to tell us what happened. Ginny won't talk about it either. She’s just... she’s confused, Harry. She says she doesn't remember breaking up with you, but then she gets angry because you won't even look at her."

Harry didn't turn around. "She remembers, Hermione. She was very clear."

"She says she woke up in a classroom with a headache!" Ron added, pacing the floor. "Mate, something is wrong. Ginny loves you. She’s been moping around the common room like a ghost because you bolt every time she enters the room."

"I can't look at her," Harry whispered, his voice hoarse. "Every time I see her, I hear her telling me I'm exhausting. I hear her saying she was bored. It’s worse than the Cruciatus, Ron. I’d rather Voldemort come back than have to hear those words again."

Down in the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy was finding that his victory tasted like ash. He watched the Gryffindor table from afar. Ginny Weasley was sitting with her head in her hands, refusing to eat. She looked devastated, her eyes red-rimmed from crying.

Draco had expected to feel a sense of power. Instead, he felt like a monster. He had broken something beautiful, not because he wanted it for himself, but simply because he couldn't stand that he didn't have it.

He saw Ginny stand up and run out of the Hall, sobbing. A moment later, Harry entered. He looked like a walking corpse. He didn't look at the food. He didn't look at his friends. He just walked with a mechanical, hollow gait toward the doors leading to the grounds.

Draco felt a sudden, sharp impulse. It was a madness, a social suicide, but he couldn't stop himself. He stood up and followed Harry.

He caught up to him near the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. The air was biting and cold, matching the expression on Harry’s face.

"Potter," Draco called out.

Harry didn't stop. He didn't even flinch.

"Potter, stop! I need to tell you something."

Harry finally turned. His eyes were dead. "Not now, Malfoy. I don't care about whatever insult you’ve spent the morning crafting. Just... leave me alone."

"It wasn't her," Draco blurted out.

Harry paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "What?"

"The breakup. The things she said to you by the Gryffindor entrance three days ago," Draco said, his voice trembling. He stepped closer, his pride warring with a burgeoning sense of decency. "It wasn't Weasley."

Harry’s hand moved instinctively toward his pocket where his wand sat, but his movements were slow, lethargic. "What are you talking about?"

"It was Polyjuice, you idiot," Draco spat, though the venom was directed more at himself. "It was me. I Stunned her in the library, took some of her hair, and... I did it. I said those things."

The silence that followed was different from the one in the corridor. This one was charged, like the air before a lightning strike. Harry’s eyes began to clear, the fog of depression being burned away by a rising, incandescent heat.

"You?" Harry whispered.

"I wanted to see you fail," Draco said, folding his arms to hide his shaking hands. "I wanted to see you as miserable as I was. But watching you... it’s pathetic, Potter. You’re the hero of the Wizarding World, and you let a few words from a girl destroy you? I couldn't stand looking at you anymore."

Harry took a step toward him. Then another. Draco braced himself for a hex, for a punch, for the righteous fury of the boy who had defeated the Dark Lord.

Instead, Harry let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He looked up at the sky, the color returning to his cheeks. "It wasn't her."

"Weren't you listening? I just admitted to a dozen school infractions and a potential assault charge," Draco snapped.

But Harry wasn't looking at him anymore. He had spotted a flash of red hair near the library balcony. Without a word to Draco, Harry took off. He ran with a desperate, frantic energy, sprinting across the grass and up the stone steps.

He found Ginny sitting on a stone bench, staring out at the lake.

"Ginny!"

She jumped, looking up in surprise. Before she could say a word, Harry was there, pulling her into his arms. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of flowery meadows that he had thought was lost to him forever.

"Harry? What—I thought you hated me! You wouldn't even look at me for days!" Ginny cried, her hands clutching at the back of his robes.

"I’m sorry," Harry sobbed, the tears finally breaking through. "I’m so sorry. I should have known. I should have known it wasn't you. I thought my heart had stopped, Ginny. I’ve never been so scared."

"What are you talking about? What happened?"

Harry pulled back just enough to look into her eyes—the real eyes, filled with concern and fierce, unwavering love. "Malfoy. He used Polyjuice. He told me things... horrible things. He made me believe you didn't love me."

Ginny’s expression shifted from confusion to a cold, terrifying rage that would have made her mother proud. "He did *what*?"

"It doesn't matter," Harry said, pulling her back into his chest. "None of it matters. You're here. You love me."

"I love you more than anything, you enormous berk," Ginny whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "How could you ever think I’d stay with someone for their 'pedigree'?"

Harry laughed, a genuine, bright sound that echoed through the courtyard. The weight that had been crushing him was gone, replaced by a warmth so intense it felt like he was standing in the sun.

High above them on the battlements, Draco Malfoy watched the two of them. They looked like a picture from a book, two silhouettes intertwined against the backdrop of the Scottish highlands. He felt a familiar pang of loneliness, but for the first time, it wasn't accompanied by the urge to destroy.

He turned away, walking back into the shadows of the castle. He had made a mess of things, as he usually did. But as he heard Harry’s laughter carry on the wind, Draco realized that some things were simply too strong to be broken by a flask of Polyjuice and a bitter heart. Harry Potter had his life back, and for reasons Draco couldn't quite explain, the air in the castle felt just a little bit easier to breathe.