Summary: Harry returns to the Burrow for Bill and Fleur's wedding determined to avoid all contact with Ginny. But Ginny is determined not to be ignored, and the more Harry withdraws, the bolder Ginny becomes. Can Harry navigate the Weasley brothers' interference and Hermione's advice to remember what he's fighting for?

". . . what I was trying to tell you last night was, don't forget. Don't forget that you have something—someone—to come back to."

A/N: This is a companion piece to my Ron/Hermione fic "Girls Like You" but does stand on its own (at least I hope so; reviewers, correct me if I'm wrong!). It is canon-compliant through the early part of DH, except I've taken liberties with the timeline to prolong Harry's visit at the Burrow and have certain characters present when I wanted them. Special thanks to my beta vancabreuniter for her bottomless patience and enthusiasm, and to Betsy for making me defend Harry's characterization and motivation. This is a better story because of them.

Oh, yeah, if you recognize it, it's not mine.

Chapter 1: Fate Is an Evil Witch

Fate is an evil witch, Harry Potter reflected from the floor just outside the bathroom. She wasn't content with orphaning him, or feeding him to giant spiders and snakes and lizards, or prophesying murder, or poisoning his best mate. No, Fate wasn't satisfied even with all those things, so She forced him to give up the one person who made him happier than he could remember, who was his best source of comfort, and then—because obviously She had a sadistic streak—Fate dangled her just out of reach. Which made him neither happy nor comfortable.

Determined to evade his beautiful, tempting, very forbidden ex-girlfriend, Harry spent the days after his arrival at the Burrow avoiding any room that had her in it, or exiting immediately upon glimpsing a flash of red in the doorway. After multiple false alarms, he remembered Ginny was the shortest Weasley and ignored all hair at taller heights. Although awkward and conspicuous to execute, this strategy had been working reasonably well.

Until now.

Harry knew the bathroom was the most vulnerable spot in the Burrow, but it was also unavoidable. Ginny must have been waiting in the hall, for now he found himself sprawled on top of her in a way he hadn't been for several weeks, and then all too infrequently. They were nose-to-nose, his right hand was gripping something much too soft to be the floor, and there was freckled skin everywhere.

Harry closed his eyes and rolled away from her.

"Watch where you're going!"

He looked up without thinking. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you—"

But he could see her now.

Ginny was standing in a flowered nightdress she looked to have outgrown several summers ago. While nothing in Mrs. Weasley's laundry would have dared to appear dingy, it was threadbare, with fraying lace skimming the tops of her thighs and a missing ribbon in the scooped neckline. The gown itself had a sweet, girlish look, but there was nothing innocent about the way her breasts strained the tight bodice.

"Harry? I need to—"

He turned away from her again, but it was too late; her image was burned into his memory.

"Use the kitchen sink." Harry jumped up and slammed the door. He couldn't return to Ron's room like this.

Harry finished breakfast and headed outside without waiting for Ron or Hermione. He dreamt more than he slept last night and hoped a few laps around the paddock would clear his head.

There she was: flying Chaser drills with a charmed Quaffle.

Annoyed by her defiance of the restriction on underage magic, he crossed his arms, the broomstick in his hand sticking out at an odd angle.

But he couldn't help watching her. She was so graceful in the air, fearless and powerful. He was going to miss flying with her. A lot.

Harry was pouring pumpkin juice when he first felt something against his foot, a not-uncommon occurrence at the crowded Weasley table. He shifted. It happened again, against his ankle this time. He looked up sharply but Ginny was chatting with Madame Delacour, so he returned his attention to his lunch. He and Ron were debating crisps versus chips when it happened a third time, sliding across his ankle, under his trouser leg, and sensuously up his calf. Harry nearly choked. They had played this game while revising for Ginny's O.W.L.s, and what she lacked in reach Ginny made up in boldness. With any luck she would be restrained by the presence of half her family.

Damn. Luck is an evil witch, too.

Harry was peeling potatoes, Ron and Hermione were setting the table, and Ginny was washing vegetables. He could smell that soft floral scent he'd first associated with the Burrow and then, more pleasantly, with her skin. He remembered how dark his hands looked in comparison when—

He gouged out a bad spot. He was not supposed to be thinking about touching her. But she was right there, her elbow bumping his, her ponytail brushing his arm, and maybe he could've kept his eyes on the potatoes if she didn't keep thrusting her chest into his line of sight. There she went again, standing on tiptoe for the tenth time, reaching up for a bowl with her breasts practically under his nose. Harry snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye and the knife slipped, clattering into the sink. Ginny looked round, and he focused his gaze back on the job at hand. Ron and Hermione were arguing about the correct distance between plates and cutlery, and Harry felt a new appreciation for his best mate. This business of fancying a girl and not letting on was not for pansies.

Ron had clicked the Deluminator after Hermione left an hour ago but Harry's mind wouldn't stop. He was trying to focus on the Horcruxes, or Dumbledore's bequests, or really anything except The Best of Ginny Weasley, but his rebellious brain insisted on playing new memories of her. Like when she came downstairs in a towel to ask Hermione if she could use her shampoo (funny, she didn't smell like Hermione afterwards), or their run-in outside the bathroom last night. Harry sighed. That nightdress was thin enough he could nearly see through it. If only she'd had her hair up . . . .

She'd still had her hair pulled back for the match that first afternoon, in a braid that started on top of her head. He'd dug his fingers into it as they kissed by the lake, until they were both flushed and breathless, until he forgot everything but her. The sense memory was so strong, he could still taste her, still feel the silky strands unraveling between his fingers, as if she were right here in bed—

Ron sighed and flipped his pillow. Harry started guiltily and rolled towards the wall. Images flashed like a combination Pensive/Time-Turner: happy hours by the lake, under the Quidditch stands, on broomsticks; teasing touches in the Common Room, the library, the kitchens; hair draped over a chair playing with Arnold, twisted around her finger while revising, behind her ears as she smiled across his birthday cake . . . .

Harry fisted the sheet in his hands and wished for the privacy of his curtained four-poster.

Harry sat bolt upright in bed, shining his wand around the room. Nothing. No masked Death Eaters, no giant snake, no greasy-haired bat, just a snoring redhead. He'd nip downstairs for some tea, a change of scenery, and maybe then he could go back to sleep.

He pushed open the kitchen door and cursed that spiteful hag, Destiny, who put him in his ex-girlfriend's house. Ginny was at the table nursing a cup of tea in a sleeveless top and what looked like her brother's pajama bottoms rolled over at the waist. Thinking farther was better, Harry took the chair opposite her, but as soon as he sat down he knew he'd made a mistake.

This shirt was rather baggy, and that combined with its lavender color made him suspect it was a cast-off of Hermione's. One loose strap was slipping over the curve of her shoulder, but her breasts were hidden by her hair. Then she flipped it behind her back, and they were—was that her—

Oh, Merlin.

Fascinated, Harry felt the rush of heat to his groin and stared, unable to help himself until his view was blocked by her arm reaching across to straighten the drooping strap. He heard a floorboard creak in the hall and forced his gaze down to the table, but he knew. Ginny had let him see . . . had deliberately shown him . . . .

She was sunset-red but staring straight at him. Harry squirmed under her scrutiny but kept his eyes on her hands as she poured a second cup of tea and pushed it towards him, almost crawling across the table. That wonderful shirt was falling away from her body, and—

"Can't sleep?"

Did he mention Fate was an evil witch who gave his girlfriend six older brothers?

Charlie Weasley surveyed the scene in front of him. Judging from the tea things, Ginny was making the most of a chance meeting. He had always found that cat-like stalking impossibly sexy, but watching his sister try it was just plain creepy. He shook off the image.

"Make me a cuppa, would you?"

Ginny stood to get a third cup and Charlie didn't miss the way Potter's eyes followed her every move.

Brilliant, Weasley, you just gave the kid more of her to ogle. He looked closer to evaluate the damage. That shirt wouldn't be too bad if she were wearing something under it (or better yet, over it), but the imp was wearing black knickers under pale blue and white—

"Wait a minute, are those my pajamas?"

"Not anymore." Ginny resumed her seat.

"Merlin, Ginny, I've barely been here long enough to shower!"

She shrugged, and one of those stupid straps fell off her shoulder. She didn't bother to replace it. "You should've locked your trunk."

"Obviously." He'd been spoiled, living with adults. Charlie turned from gathering sandwich makings, grabbed his jumper off the rack where he had hung it after Flooing home, and threw it at her. It landed on her head with a gratifying plop. "Since you're nicking stuff, take that. You look cold."

Ginny was blushing furiously when she reappeared through the neck of navy blue wool; even Potter was red-faced. Good, they hadn't missed his implication. He slapped a sandwich together, carried his plate to the table, and dropped beside Potter, who twitched nervously.

"How was your trip?" Ginny rolled up the sleeves to free her hands for pouring tea. She added milk but not sugar, and Charlie's irritation drained away. Mum had to ask how he took his tea, but Gin-Gin remembered.

"Nauseating."

"Well, you've certainly recovered," she said as he took another large bite. "Harry hates to Floo, too, don't you, Harry?"

Harry looked up at his name. Ginny casually adjusted the over-large jumper to drape off one shoulder, and Charlie had to admire her in-your-face audacity. No wonder Harry was fascinated with her; she was all fire and spunk, beautiful and bold as brass. But she was still his baby sister, and he was not leaving her alone with a wizard who was clearly interested in seeing her starkers.

Come to think of it, Charlie hadn't seen her drink even a sip. He shoved in the last bite and reached across the table. Yep, dregs.

"Bedtime." To his relief, Ginny didn't argue. She rounded the table, stepped between him and Harry, and bent to hug him.

"I'm glad you're home," she whispered in his ear.

"Get your arse out of Harry's face," he whispered back.

She grinned and straightened. "Here, this is too big for me." She crossed her arms, grabbed the hem of his jumper, and arched her back, pulling it off in one graceful motion.

"Goodnight, Harry. Sweet dreams." Ginny dropped the jumper between them and sashayed out of the room.

Silence. Heavy, awkward silence except for the swish of the kitchen door swinging in shorter and shorter arcs. Harry wanted nothing more than to make a run for it, but he was quite reluctant to stand up, and he had a feeling Charlie knew why. He shifted uncomfortably, then froze at Charlie's knowing smirk.

"We're not together."

Charlie raised his brows.

"She's just angry about—well, with me."

"I've seen her angry, Harry, and that was not it."

He shrugged self-consciously. "I think she's trying to get me in trouble with you lot. Or drive me crazy. Or both."

"Yeah, witches have a knack for that. Ginny was always the most obnoxious when she thought we were ignoring her."

Harry felt a guilty heat spread up his face. Didn't Charlie understand he needed to avoid her, but couldn't? Not until— He swallowed. He didn't want to think of it like that, as a way to get away from her. He didn't want to be anxious to leave the Burrow.

"You can't be friends? Fred and George said you two got along splendidly last summer."

Harry waved his hand at Ginny's chair. "Did that look like friendship to you?"

"I see your point." Charlie began clearing the table. "But Harry? She's my baby sister. Don't screw up."

"What do you want me to say? All I wanted was a cup of tea. If I'd known Ginny was down here, I would've stayed upstairs. If I'd known she was going to show off, I'd have left when I saw her. But I don't have a magical eye, I'm not a Legilimens, and I'm not immune to her—and she knows it. If attraction is a crime, fine, I'm guilty. But don't pretend this is some silly teenage drama, like we're just any other kids with a crush. She wasn't flirting to wind you up, she's trying to change my mind about—well, about a lot of things, I reckon. You haven't been here, you don't know anything." Harry shoved back from the table. So much for going back to sleep.