Beginning of DH, sometime before Bill and Fleur’s wedding . Harry walks into the Burrow‘s kitchen early in the morning, only to find Ginny there wearing his shirt he thought he had misplaced.
It was a hand-me-down of Dudley’s, some free t-shirt he’d gotten from a boxing competition that had been far too small for him to ever wear.
It’s a cream, off-white. There’s a red coat of arms with three lions on the front. England Boxing. Seamus had asked about it once, when Harry’d worn it to bed one night, and Harry had made some joke about moonlighting as a boxer at the weekends.
“Reckon that’ll be what does in You-Know-Who, then?” Seamus had laughed. “A right hook?”
“Nah,” Harry had said. “It’s all about the footwork.”
It wasn’t anything particularly precious or prized, but it was comfortable. It was made of a soft cotton that wasn’t too stiff or starchy, and had been worn enough to be that perfect level of comfort. Plus, it was one of the few Muggle clothing items he possessed that actually fit him, and for that alone it ranked high enough, as old t-shirts went.
He recognizes it instantly when he walks into the kitchen.
It’s far too large on her. More of a dress really, skimming the tops of her freckled thighs as she reaches up to retrieve a mug from the cupboard.
He stares at the expanse of skin of her legs. Wonders whether his old shirt is the only thing she’s wearing. Either alternative sounds like torture.
She turns, and her eyes - still heavy with sleep - widen as she sees him.
It had been raining, a truly miserable practice. Ginny had just broken up with Dean, and Harry was evaluating various methods of incapacitating Ron so as to properly get Ginny alone. The entire Quidditch team had been loitering in the locker room, showering and changing, hoping for the rain to let up before they made the trek back up to the castle for dinner.
“Bollocks,” Ginny had said, rifling through her bag. “Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.”
“Alright?” Harry had asked, smirking.
“Yeah…” she’d said, still searching. “What d’you reckon is better to wear to dinner, my disgusting, sweaty Quidditch robes, or nothing?”
Harry had nearly choked. He’d glanced over to make sure Ron was still embroiled in a conversation with Katie Bell about the formation they’d been practicing, before he turned back to Ginny, heart hammering.
“Depends,” Harry had said. “Can the Fat Friar die again?”
Ginny had snorted. “Good shout. Wouldn’t want him to have another heart attack, would we?”
“Is that how he died the first time?”
“Seeing a fit Chaser topless at dinner?” Ginny had asked, grinning evilly. “Don’t think so.”
It wasn’t fair. She was practically inviting him to picture her topless. Which, of course he had before, but she certainly didn’t know that. Harry felt his cheeks grow warm and hoped she ascribed it to general embarrassment at the topic.
“I take it that you forgot to bring a change of clothes, then?” he asked, his voice slightly strangled as he batted away subconscious images of her without a shirt on.
“Only forgot a shirt. The Auror department will be lucky to have you, with deductive reasoning skills like those.”
“Shut it,” Harry had said, laughing. “D’you want to borrow one, or not?”
Ginny had paused then, and Harry wondered whether he was showing his cards too obviously. Whether it would make more sense to ask Katie or Demelza whether they had a spare shirt Ginny could wear. But, he held her gaze, and she smiled.
“Yeah alright. What’ve you got?”
Harry turned to his locker and pulled out the England Boxing shirt. It was clean, at least. He tossed it to her and she caught it.
She held it out and evaluated it.
She smiled at him, and Harry’s heart stopped.
“Thanks, captain. Maybe Zacharias Smith will see me wearing this and finally be appropriately afraid that I might punch him.”
“I think he fears you plenty.”
“Not enough,” she joked, and then she waltzed causally back into the stall and came back out wearing his shirt.
He couldn’t stop staring at her at dinner. There was surely something awful and caveman-like in how much it pleased him to see her wearing his clothes, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care.
He supposed, thinking back on it, she’d never returned it.
Couldn’t have. Because she’s wearing it now, in the early morning hours in the kitchen at the Burrow on the morning of Bill and Fleur's wedding, holding a mug in her hands like a lifeline.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Ginny says to him, and it sounds defensive. “Wedding nerves,” she adds, with a smirk.
“It’s normal to get cold feet…,” Harry jokes, hoping he sounds more sane than he feels, “...when your brother is getting married.”
“Right,” Ginny smiles. “Want some tea?”
Harry nods, and he sits at the table, trying valiantly not to think about the fact that she’s almost definitely not wearing a bra. Tries not to think about his shirt touching her, the way he had before in hidden corners of the castle, when he’d belonged to her more than that shirt did. The way he can’t anymore.
She finishes, and hands him the mug. Upon the first sip he can tell she’s made the tea just the way he likes it, but he wishes she hadn’t. Wishes she wasn’t wearing his shirt, looking beautiful, casually handing him a cup full of I know you.
She sits across from him. The early morning light is creeping through the yellow curtains, casting a warm glow in the room. Harry can hear the sound of faint footsteps from the floors above, and he knows the time he has alone with her - today, ever - is rapidly disappearing.
“This is yours, isn’t it?” Ginny says, glancing down at herself, pulling at the sleeve of the shirt, as though he needs any clarification about what she is referring to.
“Oh,” Harry says. “Yeah.”
No, Harry thinks. I want you back.
“Keep it.” Harry says instead, because everything is shit, and he was stupid to think he could ever have had her in the way that shirt implies. “Looks better on you anyway.”
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