[Disclaimer: Characters belong to J. K. Rowling, and the basic idea belongs to Ben Folds Five...]

The fire needed tending with either hand or wand, but the sleeping redhead had him thoroughly pinned against the sofa. She had her head against his chest, an arm flung over his left leg, and a tendril of hair that lay across her cheek fluttered with every breath. Every so often she would make a small, contented noise in her throat. His right hand was caught between his own body and the sofa arm. It could easily be moved, but that would require him to move his body and risk waking her up. So he stayed put. As uncomfortable as he should have been, he felt strangely at ease. As he gazed into the ebbing fire, he thought back over the past few years. They had flown by so quickly…

He never got very much right the first time. Kissing, cooking, writing with a quill, Potions, listening attentively, and catching the Snitch without injury were many things he didn’t do correctly the first time. Thinking things through was something he figured he’d never get right. But all those mistakes had led him here, so he thought about them with an odd sort of thankfulness. He knew he was the luckiest.

“How did I almost miss you?” he whispered to the sleeping woman. It was strange to remember the days before he had noticed her lovely face covered with freckles and a huge smile. Those brown eyes had called out to him for many years before he listened to them properly. He remembered her running after the train that year, tears streaming but face still lit by her brother’s jokes. He remembered the how she blew up at him at Grimmauld Place. He remembered the Easter egg in the library. There had been a sparkle in her eyes as she turned and laughed as they ran out, red hair flying wildly.

What if he had been born fifty years before her? What if he had lived in Ottery St. Catchpole near the Burrow? Maybe he would have been for a walk one summer day and saw a tiny redheaded girl fighting and playing with her brothers in their yard. Would their eyes have met and would he have known? Would he have known she was his girl long ago? Would he have even known her name? Would she even look his way?

The last battle flashed through his mind. She had been there, supporting him and kicking the hell out of some Death Eaters. Their eyes had met across that bleak meadow behind the orphanage. As scared, bewildered, and frantic as he had been, he recognized her. Not by her hair, nor her freckles, nor her brilliant smile, but only by the determination and love shining from her. It gave him courage. He had felt his heart wrench for the first time that night; not from pain but from a pure, ceaseless kind of love. She had been there after he came around, bandaged and bruised but smiling. He could see that she was holding herself back from tackling him, and had resigned to clutching his hand.

He remembered an old couple that lived a few houses down from the Dursleys. They were gray and weathered, but obviously in love. Sometimes, when he would be washing and storing dishes after cleaning up after breakfast, he would see them slowly tottering up the road hand in hand. One day he noticed cars parked outside the house, but didn’t give it a second thought. He had heard his aunt talking the next day about how the ninety year old man had died in his sleep. “It’s a wonder, isn’t it, Vernon? They were married for over seventy years.” The old woman had lingered a few days longer. Then she died too. It was like an invisible line made of battles, births, rows, kisses, and pure love was tying the two of them together. He stroked the soft cheek and began to twist the tendril of hair absently. The thought of those two elderly people being together so long then following each other into the afterlife reassured him. He knew it was a rather bizarre way of knowing how he and this beautiful woman belonged together, but it comforted him in a way.

She stirred and the tendril slipped back into place. “Harry?” she murmured.

“Yes, love?”

“I’m cold,” she complained sleepily. He stretched to reach the blanket on the back of the sofa. With a very restricted flourish, he spread it over her.

“That better?” She nodded.

“I love you, Harry,” she sighed.

“I love you, Gin.” He smiled down at her. She gave him a tiny one in return, and snuggled against his chest. Soon she was asleep again.
Now that his wand hand was free, he flicked his wrist and the flames danced back into life. “I’m the luckiest,” he whispered to the glowing logs. They sparked in return.


[a/n: This story is bit different, albeit a bit romantic, and so is the song--"The Luckiest" Give it a listen!]