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Notes: Future-fic. An Auror returns from the battlefield.

When you stumble out of the fireplace, retching and covered with soot, you don't wonder if you've come home.

When that familiar voice calls out--how long has it been since you've heard it?--you don't wonder if you've come home.

When that red hair brushes your face--small pale hands hold your shoulders--you don't wonder if you've come home.

When you taste tears upon her open mouth, her voice whispering 'Nym? Nym? Are you--', you don't wonder if you've come home.

It's only when you've had your bath, with those warm hands smoothing along your back, that you realize it. The sounds of battle have faded from your ears, the flashes of spells from your eyes--no shouted curses here, no screams. No cold green light, swift and startling as a snake.

You collapse into her arms, shuddering, stomach queasy with what you've seen. She's not asking you anything anymore--she knows you won't answer. You keep telling yourself you're home. You're home. The mission's done with. Over. You're home. You're home and she's here. She's here. She's safe.

Ginny.

She doesn't question your need for comfort. She doesn't question it when your hands reach, trembling, for the loose clasp of her robe--when your mouth finds hers, desperate, hungry, and you try to be gentle but you know you can't. She only holds you close, cradling you as you suckle her mouth, as you run your hands over the comforting swell of her hips. Home.

Ginny's breasts are small, just as you remember them--tender and not so young any more, but still that sweet-salt taste, nipples hardening under your tongue. Home.

She's beautiful. Her hands trace carefully along your scars, fingers cool and light against the throbbing heat of them--and you spare a brief moment for how ugly you must look, body marred with this silver tracery, rough and sinewy and scarred.

But she shows no sign of disgust--her voice is only gentler, sweeter, warm against your ear. Her breasts brush yours and she's so soft... You need this. You need this so badly. Perhaps you should have asked--it's been so many months, after all--but she's pulling you closer, spreading her legs, arching her hips to your touch.

Home.

She's saying something, but you can't hear her, her mouth's too beautiful, her face, and all you want to do is touch... Hands shaking as they travel up her thighs, smoothing the silk skin there.

'Nym,' so that's what she's saying... 'Nym... in me...'

You rock against her, brushing her wet heat against yours, and she cries out--throat arching long and pale and lovely. 'Home,' you whisper, and she says, 'Yes,' and your tongue's in her mouth again, thirsty, and her hands aren't gentle on your back anymore, nails digging into the scars she had soothed before.

Your breasts are crushed against hers. 'More,' she's gasping, 'more...' And you find yourself reaching down, even though you don't quite understand her--your palm brushing the warm hair between her legs, fingers seeking her pulse. She makes a strange startled sound, hips jerking, mouth opening on a hot gasp even as you kiss her, afraid you're not letting her breathe even though you can't stop. 'More,' she sobs and you're thrusting, and you feel the wonder of her as she opens for you, a never-ending flower, warm cavern after cavern after cavern, no end, hot and deep and wet and soft, and you can smell her, like the monsoon, like rain, and you finally close your eyes and let yourself drown in this known, sweet pain. Home, you think, and her mouth finds yours again. Home.