“There was a boy.”

Silence hung like a thick fog between the two, human occupants of the cluttered sitting room. The woman was neither old enough in age to be classified as “elderly,” nor was she youthful enough in appearance to be considered “young.” She was old at middle-age; a bitter monster of contrasts. Her graying hair caught the firelight in the dim room, forming a halo from the frazzled, flyaway pieces. She pressed her palms against her bruised, aged eyes. The skin on her hands resembled old, thin parchment. Her slender body was bent forward at an odd angle; perhaps from age, or perhaps from grief. The overstuffed armchair in which she sat swallowed her slight frame whole, making her look absolutely tiny. Fire crackled and popped in a fireplace on the far side of the room. Upon the stone façade before it, there lay a white cat, fast asleep and absorbing the warmth. However, the light and the warmth did not reach the two figures sitting only a few feet away. The rest of the room seemed immune to the incandescence surrounding the fireplace. The sole occupants garroted the rest of the room with their murky, dismal mood.

“There is always a boy,” Albus Dumbledore eventually countered. More than just a little sadness played around the edges of his voice. He trained his keen, blue eyes on the woman’s face; she seemed far too weathered for a woman in her fifties. With abrupt, fierce sadness, he realized that she would not have the benefit of living as long as normal, healthy wizards and witches. The great and powerful magic she had once wielded no longer flowed through her veins. The academic within him found her condition fascinating, but guilt immediately flooded his system with the appropriate level of apprehension and horror. On the other hand, if what he suspected was true, her condition might not have been the result of some mutation or illness within. Albus, if he was honest with himself, always had a strong suspicion that an outside force played a role in her sudden magical deficiency.

“He was a very strange boy… He was enchanting too. But that is just scratching a single head on the Hydra when it comes to the mystery and intrigue that surrounds him, now isn’t it, Albus?” The woman seemed to realize that pushing her eyes through the back of her skull was an ineffectual solution to their mutual problem. Her hands rested in her lap, her posture straightened and she met his curious gaze dead on. She must have sensed the insatiable curiosity within him, or noticed a flaw in his normally neutral, impassive face. The wry, amused smile that ghosted across her face unearthed an overabundance of laugh lines and crow’s feet, but somehow it only made her more beautiful.

In his mind, it seemed only a wee time ago that she had been a beautiful young woman, full of energy, life and promise. She had been an extraordinary, clever witch, with an astonishing grasp of her magic. She was born of one of the oldest, finest wizarding families that had existed in Europe; of course the fate of her family was unfortunate, but the fate of many families fell along the same line. He could still remember her throaty, matured voice as it had once been: deep and steady, husky and sultry with youth. It had always seemed a pity to him, how it had gone to waste. Of course, her talent had not exactly gone to waste, and he was sure that she was about to confirm everything he had suspected, and possibly more.

“Go on.” From the tea cart before him, Albus produced two cups of steaming, rich Darjeeling tea. He placed one before her on the wobbly table between them, set one aside for himself, then flourished a tin filled with fresh, buttermilk scones. He uncovered the milk, sugar and honey, but placed them conveniently far away from his sweet tooth.

“I’ve heard, though my contacts were obviously limited,” she took a brief sip, then attacked the sugar, “that he traveled very far; over land, and across seas. Some say he went as far as South America, or the even to the Orient. There were whispers that he’d changed, too, in his travels. I’ve heard he became a monster. Heartless, selfish, corrupt with power was what they told me he’d become. They said he gave up his soul, his humanity… I can’t imagine that.” She mixed many spoons of sugar into her tea as she spoke, stirring occasionally, and sipping it, considering the flavor, and adding some more. When she was satisfied she pushed the sugar away, and gulped down the steaming cup in only moments. “Of course, they mysteriously disappeared, one by one… Perhaps there is truth in it, after all.”

“I find it hard to believe that you," he fixed her with a pointed stare, "of all people, would have a hard time imagining him as a monster. You knew him the best out of all of us. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that you knew him the best.”

This was the part Albus always hated the most. He wanted to pry into her memories. He wanted to know what she knew. He wanted to learn the truth. Alas, truth had an unfortunate penchant to carve people to pieces. She had always been a very kind person. He hated to deceive or hurt someone so kind; not to mention frail. But the thing that Albus believed made him the wizard he was renowned to be, was that he believed in the ruthlessness required to achieve the greater good. At times, though, it was agonizing to be so callous to someone who held barely an inkling of malice.

“He was a million contradictions. He was a little shy in his own strange way, but a natural-born leader at the same time. He could be petulant; very possessive of the things that were his, but I suppose that was a product of his upbringing.” Her eyebrows pulled together for a moment, not in confusion or deep thought, but in an expression that could only be sympathetic pain. She felt compassion for him. “He was confident of his future. Of course I never knew why, but looking back I suppose he knew what would come, what he would become. Even so, he always had this air of utter melancholy around him.”

Albus tried not to let his incredulity show, but knew he failed on some level. The man he remembered was not someone who exuded melancholy; he emanated power and control. He was cocky, yes, but also a bit too careful around authority figures to really come off as innocent. He had his lackeys, but he also had faithful, devoted friends who looked up to him as the key figure within their school house. He did not bother hiding that he was the prince among his friends, although he played it off as though his better, more chivalrous and intellectual qualities had earned him that spot. Melancholy, at least in the eyes of Albus Dumbledore, was quite a stretch.

A single look at his failed moment of neutrality was all it took for her to backtrack; she clarified: “When we spent time alone, Albus, he would be entirely unlike his public persona. Of course, I barely knew his public persona so maybe I’m not one to speak... With the one exception of the Seventh Years’ Snow Ball after the war, he said it was safer for me, for us, to keep everything a secret. Only a few really knew that we were together like that, and I believe that they were my people, not his people. Even so, his public persona, while intimidating, was spotless. He was top of the class, he earned most of his House Points single-handedly, and he was a Prefect and then Head Boy.”

She shook her head, possibly coming to terms with the realization that the boy she had once known had so many different faces. When she spoke again, sorrow weighed heavily upon every syllable, dragging her eyes down to the floor with it. “I barely knew the boy that was infamous within his House. I saw bits and pieces of him, but never enough to put together the larger picture. Or maybe I just refused to see a larger picture. Whenever we were together it was like magic, Albus. I really cannot explain him to you. He was…

“Regardless of what people say or think he was, first and foremost he was human. He was born an innocent child, just like the rest of us!” Her voice was terribly defensive, protective; like a mother protecting a child. “All of his deepest prejudices, his defensive nature, his need for secrecy and lies: it was all learned. He was a product of nurture, or a lack thereof, Albus!” She let out a heavy, whooshing sigh that took the brief fit of temper along with it; she deflated in the process. “It was just this deep, dark sadness that went straight to his soul. It was in his eyes, you know, but he could hide it so well.

"I never understood why I, of all people, recognized it for what it was. I was no one in the grand scheme of things.” A familiar bitterness coated her words. “I was the one they tossed aside in my family, the one they forgot all about. My friends loved me well enough, they always made such a great fuss about me but I was always… I was always on the outside, somehow. I was always left out… in the end…”

“Perhaps, that is the key to what he saw in you.” Albus considered his next words carefully, for they could make or break the woman sitting before him. “Within you he saw vulnerabilities and loneliness, not unlike his own. I daresay that growing up in a place where emotions are only an unwelcome problem or a weakness, and then coming to Hogwarts, to be in Slytherin, where those same standards were upheld. I imagine he had a great deal of practice at hiding things and keeping secrets. I imagine he felt rather safe in your presence. For someone who was always guarded with his thoughts and words, who constantly hid his emotions and actions, who was always on the defense, perhaps you were the eye of the storm for him. You might have been the only quieting, relaxing presence in his entire existence. The only person he could go to when his façade could not stay together.”

Albus nibbled on the edge of a sugar biscuit; his eyes went to the window. Beyond the glass the Muggle suburb where she now lived was small and quiet, calm and empty. Not a single thing stirred. No cars drove by, no one was taking an evening stroll. Nosy neighbors weren’t putting their noses in other peoples’ business. The street lamps glowed faintly; he had seen no need to extinguish them, to hide in shadows. Truthfully, he only believed half of what he was saying. Only Merlin could know exactly what went through that boy’s head when he was in school. Nevertheless, Albus did not quite possess the level of cruelty required to tell this small, exhausted woman exactly what he believed. The man she once loved, the man she possibly still did love to this day, almost certainly saw her uncertainty and vulnerability coupled with her extraordinary power, and exploited the former in order to gain access to, and eventually harness, the latter. One just doesn’t go about dropping such destructive honesty into civil conversation.

“I can’t say that I always saw eye-to-eye with him. I wasn’t exactly easy to get along with at times, but he never seemed to tire of me. When I wasn’t biting his head off for some offhanded, cruel comment he made, or when he wasn’t chiding me about my lack of focus, or my attitude towards every other male at Hogwarts, or my apparent indifference towards him, we actually talked about everything under the sun, and then some. He could be very wise, at times. He knew things, understood the human condition a little too well, I’d say.” Her voice was tired, strained; her fingers picked at the frayed edges of the upholstery on the seat cushion. He did not know whether her hands were trembling out of fear of what she knew he was going to ask of her, or exhaustion.

“Bits of it, yes,” Albus agreed. “He understood pain, and suffering and the fire it could light within someone. He understood the pleasure and gratification of the praise and coddling he was given. He understood that that in order to bend people to his will he needed to bestow the correct dosage of both pain and pleasure at just the right moment. He understood loneliness and abandonment; the value of a few strong allies versus the value of being your one and only ally. It is entirely possible that you changed his perspective, changed the strategy of the game within his head, somehow. Sadly, we may never know exactly who he was, or how he felt about anything…” Her eyes, though they were guarded once again, could not hide the blatant hope and passion that she obviously had for the man in question. Albus sighed, and for just a moment, the briefest of seconds, he felt the weight of the world pressing against him. He knew that there would be difficult decisions to make, that people would suffer, good people would die, and that once again the future of the world would rest on the shoulders of a boy who would suffer so much before he truly, really suffered the way life had intended him to.

“Forgive me, please.” Her breathing was coming in uneven lurches now. “Sometimes, it is so hard to think of him as a monster, as a killer, as a cold-blooded murderer. Even now, even after everything he’s done. I—I loved him once and… I think you understand how powerful love can be. It can bend time and space, it can alter and shape memory into something else entirely.” A small sob passed her lips, but she quickly covered her mouth and took deep, shaky, rattling breaths.

“You love him still,” Albus stated, rather obviously. She looked up at him, misery written plainly across her maturing face, confirming what he knew. “It is only natural. He may have betrayed you but you did no such thing. Your love never faltered. It never wavered, even in the face of a betrayal so deep it should have killed you. It almost did kill you! You lost your entire family for him. You gave him everything. I think it is a testament to your hope and faith that you never stopped.” He understood. He empathized. Sometimes, the monsters that lived under your bed became the only companions you really ever had the in the long, lonely nighttime.

“You… speak as if you know.” She considered him for a moment. Her eyes narrowed and became uncharacteristically perceptive. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, considering her words as she spoke them, “you do know how it feels to be betrayed by the one person you trust most. To let them destroy you, to destroy yourself in the process.” Her eyes softened, and he felt momentarily uncomfortable that she knew so much about him. But again, he so easily forgot, her family was one of the older pureblood families, just as his had been; the closets had so many skeletons. “But it is not for me to say what you know or do not know. You know many things, Albus; it is why everyone admires you so much.”

“I hardly know that many things,” he replied, flippantly. Reaching into his inner robe pocket he pulled out a small bag of Lemon Drops. It was a habit of his when his mind wandered into the dark, forbidden places. The Lemon Drops served as a way to focus his senses on something tart and sweet; the warring sensations within his mouth took his mind off most other things. It was oddly pleasant, the sensation, and it worked each and every time. He immediately felt better. He offered her the tangy sugar candies but she declined with a polite shake of her head. He needed to turn the conversation back to her, but he knew how to wait it out. He was an expert at the silence game; he had a great deal of experience with it. He sucked on his Lemon Drop harder. The silence stretched on between them for a long while. The pleasant crackling of the fire helped them both relax, the glow finally seemed to stretch past them and spill out into the rest of the room.

“At one point in his life he was loved,” the old woman finally said. She stated it almost as a challenge, as if daring him to refute it. “Sometimes, I believe that in his own unique, strange way... Well, sometimes I really do think he loved me. He loved me to the best of his ability. I’m not saying it was a great and epic love story. I might have thought… but… no he made sure I would never feel that way again. I am just stating the facts: I loved him, and in my opinion, he loved me too, in his own, perverse way. Or maybe he coveted me; maybe I was just a prize in his weird plot. But he protected me, Albus, from danger, and from the cruelty of others, sometimes he even saved me from myself.”

“To love,” Albus said, thoroughly enjoying his Lemon Drop, “and to be loved: I think those are the greatest things we learn. Not just as wizards, but as humans; wizards and Muggles alike. Love, and the things we endure for love, it is the greatest magic we will ever know or do. It is the only magic common amongst us all. We are all capable of it, even if we think the ability is lost.” The white cat by the fireplace stretched its long, lithe feline muscles and lazily sauntered towards him. It gracefully leapt up into his lap, and instantly began to purr softly, as if to demonstrate his point.

“Tell me,” he finally asked of her, “how it all began.” For a moment she looked pained, and he wondered if, like him, she wished to hold her most precious memories close to her own heart. “I assure you, I won’t be sharing this story with anyone. I’ll even swear a Wizard’s Oath if you would like. I need to know exactly what happened, and exactly how he managed it. When he comes back,” a surge of pity swept through him as the surprise, hope and desolation played across her face, “because I don’t believe that he is actually gone, I will need to know. I will need to be prepared.”

“I know, Albus.” Grim resignation twisted the corners of her mouth downward. “I know you will have to destroy him someday. And I will do everything in my power to help you. I know he’s not the boy or the man I once knew. Love may be blind, but it is not entirely brainless.” She sighed, stood on long, thin flimsy legs and shuffled towards the kitchen. “I might as well put up another pot of tea. It’s not a short story, and I can’t really say it has a happy ending…” As a new pot bubbled away in the small adjacent kitchen, she began to speak. “Well, I suppose it all started my after sorting my first night at Hogwarts. That night was the first time I saw him…”

She told him everything; every detail, even the intimate ones. She needed him to understand that there really had been love, that she had not been fooled or duped into believing otherwise. He listened, understanding her story, and understanding the boy that had somehow, managed to slip through his fingers so easily. She finished with a long, drawn sigh, covering her face again with her aged, papery hands. He stood to leave, wanting her to have time alone, but he could not help but admire her walls. The hundreds, maybe thousands of pictures that lined every wall in the home, were surprisingly still: the laughter and the smiles, the odd expressions, the formal poses, were all frozen, non-magical. Many of the faces were familiar, her classmates or her family, people that Albus had taught, and who he now worked with and helped.

“Do you really think he’s still alive?” She didn’t bother masking her optimism. What was the point now that he knew everything? He knew all about her secret, vile yearning for one of the most notorious, dark wizards to still be alive, even as everyone else celebrated his death. He knew the story about how they met, and, there was no respectful way to put it, how he had seduced her with his beautiful angel’s face and his sincere-sounding, compassionate words. He knew all the sordid details about how she surrendered to him when he finally asked it of her. He understood exactly how she let herself love him completely and utterly, about how she gave him every, last shimmering piece of her soul. She had let him destroy her, and yet she still longed for his lips every night. Albus was not exactly a stranger to the concept. He knew she would only face more pain in the future, when the reality of destroying him once and for all would sink in.

“I do not doubt it, my dear,” Albus said gravely. “I daresay you may see him again someday.”

“He won’t be the man I knew, Albus. He ceased being that man a long time ago.” She used her sleeve to wipe her face, and stood. Although she was petite, a bit wiry and frail, she still had an odd presence about her.

“Am I correct in saying that you will be joining our cause?” He could not force her into it, but if she was willing to join, he would not stop her. Her insight was invaluable.

“I can’t say I’ll be much help, but I’m in. Anything you need me to do, Albus, I’ll do it.” Her old, fierce smile flitted across her face.

Albus smiled back, his eyes twinkling in the darkness like a cat’s. “Oh, I expect we’ll find something for you to do, my dear. I already have a few things in mind...”

When she was sure that he was gone, the woman began to straighten her small, tidy home. She cleaned up the teacups and saucers, fed her cats, checked all the doors and windows and made sure that they were locked and secure. All without magic, as she had done for the past thirty years. Finally, slowly, she made her way up the stairs towards her small bedroom. She washed and dressed for sleep, turned down her bed, and lay in the darkness for a long time. Insomnia was not uncommon for her, but she knew that this was not the insomnia that came with age or interrupted cellular chemical reactions. She did not want to sleep because she did not want to dream. She knew that her dreams would taunt her, tantalize her with memories from times past.

She had been young, and stupid, and in love. She allowed a boy with such moving beauty and endless cunning to seduce her into believing in a rose-colored fairy tale. She knew now that fairy tales were sugarcoated stories told to little girls to skew their perspective on life, love and happiness. In the original stories the prince was not always so charming or guileless, the princess was not always so lucky, and the monsters and evil creatures were not always on the outside, but instead they came from within. Sometimes a princess was better off in a long, ageless sleep or safe in a tall tower with a witch than in the arms of some strange prince.

The woman sighed, and watched the shadows of leaves dance on the wall opposite the window. She still believed, with her entire being, that he loved her, in some weird, sick, twisted way. Perhaps his idea of love had been so perverse that it seemed only natural to do what he had done. Or perhaps she was still holding on to the rosy ideals because it was simply too hard to face the betrayal. Perhaps it was too hard to believe that she had trusted him so implicitly, trusted him with her heart, and then her body, and finally her soul, while he exploited and benefited from her. Perhaps it was too hard to accept that he probably laughed to himself, or smirked in that infuriating, superior manner, all while destroying the very essence of her being. Perhaps she should stop dwelling upon it over and over again and simply sleep.

Dumbledore had plans for her, and whatever they were, she would do them willingly. She would not lie to herself about why she would do them either: she wanted to be there, if he ever came back, she wanted to be there, to be in the know, and to see him. Perhaps she wanted to confront the man who had destroyed her so easily, the man she essentially helped create. Or perhaps she really just wanted to fall into his arms and die in that same moment, to never confront him but to simply die without knowing either way, holding onto her crazy beliefs. Either way, she would be entrenching herself into the world that had rejected her so many years ago. Perhaps she would find out the exact fate of her mother and father, or her brothers, and friends. There was so little she knew, and so much had happened.

Unable to find a peaceful sleep, the woman lifted herself out of bed, aiming to get more work done in the hopes of exhausting herself. She wrapped herself in her tartan dressing gown, threw on some slippers, and padded down the stairs. A flash of color caught her eye as she passed a window in her sitting room. Her pulse raced for a moment, but she immediately brushed it off as an animal, or some color reflected from a passing car. Once in her kitchen she went about cracking eggs and mixing flour in order to make brioche for the morning. The white cat, a kitten really, weaved between her legs restlessly as she worked to make the dough. When it was done she placed it in a bowl, covered it and shoved a few things around to make room for it in her refrigerator. The dough would rise and in the morning she would bake it. It was as simple as that, and yet complex enough to keep her mind occupied. She cleaned the small kitchen quickly, but could not yet feel the grip of exhaustion pulling her towards the bed. She decided to try again, regardless of the outcome.

The same flash of color caught her attention once more as she passed through the sitting room. She froze, and stared beyond the window. Her street was completely empty; absolutely devoid of life. Moving closer to the window, she wished, for the first time in many years, that she still had a wand. She dimmed the solitary lamp that was lit as she passed it. Beyond the glass she saw nothing. Except for the patches lit by golden-orange street lamps, the rest of the neighborhood was painted silver by the almost-full moon. Nothing matched the color she saw. Looking both left, and right, she could see nothing moving; not a single suspicious shadow, or a traitorous looking bush. She relaxed again, realizing that she was imagining horrors in her mind.

Her attention then snapped away from the world beyond the window, and instead focused on the glass itself. A bubble of horror pushed its way up the woman’s abdomen as she took in the reflection. She stared down at her hands, papery thin and old. Something didn’t seem right. One of these perceptions was incorrect…

Red hair, creamy skin, freckles smattering every inch of available skin…

Graying hair, papery skin, liver spots and wrinkles…

She stared at her reflection in the window, her mouth hung open in horror. She stared at her hands again, feeling the weakness, the fragility of the bones. Then she stared at her utterly horrified reflection in the window, and then looked back at her hands. Her hands were all wrong. Staring again at the face in the window, the face that should have been her own, Ginny Weasley opened her mouth to scream. Her reflection mirrored this, and the horror burst forth in a single, deafening, high-pitched scream.

With a cry of horror Ginny Weasley threw herself out of her bed, immediately vaulted across her room towards her vanity mirror, and stared at her reflection for a long, hard moment. Her pounding heart slowed as she saw herself, just she was supposed to be: red hair, creamy skin, freckles smattering every inch of available skin. A cursory glance at her hands produced neither papery skin, nor did she have have liver spots or wrinkles. Everything was normal, and looked exactly the same as the night before, when she was going to bed. She focused on taking deep, even breaths while waiting for her pulse to return to a normal rate.

The dream was already fading from her mind with alarming speed. She tried to hold on to it, knowing that it was important. She immediately tapped a secret compartment built into her little, vintage vanity and pulled out a small, black diary. It did not write back to her, she had tested this many times. She tried to write the things she wanted to remember: she had been old, Dumbledore had been there, and she told him a story about… about something very important. It had been about a boy. The contents of her dream were gone. Frustrated, she wrote a little note about the brioche and the cat, and the reflection, then shut her diary and slipped it back where it belonged. Something in the back of her mind nibbled away at her subconscious but Ginny gave up trying to figure it out after about ten minutes of headache-inducing thought. The dream, or memory, or whatever it was, eluded her for the time being and there was no point beating herself over the head about it when she had a million other things to do.

Ginny grimaced in horror as she checked the calendar. It was the first of July. Harry would be arriving that day if everything went smoothly. Hermione had arrived only a few days after term let out. Apparently she had stopped at home long enough to do something to hide her parents, and gather her things. She and Ron spent most of their time having clandestine meetings in the attic, probably discussing how much they wanted to snog one another but how they couldn’t possibly do it since they had the mating habits of Horklumps (complete with spiny bristles). It drove Ginny completely round the bend, having to live in a cloud of their awkward, unfulfilled, teenage hormones. Add in a dash of Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived to Tease Her with his useless chivalry and mixed emotions and suddenly you have a Ginny-specific cloud of Garroting Gas made from the fresh and awkward fumes of teenage desire and total failure.

Whether her general displeasure was brought on by her inability to cope with the idiots around her, or just eerie, perfect premonition, Ginny Weasley suddenly knew, with almost perfect clarity, that she was not going to enjoy the rest of her summer. For that reason, she opted to crawl back under her covers for a few more hours. She decided, right as she fell into easy, dreamless sleep, that she might as well enjoy it while she could get it, right?

Ginny Weasley awoke at half-past two with a pounding headache. It was the sort of headache that accompanied too much sleep rather than a bad dream or too much Firewhiskey. Her dreams had been blessedly uncomplicated since the bizarre, borrowed memory of a few nights prior. Unfortunately, they now featured her maiming and throttling Harry Potter in some comical yet gruesome manner.

Two nights ago, she strangled Harry with her mother’s knitting yarn; all the while Molly contentedly went on knitting one and purling two. During a quick afternoon kip she’d managed to knock Harry Potter off his broom with a beater’s bat while she and her brother’s played a pickup game of Quidditch. Fred or George (whomever she’d stolen the bat from) were just irritated that she’d been in possession of their bats, as that was a clear violation of rules. Last night, Harry Potter’s head was pummeled into the kitchen table while her family went on with dinner as if it were customary for their beloved Ginny to have such conniptions. This morning, Harry Potter drowned in the kitchen sink, had his head put through her father’s old, Muggle television screen, and then he took quite a spill down every single step in the burrow— twice.

Grabbing around for her wand, Ginny sat up, groaned an oath, found the tool she so desired, and then charmed her curtains shut. The lack of bright, unfiltered sunlight aided the progress that her sticky eyelids were making towards being open. Through the hazy slits she saw the vague outline of a Hermione-and-Ron-shaped blob standing in the doorway. Ah-ha! Ginny remembered the reason for her sudden rousing.

“Ginny, it is half-past two and you’re still asleep!” Hermione was well into her daily harpy routine, confirming the lateness of the day. “Your mother sent us to wake you. You missed breakfast and lunch. Ron ate everything.”

“Er… yeah…I got a bit hungry, Gin,” Ron sounded contrite, but upon forcing her eyes halfway open, Ginny could see that his words were empty. He looked quite pleased with his sausage-filled belly. “I was going to save you some;” more lies, “but I figured better me than Harry, right?”

“Ron,” perhaps she’d failed to hide her displeasure with The Boy Who Lived as well as she thought if Ron was bothering to get involved, “Harry can have all the biscuits, sausages, toast, and eggs that he wants. Merlin knows he’s underfed at the Dursley’s house. I cannot believe that you let your eyes get bigger than every stomach in this house. You’re such a cow.” Her voice, disdainful and calm, contained all of the love and concern for Harry that she could muster. A clever ruse, if Ginny did say so herself. No one would suspect her of murdering Harry Potter in her dreams and if she spoke with such moving concern, right?

The room blurred into focus as Ginny finally managed to open her eyes; she rubbed away any remaining glop, lest her eyelids stick together once again. Blinking a few times, she looked at Ron and Hermione with much clearer vision. Ron looked guilty like the overfed, teenage boy-pig that he was. Hermione’s arms were crossed over her chest, her back was ramrod straight, and her jaw was locked. Altogether, she looked rather stiff and rigid, more so than usual.

“What’s wrong, Hermiooooooooneeee?” Ginny covered her mouth as she yawned, moving about her room at a snail’s pace, not entirely happy about having to wake up or getting dressed. She wrapped herself in her flimsy, pink, cotton, dressing robe, then began humming off-key to the Holyhead Harpies victory music as she went about rummaging through drawers for underpinnings and her day’s clothes. As she searched, Ginny cast another surreptitious glance at the duo’s way. The tension was palpable between Hermione and Ron, although that was not entirely uncommon.

“Nothing at all,” Hermione’s response was unusually waspish. Ginny guessed that Ron had hacked her off with some insensitive, snide comment. It was a common occurrence and hardly surprising seeing as Ron had the mental capacity of a Flobberworm. Usually he would just say whatever was on his mind with no thought to how Hermione might feel. A sigh of frustration followed a grunt. By the time Ginny turned around, her baboon of a brother was gone. She raised an eyebrow at her bushy-haired companion, pulled her into the bathroom across the hall, and shut the door behind them. Hermione sat at the edge of the tub while Ginny rinsed her face and brushed her teeth.

Persnickety and tedious as she was, Hermione was the closest thing Ginny had to a friend besides Luna. They often butted heads over unimportant things, but Ginny’s love and concern for Hermione was absolutely genuine. Over the past couple of years, as Hermione realized her blossoming affection for Ron, the thickheaded moron, Ginny had been there for her, and vice versa. Because the two girls shared the general status of “pariah” among the females of Hogwarts, they were often the only feminine companions the other had to commiserate with on long, wretched nights of painful teenage heartbreak. The overall experience had colored their relationship as almost sisterly; a role they both willingly embraced.

Hermione earned her status because most people had a low endurance threshold when it came to her know-it-all behavior or her eternal aspiration to absorb new information. Many girls and boys seemed personally offended by her apparently meaningless fling with Viktor Krum, International Quidditch sensation (and dead sexy to boot, if Ginny did say so herself). Most of the time it was just hard for them to understand exactly what made Hermione Granger tick, and that made them uncomfortable.

Well, that coupled with her platonic and easy friendship with Harry Potter. The fact that he needed her more than he needed any other female in his life, and wasn’t clever enough to hide it, was enough to make any woman insane with jealousy (not that Ginny was ever jealous of Hermione). Cho Chang’s famous outburst over Hermione was a good point in case. Up until the day she graduated, Cho never bothered to hide her contempt for Hermione. Ginny didn’t bother hiding her contempt for Cho either, so she supposed it was all somewhat even.

In Ginny’s case, she was an outcast by the end of her First Year at Hogwarts. She was the weird girl that somehow ended up in the Chamber of Secrets. She was the one who apparently came back to the dormitories in a daze with chicken blood covering every inch of her (the last bit was a lie, a rather nasty lie that many girls in her dormitory had perpetuated during her Second Year). Back then, she was the quiet, strange child who’d spent her First Year writing to a sodding, enchanted diary rather than making real friends. Now, she couldn’t seem to keep female friends; they were all too air-headed and often dramatized the most trivial matters. They usually also found something lacking in Ginny; she was pretty sure someone somewhere in Hogwarts had started a list. She was very sure it included her unfortunate inclination for trouble, the fact that she was fearless and a bit ruthless on the Quidditch pitch, and that she didn’t feel inclined to braid magical bracelets that ensured a life-long bond of unbreakable misery.

The list also included her regrettable lurking period with Harry Potter and the Valentine incident. Up until recently she'd tolerated mockery about the stupid Valentine incident, but a Semi-Permanent Sticking Charm coupled with a Bat-Bogey Hex took care of that little problem. She was also envied, and therefore hated, because despite her weird behavior, she’d dated three of the top ten Most Desirable Boys of Hogwarts (Harry, Dean and Michael), dumped two of them (Dean and Michael), hexed one of them (Draco Malfoy), and was currently occupying valuable arm space with the most desired one of all (Harry, of course). Ginny wasn’t full of herself, she just happened to find these boys cute, as did most other girls, and she thought herself rather unfortunate because most of them found her desirable as well.

“Tell me all about it,” Ginny urged, finally breaking the silence. She had played the game of mediation between her brainless brother and his bookish best friend many times.

“He accused me of being too concerned about Harry and his well-being. He is also under the impression that I am too interested in your relationship with Harry or the lack thereof.” Hermione mimicked her brother’s oafish voice perfectly. “‘You’re too caught up in Harry’s needs, and not concerned enough about me… or yourself!’ He’s completely out of line.”

“He’th jearouth.” Floss magically worked its way through the tight crevices between her teeth. Ginny was amazed by the novel, but simple, Muggle invention that Hermione had introduced her to a few summers ago. It had taken some trial and painful error, but Ginny had finally figured out how to make it work on its own.

In the meantime, her hands occupied themselves by untangling her hair with a wide-toothed comb. Ginny insisted on brushing her hair without magic after one of Hermione’s combs went awry and almost combed Hermione’s scalp off. The floss finished and disposed of itself just as she finished working the tangles from her hair. The familiarity of the routine helped to wake her up.

“Oh, I know he’s jealous!” Hermione’s high, delicate cheeks were pink with fury. “I just wish he would understand why he feels that way!”

Ginny rolled her eyes; she knew Hermione’s animosity was conceived from frustration and indignation. Hermione, though she found Harry endearing in a little, lost puppy sort of way, thought of him only as a best mate and a brother, but nothing more. Her feelings about Ron, however, far overstepped the boundaries of friendship. It was very incorrect to say that Hermione Granger did not concern herself with Ron Weasley.

Her brother, being the utter moron that he was, could not see the adulation that Hermione constantly bestowed upon him for simply being able to breathe through his nose and not jinx his own buttocks off. Of course, she was often derisive, brutal in her honesty, and rather haughty when it came to matters of intelligence, but sometimes love showed itself in a more juvenile fashion. Ginny liked to think that it was similar to pulling pigtails or spelling shoelaces together with “accidental” magic. Not that she had ever done any of that. No, no, no.

“Also,” Hermione hesitated, her voice dropped to a whisper, “he’s anxious, afraid that he and I aren’t prepared enough for the coming months.” Ginny pretended not to show too much interest; the other girl’s tone hinted at classified information. If Ginny looked too interested, or as if she was taking mental notes, Hermione would stop and chastise her. Mostly, she would tell her not to try to follow or even dwell upon what was happening for her own stupid safety.

Hermione went on, “Harry has always gotten by somehow on sheer luck but Ron and I… He thinks we won’t be so lucky this time. I can’t say I disagree, but I just cannot let myself think that way otherwise I’ll go mad.” Hermione’s mouth twisted into the same resigned, grim frown that often marred her face since the night of Dumbledore’s death.

Ginny gestured for Hermione to switch places with her and to turn around while she slipped out of her robe and pajamas. Ginny climbed into the tub, and drew the curtain shut behind her. The warm spray of water felt like heaven against her cool skin and helped soothe her suddenly-tense nerves. She lathered her honeysuckle-scented shampoo in her palm then began massaging it into her scalp with slow, gentle caressing motions. This simple act of relaxation made it easier to focus on Hermione’s words. Mostly, Hermione was talking to herself, but even then, her words were too carefully shaded to make any real sense to Ginny.

The Trio was undertaking some sort of journey designed to bring about the end of Voldemort, once and for all. She had seen her brother and Hermione sorting through books and whispering in corners and passing notes under the dinner table. They made no real secret of it either, at least, not to her parents they didn’t. Harry didn’t bother mincing the words or making them comforting or easy. He’d finally stepped into the shoes he was destined to wear, and he did it with very little fanfare or fuss. While he loved Molly Weasley as if she were his own mother, and truly, she was the only mother-figure he knew, he also knew that she simply had to butt out.

While it came off a bit arrogant, he’d told her that Dumbledore left him an assignment, and that he intended to carry out his duty with or without Hermione and Ron. Hermione and Ron informed Molly and Arthur that they absolutely would be at his side until the end. Of course, like the dutiful parent that she was, Molly had asked for specifics but the Trio gave away nothing. It was obviously driving her mum insane.

Molly Weasley spent the past few weeks taking her frustrations out upon various things: spots on the rug, or the soot caked onto the fireplace. Sometimes she got angry at The Order and their lack of tact around her children. Her oldest son’s hair, earring, and disfigured face reduced her to tears each time he stopped by. Even Fleur’s wedding plans brought her little comfort. Sometimes Charlie’s choice of job and lack of love life got her ire up. Percy’s absence was enough of a blow on its own. Her mischief-making twins had learned to pop in and be out so fast that she wouldn’t have time to be vexed. Mostly, though, it was her youngest son who was the most difficult of her lot. Because of his non-cooperation, Molly sentenced Ron to complete the most grueling and menial household tasks around their home. As Molly's one and only daughter, Ginny was being coddled, protected and irritated to death.

Arthur seemed resigned to the fact that Harry, and all those around him, were in the dead center of a blazing, red bull’s-eye. He told them simply to be careful, and taught them how to communicate in safe, undetectable ways. For this egregious mistake, Arthur became the captain of the army against which Molly led her charge. If she could not dissuade them, or even get the minutest detail from them, she would simply make it as difficult as possible for any of them to get the necessary preparations out of the way.

Ever the passive-aggressive strategist, she occupied them with chores that were designed to separate them and exhaust them. Because of this the Trio enlisted Ginny’s help to be the go-between. She’d been excited at first, but the messages she delivered gave very little away. Ginny, though she had initially wanted to join the effort, resigned herself to the fact that she was staying behind in an effort to keep her out of harm’s way. It irked her, but if it kept Ron, Harry and Hermione safe, she could bear the abandonment.

Seriously? Who was she kidding? It’s not as if they ever included her in anything to begin with. They always forgot Ginny and left her behind. This was no different from any other time. They would never need her, and even if they did, Harry would never allow it because he was hell-bent on protecting her. Therein lay the conundrum of her relationship with him. Great power was a burden; Ginny understood that Harry had the weight of the world on his shoulders. However, did Harry need a companion who was so headstrong and ambitious to make things more complicated? Perhaps he needed someone more easy-going, someone content to sit on the sidelines and watch as he went on to do great things.

He was always going to be the super hero, but was Ginny so sure that she wanted to be his leading lady? It left her very little room to maneuver her own life in between his plans. Surely if, Merlin willing, Harry made it out of the whole situation alive and unscathed, he wouldn't just blend back into the scenery. No, he was destined to live his life in spotlight. If she fell in that spotlight, then she would be The Girlfriend of Harry Potter, and eventually The Wife of Harry Potter. She would never just be Ginny Weasley. It was a thought that made her wholly uncomfortable.

Sweet as he was, Harry was not perfect. His attentiveness, once she actually got his attention, was nice. Snogging him wasn’t so bad either. Harry was, unfortunately, rather obtuse when it came to understanding people, and failed to grasp many emotional aspects of their relationship. Mostly he just thought it was a lot of snogging and talking about the inevitable Happily Ever After he expected. He never really listened when she talked about her future ambitions to be either a Healer or a professional Quidditch player. He waxed lyrical about his own ambitions to be an Auror when she mentioned wanting to give it a go, and talked about how it felt like his life calling, after he fulfilled his current destiny, of course. It all made sense in a twisted kind of way, but it forced Ginny to fit herself into a very tight niche in his life. Again, she was not comfortable with the idea of suppressing her own desires in order to be with Harry.

Ginny sighed inwardly. In any other world, she would probably blush and make uncertain eye contact with Harry. Perhaps, if she felt like playing up her role as damsel, she could giggle and focus upon how sweet and dashing his overprotective, defensive demeanor was. She would fawn all over him, and stroke his ego and she would prepare herself to be the future Mrs. Harry Potter. Ginny was not eleven anymore, she was not a little girl with a crush, nor was she a scared, helpless, victim at the hands of a ruthless murderer’s teenage memory. She did not need Harry, with his blood-covered sword and blind valor, running into the dark after her, scaring the bogeys away.

Ginny Weasley had not nearly died for nothing. She had gained, along with the lasting and obvious emotional scars, a sense of fearlessness and along with that, a sense of abandon and recklessness she had never expected. She was terribly independent, and fine on her own, although she always felt a little put out that The Trio failed to see her usefulness in their upcoming mission. She did not need mollycoddling or a reassuring pat on the back. What Ginny needed was someone to realize that the little girl had grown out of her fragile, vulnerable shell and into a fierce, intelligent, strong woman, or something like that.

Alas, no one seemed to want to see the changes that little Ginny Weasley had undergone over the past five years. It left her with an odd taste in her mouth, bitter and metallic. In the beginning, she had tried very, very hard to be accepting of Harry’s unnecessary chivalry, and his constant underestimating of her power. However, it irked her to no end how Harry, and Ron to a certain extent, discounted her abilities so often. She was thrice as smart as Ron, and just as powerful a witch, if not more so.

As far as Harry went, Ginny felt the real problem was that he did not see her as an equal. Hermione was probably the only woman that he saw as his actual equal, though he sometimes belittled her inability to think outside the book as well. For Ginny, Harry’s failure to open up to her, to see her for who she was and not who he wanted her to be, would be the driving wedge between them.

There it was, the harsh reality of being Harry Potter. He had to be that person. He had spent the majority of his life conditioned to survive the painful, lonely, cruel world. His independence was not like Ginny’s independence. His independence was borne out of his survival instinct. It existed because he had no one to rely upon, no mother to soothe him through a childhood illness, no father to play games with him, or teach him how to shave or be a man. He learned his strict moral code on his own, rather than because his parents told him what was right and wrong.

Alone was how he had been, and how he would probably always be, at least when it came to fighting the world. Harry had to be the self-centered, single-minded person hell-bent on making the hard decisions and saving his own skin. In the end, no matter how hard the rest of his friends fought, he would be the lone person left standing against Voldemort. That was how he wanted it to be. She knew he had a hard enough time dealing with the fact that Ron and Hermione were coming along, and putting themselves at risk. She understood that he did not want more blood on his hands than necessary; that so many had already died to protect him, to help him along the way. He understood that his two best friends might also join that list. She appreciated what he was trying to do, to an extent, but she also knew that she would not be able to bear it forever. It was a disappointing realization for Ginny, that the love of her life was actually just the love of the moment or, more accurately, the love of two weeks ago.

Truly, Ginny had tried to be a good little girl for everyone, at least at first. She hated seeing her mum in such a strop; she hated seeing how weak and defenseless they all were at the hands of Voldemort. She figured that if she behaved well enough, that her parents, at least, would have peace of mind. She was completely wrong, of course, but she did try. The problem was that she could not be that girl anymore; she could no longer blindly follow directions. Ginny Weasley was not a coward, and she was not without common sense. She was well aware of the dangers of wandering out one’s front door during a war. She was aware that people were disappearing every single day with only a Dark Mark hovering above their last location. Her mother never let her forget it, but she wouldn’t let her do anything about it, either. Frustration was a concept familiar to Ginny.

Bloody Voldemort had the world trembling before him. He was biding his time, hiding in the shadows, conducting like a madman while his henchmen went out to do the dirty work. Not only did he have the Wizarding populace of Britain tensed for attack, but also the rest of the continent was preparing for the worst. Though there were no legitimate sightings of Voldemort in Britain for a while, everyone was in a tizzy. He was apparently choking Continental Europe by establishing Death Eaters in every country, tightening his hold like a silent python.

Reports were coming in from as far East as China and India, and as far South as Congo; apparently not shopping for a holiday home. Wizards in Argentina, Brazil and Peru had also sent out warnings that they had a sighting or two in the dense, tropical jungles. It was unsettling that people could not verify anything, but nor could they deny it because Voldemort always left a departing corpse or two in his wake.

The Minister of Magic declared an official State of Emergency not long after Dumbledore’s death. Scrimgeour temporarily lifted the Ban on Underage Magic for the duration of the war so parents could teach children how to escape in case the unthinkable happened. Many parents took this as an opportunity to teach their children advanced magic.

Molly Weasley refused to face facts and made sure her youngest daughter was only using magic for household purposes and summer homework. Ginny, of course, knew that her mother was too busy with her six other brothers, Harry, Hermione, her home, her husband and upcoming nuptials that she could not feasibly monitor her daughter’s activities every moment of the day. Molly simply wanted to maintain the air of, as if nothing was amiss, as if war was not crouched on their doorstep, preparing to pounce. Normalcy would not be possible for any of them anymore and she didn’t fight it. She had learned early that fighting the tide of change was like fighting the ocean: ineffective and impractical.

Hence, it greatly upset Ginny Weasley that everyone seemed to feel that they could keep her in a bubble of safety when everything else was falling apart around their ears. Well, Hermione didn’t really bother. She actually spent her nights (when she wasn’t quietly sorting, packing or shrinking books, or trying to learn how to magically enlarge spaces, or practicing Apparating or other spells) giving Ginny lots of lessons in Spells and instructions on Magical Theory. She had even spent one afternoon in the field behind their home teaching Ginny how to Apparate with Tonks and Lupin watching closely in case Ginny left something behind. She never managed lose anything, which was a relief, and she learned how to Apparate short distances. She never had an opportunity to give long distances a chance because her mum refused to relent and let her precious Ginny-kins past the boundary of the protective charms. Ginny-kins was frustrated to no end by this fact.

She understood that her mother, and maybe even her father, was trying to keep Ginny from having to deal with the harsh realities that came with war. She secretly thanked them for wanting to protect the remnants of her innocence and her childhood. It infuriated her to no end, however, that Harry and Ron (both of whom did a great deal of rule-breaking, snooping, danger-getting-into, and illegal, underage magic thankyouverymuch) were constantly telling her that she couldn’t do this and needed to stay out of that.

Fortunately, the remainder of her brothers, her future sister-in-law (Hermione, not Fleur) and many members of The Order knew that they would all end up in the middle of a murky and dangerous war. They taught Ginny that it was it was worth the sneaking to ensure that she had many weapons in her arsenal. Some even taught her how to wield and hide said weapons in discreet, but easily accessible places (ahem, Mad Eye Moody).

So occasionally someone would drop Ginny a tip on what to learn, instructions if they were necessary, and even gave her things to practice with. Fred and George spent a week at home cleaning out their rooms; on the side, they helped Ginny brew serious potions. They left her with many prank items that could double as nasty distractions if necessary. A box of their infamous fireworks currently lay inconspicuous under a bag of her quidditch gear. Bill slipped a small, easily concealed copy of A Pocket Guide to Practical Curse-Breaking into her hands on one of his visits with Fleur. A Comprehensive Pocket Guide to the Magical Creatures of Europe arrived via Wyvern, Charlie’s new owl, only a day later. Needless to say, Ginny felt prepared for many things.

It helped that their mum was too busy screaming Ron’s ears off for his claim that he wasn’t going back to school the next year (a sentiment Ginny secretly agreed with, but could do nothing about). She understood why he didn’t want to go back to Hogwarts, even without the quest that he and his two best friends faced. Hogwarts without Dumbledore, or more specifically without Dumbledore but with Voldemort, would be like playing Quidditch with a flying viper instead of a snitch. What was the point of going through everything when the main reason you were there was gone and you were probably going to end up hurt or dead?

Not to mention, there were whispers of Muggleborns and Half-Bloods packing up and disappearing into the night. Parents and children feared that the Hogwarts Express was an easy target as it carted students back to school on September 1. Worse, that once Voldemort made his play for power, he would attempt to seize the school immediately and enact a blood purge.

Blood purge. The very thought made Ginny shudder indelicately against the warm night air. She could not imagine the horror of her classmates carted off, thrown into Azkaban or worse, just left to rot in cells somewhere for Death Eaters to use as practice dummies. It seemed an inevitable consequence of Voldemort’s rise to power. What seemed truly inevitable to Ginny, though, was the downfall of the Weasley family at the hands of the Death Eaters. She knew from sharing a school with the Slytherin house for five years, that nothing was worse than a Pureblood who consorted with Muggleborns and Half-Bloods.

In Ginny’s opinion, the whole controversy behind blood purity was a little ridiculous and fueled by fear and hatred, rather than reason and sense. She knew to the depths of her bone and marrow that everything was inevitable. Nothing Ginny Weasley could do would stop it from happening. She could only wonder what other things were out of her control. What other events were happening at this moment that would inevitably pull her into their gravity? Were dark plans already drawn up that involved using her as a pawn against Harry? Was she the one spiraling, already caught in the field of some unseen force? Perhaps she was the one drawing someone else towards and unforeseen destiny. Perhaps she was the center of gravity, moving objects towards herself.

Ginny shook her head, dispelling such absurd thoughts from her mind. She knew that she was doomed to sit on the sidelines, as always, while all the great and impossible things happened around her.

Hermione leaned against the rickety bathroom door. “It’s not that we’re not prepared,” Ginny had seen the endless, secret preparations for herself, “but I just don’t know exactly what we’re preparing for. It’s been kind of a mess. I mean, there are only so many scenarios I can think of, only so many specific spells and things I can feasibly foresee us needing. I’m actually being a bit overcautious, really, but Ron seems to think it’s not enough. Of course Ron’s not exactly doing much of the intricate work, mostly he’s doing the grunt work so…”

Ginny folded conditioner into the ends of her hair while she allowed Hermione to talk through her emotions and apprehensions. She was rinsing away the peach-scented residue of soap from her limbs when the girl lapsed into a comfortable, thoughtful silence. By the time Ginny shut off the water and poked her head out from behind the curtain to find a towel, the crease between Hermione’s eyebrows had smoothed and she looked far more at ease. However, something else made her tighten her lips together to stifle a giggle. Ginny quickly retreated behind the curtain, wrapping the towel around herself, but unable to quell the manic giggles.

“What? Oh, shut up…” Hermione’s despair was evident as she attempted to smooth down her hair. It had returned to its original state of frizzy tangle after only fifteen minutes of steam and humidity in the bathroom. When she was unable to tame it, she simply shook her head and joined in Ginny’s laughter as well.

Ginny and Hermione spent the next half hour focused on little frivolities such as hair charms and Muggle frizz-taming mousse. Ginny balked at the trunk space Hermione reserved for hair products. She guffawed when Hermione explained that she did not trust, nor could she master, magical spells intended for hair and makeup.

Hermione dissolved into peals of laughter and tears when Ginny told her the story of how she accidentally turned her hair pink when she was eight and coveted Luna’s white-blonde hair. For that short time neither of them pointed out that their laughter did not seem genuine, nor did they bring up Hermione’s previous concerns over the looming quest or the dangers that were inherent to it. Just for that one moment, of that one day, they wanted to pretend that they were two ordinary witches living in an ordinary, safe world.

”Oh! Bugger off, Harry!”

Ginny did not turn around. She didn’t need to in order to ascertain that she was being followed. Even against the loud, dark backdrop of the balmy summer night, with a twenty-meter head start, Ginny knew Harry Potter was hovering somewhere behind her and to her left. Her senses could not ignore the tingling electricity that danced in the space between. The hairs on her neck stood at attention, her blood practically sang. She hated herself for a moment.

Her body hadn’t always reacted as such. Though she’d idolized Harry and had dreamt of being his leading lady for years before she’d actually met him, she’d never really felt any sort of spark or want for him. After she met him she’d been ecstatic, but it hadn’t really been so physically altering. However, when awoke in the Chamber of Secrets to see a blood-drenched Harry with an equally blood-drenched sword, and a dead Basilisk off in the distance…

Well, it played into more than one tragic hero fantasy that a girl might have. Ginny knew at the time, or at least thought she knew, that she would want Harry Potter forever. At the moment, though, she wanted to be about as far away from him as humanly possible; a feat for someone magically confined to a certain space with said tragic hero.

“I’m just making sure you’re safe, Ginny. You shouldn’t wander around in the dark like this.” Harry caught up to her in less than a minute.

Turning to face him, Ginny fixed a terrible, scathing look upon her face. He stopped about two meters away from her. Perhaps he saw the mask of hostility on her face, made eerie by the shadows cast from the light that shone from the Burrow. A smarter boy, or a more observant boy, would probably back off, and leave Ginny alone to her thoughts. Harry Potter was many things: valiant, agile, a natural-born leader, and very lucky. Harry Potter was not, however, very smart when it came to reading people. In fact, as far as overall intelligence was concerned, he was relatively average, but not nearly as dim as Ron could be.

“You’re angry.” Harry opted to point out the obvious, which made Ginny’s jaw clench with irritation. He held his hands up in supplication. “I don’t really understand why you’re angry. You seemed really understand a few weeks back when we talked at… Well, I thought we’d agreed on—”

“What exactly are you doing out here?” Ginny interrupted his plea, struggling to keep her voice in control. Sparks or no sparks, she felt the urge to throttle him anytime he came within a few feet of her.

“I’m just making sure that you’re safe, alright?” His tone was defensive and very typical of Harry. Whenever someone questioned his motives he got a bit bristly. Ginny thought this had something to do with the years he’d spent defending himself to his miserable Aunt and Uncle, or the Ministry, or any authority figure, really. “I was just out here thinking, and I saw you take off into the field so I thought I’d just make sure everything was clear. Really, I’m not trying to hover or anything or be—”

“Oh, be quiet, Harry.” She interrupted his babble once again, holding a single hand out towards his face, as if to cover his mouth. She did not close the distance between their two bodies, but instead took a step backwards, dropping her hand. Her fingers curled into fists. “I know what you’re doing. I’m not an idiot.”

“I’m not doing anything, Ginny. Honestly!” Harry’s lambent, green eyes stood out in sharp relief against his dark lashes and pale skin as he pleaded with her. He looked so tired and upset; it almost cracked the hard shell she’d encased her feelings within. Almost. “I was sitting out here, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt if you had an extra pair of eyes to look out for you…”

“Harry,” the single word was filled with every ounce of her desire, disappointment and resentment. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it out slowly. Her anger faded along with her breath into the night sky.

Her body relaxed. “I am fine. I am simply going to stand out here for a bit. I’d like to do that alone, if you don’t mind. Which means that I don’t want you watching me, I don’t want to feel you watching me, I don’t want to see you watching me. I don’t need your protection, Harry, even if you think I do.” A corner of her mouth twisted up into what Ginny hoped was a reluctant half-smile.

“You are angry at me.”

A smarter boy, Harry was not.

“Of course I am angry at you, Harry!” Ginny had not meant to fly into a rage. Really, though, was he blind? Bristling like a defensive cat, Ginny’s fingers flexed at her side, she planted her feet firmly apart, like a fighter or a predator preparing to pounce. Her jaw ached as she forced it to stay shut, refusing to say something that would mark her as the the resentful, clingy girlfriend.

She spoke through clenched teeth, “While I appreciate your concern for my safety, Harry, I really resent that you completely fail to see who I am as a person. I am clever, I am strong, I am rather brilliant at my spell work, and at potions. I am quick on my feet and I am certainly scrappier in a fight than Ron. Nevertheless, you overlook me, Harry, every single time. I think I’m developing a rather undeserved inferiority complex.”

“Ginny, it’s not about how strong you are, or how you can best Ron in a fight in under a minute. Without magic.” A sad, ghostly grin flitted across his face, but then was replaced by something else that Ginny couldn’t quite name. “I won’t risk you being hurt, or worse, killed. I want to believe that I’m fighting for something.”

“You are fighting for a lot more than me, Harry.” The emotion on his face was puzzling and Ginny still could not name it, though she could feel her mind racing towards an answer. “You are fighting for every innocent soul in our world who’s suffered at the hands of Voldemort, and for those who will suffer one day if you don’t act now. You are fighting for the memory of your parents. You are fighting for the preservation of the people and the world they loved, and never got the chance to raise you in. You are fighting for Cedric, Sirius, and Dumbledore, because they can’t be here to fight anymore. You are even fighting for the people that somehow ended up on His side without meaning to. You are fighting for every one of us, Harry. You aren’t lacking things to fight for.”

“But that’s all a bit impersonal, don’t you think?” Petulance colored his voice.

“Impersonal?” Ginny was floored by that. “How is it impersonal? It’s the world you love. It’s your home. You’re fighting to have a place in this world, so that one day it’s safe for your own family to live peacefully without threat of decimation at the hands of a mad man. If you don’t fight, then that future never happens…” Ginny trailed off in the middle of her inspiration diatribe. Her mind was almost done deciphering the look Harry’s face. With suddenly clarity, she understood exactly what he was steeling himself to do, and she immediately wanted to run in the opposite direction. The reaction, in and of itself, was not such a good omen.

“That’s the thing, though, Gin,” the crevice between his eyebrows unfurled and he looked at her in a way that made her insides churn violently. “At the end of everything, if you’re gone, then what was the point? What do I get out of everything?”

“World peace?” It was a rather lame response, but she could not think clearly, knowing what he was about to say. She was afraid she’d be sick on his shoes, which would clearly ruin the moment. Perhaps ruining the moment would be a good idea. She contemplated being sick on his shoes.

“If only it were that simple,” he laughed once, and then looked upon her again with that sickeningly sweet gaze of childlike devotion.

It made perfect sense that Harry Potter had somehow developed an Oedipus Complex. She damned Hermione to the depths of Erebus for giving her the non-Wizarding Greek and Roman Classics over the past summer. Though it was a conclusion she’d been working slowly towards over the past few weeks, this last insight into Harry Potter’s unconscious mind and heart was the straw that sunk the broomstick of their relationship.

He did not see her as his equal, that much was obvious. He made her feel inferior, and although it was purely unintentional, the problem still existed because he felt the need to smother her with his idiotic, heroic blanket of protection. This all only worked to perpetuate not only her feelings of inequality but also her inferiority complex. Ginny was also sure that besides her Quidditch skills, her ability to cast a wicked Bat-Bogey Hex, or the sensitive spot between her collarbones, he knew very little to almost nothing about her. She was most certainly the easiest way for him to make himself a permanent part of the Weasley clan, ensuring that he would never be lacking a family again. Still, all of that was completely overshadowed by the absolute certainty Ginny felt in saying that Harry Potter suffered from a strong Oedipus Complex.

To Ginny it made perfect sense. She was a redhead, just like her mother, and just like Lily Potter had been. She was a strong-headed, bossy, firebrand, just like her mother, and from the stories she’d heard Sirius and Remus tell, it sounded like Lily Potter was a force to be reckoned with as well. She was rather powerful witch; a fact everyone seemed to noticed, but nobody would take into account when planning for a war. Her mother, though she only really used her magic to complete the daily chores, had apparently been a rather fierce witch during the First War. She imagined her mother would be rather useful to have in a duel.

No one made a secret of how powerful the Muggleborn Lily Potter had been. Best in her year at Potions, with stunning abilities in Defensive Magic and Charms. She’d also been smart and very good at Arithmancy and Runes. No wonder Harry had started to take an interest in Ginny when she’d finally grown a backbone and started showing off exactly who she really was. Before that she’d been a little scrap of a girl, with no real resemblance to either her mother or his.

“Gin? An answer would be nice.”

She snapped out of her own headspace and focused on Harry, standing before her looking rather nervous and twitchy.

“Uh… I…” She faltered. What had he been saying?

“I mean, you don’t have respond now,” he seemed to backpedal, alarm lit his face, “really; take your time to answer. It’s not as if I want to be married tomorrow or anything. I was just hoping that you would consider it… someday?” He didn’t seem nearly as sure now, and the hesitation his face made what she was about to do a lot harder.

“Are you… uh… asking me to marry you someday, Harry?” Her voice hit a new high, squeaky pitch. So much for fearless and ruthless. She was very sure she might throw up on his shoes. How could she have zonked out so far that she missed the marriage proposal she’d seen coming?

“I did.” He sounded rather put out now. “I did ask you to marry me. I even said a whole lot about children and a family too. Were you even listening?”

“I was listening, Harry,” she didn’t want to say the words, but they were necessary, “and I respectfully decline.”

She could hear the flush of her bright and happy, easy future going down the drain as blood pounded in her ears. She tried to breathe normally, to maintain an air of calm certitude. If she cracked, even for a moment, he would take an opportunity to push it further. She didn’t want this to become a row that everyone would hold against her. As it was, if word got out that she rejected Harry, her mother might just drop dead.

“You respectfully decline? What exactly does that mean? Do you respectfully decline for now, or until the war ends? Or is this an absolute rejection?” His voice was getting harder as he spoke; a slow-motion collision.

She lifted her eyes to meet his, and wished she hadn’t. Pain was evident behind a wall of anger that was quickly frosting over his features. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, a purely unconscious and defensive move on his part. It was how he protected himself, blocked his heart from more ache. His voice hardened as she spoke, the wall of anger hardened in correlation, forming an icy shell over the warm green. The warm green of his mother’s eyes. Yuck.

She wanted to be ill again.

After a beat he asked, “Is it because you’re angry at me?” Incredulity pushed away her nausea. “Because that’s not fair, Ginny. I think you should put that aside when considering this. It goes beyond some little spat we’re having.”

“Oh? I should put aside my anger. Is that your brilliant solution, Harry?” She reigned in her anger very quickly; it was a difficult task seeing as how she was a Weasley. “My anger is exactly what I shouldn’t be putting aside. You treat me like I’m inconsequential! You say you do it because you want to spare me the unfortunate pain of your life. You keep me at arm’s length when it’s convenient for you, and suffocate me the rest of the time.

"You say you do it because you want me to be safe, because you want me to be out of the giant, red target that they have trained on you at all times. On the other hand, you keep me so close because you feel this urge protect me. You never trust me to protect myself, Harry. And why is that?” He opened his mouth to answer, but she answered for him, “It’s because you don’t really know me.

"You couldn’t name something so trivial as my favorite color, or my favorite food. You certainly couldn’t name my favorite book or musician. You couldn’t recite my exact thoughts on females that play Quidditch or how they are treated by the men of the sport. You couldn’t name any subject other than Dark Arts and Charms in which I excel. You know almost nothing about me, and yet you’re already planning to spend your life with me?” She paused, took a breath, and composed herself before she said something she would regret.

“I thought we’d have time. We could have had all the time in the world to learn everything about each other.” Harry had barely whispered the words, but Ginny did not miss the anguish and rejection, the confusion beneath them.

Her heart collapsing, Ginny finally closed the distance between them. She did not kiss him, or do anything so outwardly romantic. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she put her head against his chest and simply held him. He stiffened in surprise at first, but then his arms came around her as well.

Neither said a word, but Ginny enjoyed listening to his heartbeat. She memorized the steady, quick cadence, realizing just how valuable a thing it really was. In that moment, she understood his personal obligation to keep her safe, and she understood what that meant for their future. She also realized that she was no longer in love with him. It was a realization that sunk her heart to the depths of the Earth.

His mission was his life, or at least it had been for the past six years, and would continue to be indefinitely. She was happy to be a part of his life, to be his friend, to know him and to know how good of a person he truly was. Yet, she also knew that this sad, untimely finale was the end of the love story she had longed for as a little girl. Ginny would always love him, but from that moment on, she would work to shape it into a friendship.

“Oh, Harry,” she pulled away from him, taking his hands instead and looking up into his eyes, “it just doesn’t work like that. We are very different people, you and I. While this,” she squeezed his palms gently, “would be idyllic, it just isn’t realistic. I just can’t be that girl, Harry. I wish with all my heart I could be, but I just wouldn’t be… me.”

“Who is that girl, Gin?” He stroked her cheek lightly. “Who can’t you be?”

“I won’t be the girl who sits idly by while you to run off into certain danger without me.” She put her hand atop his, stilling the movement on her cheek, and smiled up at him ruefully. “You will never take me into the fray, and I will never take no for an answer. You’ll always do it, even after He’s gone. I’ll always ask to follow you into the darkness and you will always fight to keep me in the light. It will be futile on both our parts.”

“You won’t give in? Not even this once?” Though his tone was hopeful, his eyes held the realization of finality, of an end.

“No, because it won’t just be this once, Harry.” After a few long beats she added, “We’ll always be friends.”

“Friends,” he laughed once, forcefully, and dropped her hands, stepping back into his personal space, leaving her to her own. His face, normally an open book, was surprisingly devoid of any decipherable emotion or thought. “I suppose I should leave you alone now, like you wanted.”

“I’ll only be a few moments,” murmured Ginny, an odd tightness rose in her chest. “Don’t be all heroic and spy on me.” She punched his arm good-naturedly, he responded with an apologetic half-smile.

After another beat of silence, Harry turned and walked back towards her warmly lit home. Ginny turned away, facing the darkness, unwilling to watch as his shoulders sagged, or as he wiped at his eyes discreetly before disappearing from sight.

The tightness was now constricting her breathing so much that she put a fist against her sternum, massaging lightly in a vain attempt to make the pain ease. Her breaths came in quick, shallow puffs; soon she would hyperventilate. It took her a minute to register the hot, fast tears falling down her cheek. She sat swiftly, the tall, golden grass covered her, protected her from view. Lowering herself further, she let her cheek rest against the soft earth, pulled her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her torso. She felt as if she was coming apart at the seams.

The moment was familiar, but not at all comforting. Only weeks ago, she had lain in a soft, muddy embankment by the Great Lake sobbing like child after Harry had summarily discarded her. Ginny had been just as she was now: curled in the fetal position, and wracked with choked sobs. That afternoon, all those weeks ago, she cried for Dumbledore, and Harry and his mission, and for her brother and Hermione, and the danger to come.She had thought of her family, and of the families of those she loved, of the losses she knew they all had yet to endure. She cried for the world she belonged to as it began its descent into Hell.

On this balmy, summer eve, Ginny cried for the future with Harry she knew she would never have, the children she once envisioned, the home with the white picket fence and all the frivolities of her youthful dreams. She thought of the uncertainty that now lay ahead of her. She grieved for the boy Harry had been, and the man he was becoming, but possibly would never live to be. When she could cry no more, the stillness came on so suddenly. The tension in her body evaporated into the night, leaving her feeling as though a weak Jelly-Jinx hit her. Her limbs finally uncurled, releasing her from the tight ball her body made. Instead of rising, and returning to her home, though, she simply lay in the darkness, watching the stars with hollow eyes that reflected only the brightness of the night sky.

Draco Malfoy lay on the forest floor.

Though he knew it could not have been more than a few hours, or maybe a few days, it felt as if he’d been lying on the forest floor for what seemed like years. Often, he would fall asleep only to wake up shivering and soaked in sweat. The open gash along his chest, along with the aching of blood that had pooled in his lungs, before the Potions Master could start fixing his wounds, forced him to take shallow, painful, quick breaths. He wished for death, for anything that would save him from this agony. But Snape had told him to keep himself alive.

Those were his only instructions: to stay alive, to lie there, to breathe, to wait.

He was too weak to do much of anything else. He did not have it in him to Apparate; he was pretty sure he could barely muster a simple Levitating Spell. He clutched his wand in his left hand. It was a useless ornament, a primal trinket to ward off evil. He was halfway sure that he was in a non-magical forest, and therefore, he was not prone to being trampled by an angry Centaur or a wild Hippogriff. His right arm was broken, most of his ribs were broken, his left leg was not visibly broken, but his thigh had deep, purple welts. Agonizing pain shot through when he tried to put weight on it. His right eye was swollen shut as well, and in order to see in that direction, he would have to turn his head, but his neck felt stiff so he just kept his ears open for footfalls, or animal sounds.

Night had fallen in the forest. He stared through the tall, thinning canopy, looking for stars, or the moon, but all he saw was blackness. All he heard was the gentle bubbling of a brook, the sounds of frogs and insects. He was the sole human. It was comforting and oddly disappointing at once. He wanted to die, wanted nothing more than to be relieved of this agony. But a small part of him knew it was his penance, that he deserved to feel greater agony than only this trifling pain.

Probably he would, because he knew he was going to live. He was going to see himself out of this forest and into the hands of the very people he had victimized only recently. He tried not to dwell on thoughts of the man whose allegiances knew no sure footing, of the man he'd idolized, only to find out that he worked for The Other Side. Snape had his reasons, Draco was sure. He did not dwell upon it for long, and instead focused on breathing, on healing, on living.

Draco Malfoy could do nothing but lie upon the damp bracken, breathe, wait. Stay alive.