Genevive Marie Weasley rose out of her bed, walking slowly to the window which was open to let in the breeze. She ignored her nakedness, her skin seeming to glow in the moonlight, her hair tumbling down her back in tangled waves. It was summertime, and the air was heavy with the heat and the smell from the rose garden directly under where she stood. The colors seemed to be leeched out of everything she saw, her hair and the roses losing all vividness and fading to a grayish blue in the half light. She felt like she was fading, becoming a ghost of who she might have become.
The figure on the bed behind her stirred and she didn't even notice that she grimaced, her hand drifting over her stomach. She didn't know if there was life inside of it, if she could blame the disruption in her monthly courses on illness or tension or any number of things that wouldn't have forced her to face herself, the self she had buried in the all consuming desire for him.
She'd always been in love with him. She couldn't remember a time in her life when his name didn't thrill her, make her spin dreams about what it would be like to be his, and to have him for her very own. He'd been a hero of myths to her, a boy almost her age who was grander than anything, more important and special than anyone else, the savior of the world. Then he'd appeared in her brother's life and she was consumed even further with thoughts of him, pretty fantasies of her first kiss with this dark haired boy who had to be handsome, because he was who he was. From the day she'd first seen him, from a distance on a train platform, she'd decided that the only true masculine beauty involved dark hair and green eyes.
She'd only fallen harder when the stories came home in her brother's letters, of how he'd suffered growing up, of how brave and modest he was, of how lonely he'd been. She resolved that she would always, always, love him with all her might, her adoration offered with no conditions, as it should be, because it was for him. Her daydreams now were about how she would save him from the sadness he'd grown up in, her love helping him see what a good person he was, and how worthy he was of all the good things in the world.
He stirred again and she went back to the bed, almost seeming to float on the breeze that stirred the gauzy curtains and made wisps of her hair float around her face. He liked her hair long, so she only ever cut her bangs, and most of her hair was too heavy for the slight wind to lift. She lifted the sheet and slid into the bed, his arms automatically coming to wrap around her waist, pulling her close enough for his face to bury itself in her shoulder. It was uncomfortable for her, but it was the way he slept best, the way that the nightmares were least likely to plague him. She stared up at the canopy, wondering what she would do.
There was a press conference scheduled for later that day. Voldemort had been defeated, and every witch and wizard alive seemed to want a part of it, a part of The Boy Who Saved Us All, as the early edition of the Daily Prophet had named him. She had been at his side for many previous ones, in good times and in bad. She sometimes thought cynically that she didn't have to be there, really. She could just send a cardboard cutout with an adoring smile and perhaps a stock phrase or two about how wonderful he was, how happy he made her, the importance of his role in preserving the wizarding world that her family could trace its roots through from untold centuries ago. She never said anything to him, though. He hated when she complained, and she couldn't bring herself to add to his burdens.
She let her hand drift up to trace his forehead, now free of the scar that he had cursed and hated even as he learned how to part his hair to best display it. Publicity was important, after all. The hearts and minds of the average person might be a less bloody battlefield than direct confrontations between the forces of Dark and Light, but no less important for all that. He had learned from her brother how to crack jokes that would make him seem like a lovable scamp, and from the girl who was now her sister how to be serious and scholarly. It was when his two best friends formed a romance that he had started to spend time with her, their relationship shifting from friendship to intimacy without any particular fanfare. The press had invented a romantic mythos around their relationship, but it had been no more complicated than him finally accepting the love and adoration she had offered for so long.
It had been the night that she almost lost her brother that he had first come to her. Ron had tried to protect his best friend, and it almost cost him his life. He would never be able to run again, although the mediwizards had been optimistic about his chances of walking with only a slight limp. Harry had heard that, standing at Ron's bedside, and fought to hold back tears. Ron had managed a gallant smile and said that it didn't matter; he'd simply use his cane to trip anyone trying to run away from him. Hermione had burst into laughter and then lain besides him, sobbing into his shoulder even as she laughed and called him names. It had been too intimate, and the family had left them in peace, warning the hospital staff away before dispersing to find sleep after the long, harrowing hours of keeping a desperate vigil, as if their exhausted worry would make the difference between Ron's living or dying.
She had taken Harry's hand, leading him to his bed. She'd made him sit down, his motions those of an automaton, capable of being manipulated but not of controlling his own actions. She'd knelt at his feet to remove his shoes and almost jumped out of her skin when his hand raised itself to the side of her face, his fingers plunging into her hair as he tilted her head upwards to receive his kiss. He had taken her clothes off purposefully, his mouth moving on her skin as he whispered words, not of love, but of guilt. His words became indistinct but all she could do was lift her arms around him to hold him to her breast and soothe him, even as he buried himself in her body, his eyes tight shut as he tried to lose himself into her.
It had not been like in the romance novels that fueled her fantasies. It had hurt, and his fumbling had been awkward. Only when she had closed her eyes and reminded herself that this was Harry Potter, who she had dreamed of for all of her life, had it felt anywhere close to right. It got better, after the first time, but it had never approached the way that the books and magazines and gossiping women had always led her to believe it was supposed to feel. She was convinced that the problem was with her, a result of some flaw within her that had made her thrill to the brief touch of the memory of evil before she had lost the fight for consciousness and fallen to the floor of the Chamber of Secrets.
There had been a boy once that made her feel a small touch of that thrill. He wasn't forbidden, because it would never occur to anyone that he might be tempting enough to require her to be warned away. No one knew about the time they had spent together, starting the year of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. She was never quite sure how it was that it had started, but they had developed the habit of walking together every morning, through rain and snow and sun, twice around the lake without fail, in the half light before dawn when the barrier between the real world and the dream one was thin enough to allow for their fragile, unspoken friendship.
He had kissed her once. He had taken his hands in hers, his grey eyes intent on hers as he told her that he loved her, that he wanted to be with her, no matter what happened. She could remember how his face had hardened when she said Harry's name, the moment when she could see in his eyes that his heart was breaking, before he had nodded and retreated behind an impassive façade. He had walked away, and she had redoubled her efforts to show Harry he was loved, trying to make up for the moment when her heart had betrayed him by wanting to run after the boy who hated Harry Potter, but loved Ginny Weasley.
There had been no more walks around the lake. When they passed in the hallways, he always seemed to look through her, his gaze sliding past her as she walked behind Harry and Ron and Hermione, later gliding without pause over the way Harry would clasp her hand in his as they walked along. He didn't even sneer at her; it was as if she had ceased to exist to him. She told herself fiercely that it was better that way, that it didn't hurt, that it was /Harry/ she loved. He had only spoken to her once after their parting, and then only long enough to whisper in her ear that he would always love her as he slipped something into her pocket. She had cried as she read his letter, which had said simply that he respected her decision, even if he didn't like it, and that if she ever needed him, she should open the necklace that had been enclosed, and he would come. She had burned the letter, but the necklace never left her person, getting wrapped around a wrist if she couldn't wear it around her neck for any reason.
She had made her decision, though, and she was not one to back away from a promise. Harry needed her, and she would be there for him. There were times when she felt like her heart would break, because she knew that he didn't love her, and he never had. Oh, he was fond of her, and grateful that she was always there, ready to provide an oasis of calm in his troubled world. He cried in her arms before presenting the world with the face that they needed for their one last hope to show. She didn't fight, not like her brothers and friends fought. Everyone had their part in the drama of the war, and hers was not to bravely charge in against impossible odds. No, her part was to sit at home, trying to fill the time with things that might have been normal if she hadn't been constantly looking up to see the clock hands of her loved ones hovering over 'mortal peril'.
Now, though... The war was over. The world had been celebrating ever since the flash of green and gold light had cleared and Harry had been the one left standing. Harry had been exhausted, but he had smiled beatifically and crushed his two best friends into a massive hug, his tears of joy recorded by Colin Creevey, who had never lost the habit of carrying a camera everywhere, even through the years when his wand had come more readily to hand, his instincts honed by constant vigilance. The photograph had been on the front page of every wizarding newspaper around the world, and Colin had presented a framed copy of it to Ginny while she sat quietly, watching Harry laugh and celebrate with his friends and companions from the long war years. After a few hours she had slipped out, finding her way to the small chapel where she had attended too many funerals. There she had sank to her knees and prayed, thanking any deity that might be listening for bringing her loved ones through safely.
She had fallen asleep there, lying across the altar like some pagan sacrifice, or a desperate pilgrim seeking sanctuary. What had changed her, she wasn't sure, but she knew when her eyes fluttered open that she had been changed.
She hadn't been able to ignore the little voice that pointed out that Harry only ever sought her out at night, when he would fumble and grope his way to a release with his eyes tightly closed the whole time. He never called out another's name, but he never called out hers. Oh, it wasn't that he shunned her company. She was always welcome to join the circle of people surrounding him, but she wasn't part of it, not really. She usually excused herself, Harry remembering her long enough to plant a quick kiss on her cheek before returning to the almost giddy conversation and playing that all of the warriors who had fought at his side were indulging in. After the first few days, she had stopped showing up in the first place and found that she was missed almost as little as she missed being there; not at all.
He didn't need her any more, and when she was honest with herself, she knew she didn't want him to. She'd been content for so long to be taken for granted, her love given freely and without conditions, that it almost seemed sacrilege to think that perhaps, just perhaps, she might free herself from the vows she had made to herself at age ten. She still loved Harry Potter; she always would, and she knew that to the marrow of her bones. She might be carrying his child. And yet...
She shifted, pulling her hair out from where it was pinned by his arm, rearranging herself to a position where she could be comfortable, and have a chance of sleeping. His eyes fluttered open and he watched her with a small frown drawing his eyebrows together. "What's wrong, Gin?"
She always assured him it was nothing, when he asked. "Harry... Are you happy?"
He gave her a half smile as his arms tightened around her and pulled her back into the position he always held her in while he slept. "Voldemort's defeated, of course I'm happy. Ron and Hermione are okay, and Sirius, and your family. It's over." He nuzzled her neck before yawning and saying, "Go back to sleep, Gin, and don't worry about silly things."
She could feel him sinking back into sleep, his breathing evening out as it curled against her neck. She stared at the canopy again, waiting until she knew that he was deeply enough asleep that he wouldn't notice her slipping away. She ran a hand over his brow, pushing the hair away from his eyes before dropping a light kiss on his forehead. She wished the best for him, she always had, but continuing this masquerade of love was not best for him any more than it was for her.
Once she was sure he was asleep, she moved carefully out of the bed and stepped into the clothes she had taken off when she had crawled into bed the evening before. Moving swiftly, she gathered what she would need to take with her. She considered briefly going to the boy who had loved her, to see if he could love her still. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to imagine for a moment his arms around her, being able to hold him and /know/ he was safe, not just read in the newspaper that he had recovered from the injuries inflicted on him by the side he had refused to join. She wanted to, desperately, wanted to find the chance she had passed up and seize it with both hands. Ultimately, though, she couldn't, couldn't run from one man to another without taking the time to know that she was running to him, and not simply running away.
She had documents prepared, emergency travel funds and means that she had planned secretly during the war, when it had seemed a very real possibility that she might have to go into hiding. There was one set, which Harry and the others knew about, and then there was the set that she had made, to prove to herself that she could, to practice on so that if she needed to, she could make a new identity for the grey eyed boy who still lived in a corner of her heart. It hadn't been necessary, and she had nursed a secret pride in how he had made it through without having to depend on anyone. He had not fought bravely for the forces of Light, but he had persevered and stood against the Dark. It seemed appropriate, somehow, that the work she had done on his behalf, in secret, would instead go to allow her to follow his example and stand firmly on her own two feet.
When she was ready to go, she gave one last look to where he lay, the look of tranquility on his face making him seem a dark haired angel. She propped the note she had written where he would be sure to find it when he awoke and then once again slipped quietly out of his presence.
It was well after dawn when Harry woke up and fumbled for his glasses. Something seemed wrong, and he thought at first that it might be that Ginny hadn't woken him up earlier to prepare for the press conference. He lay back, waiting for her to come in with breakfast, as she always did when she woke up before he did. After a few minutes he opened his eyes to see a piece of parchment resting against the water glass she always kept on the nightstand.
"Dear Harry -
I've always been in love with you, and I guess you always really knew. You took my love for granted, and I was content... But it's over. Voldemort is gone, and all the people you consider family are safe and well. I wish you well, and I hope that you get all the awards and medals and adulations that you deserve, and those are many. I just can't stay, can't pretend that what's between us is satisfactory. 'In the gloaming, oh my darling, think not bitterly of me; It was best to leave you thus, dear, best for you and best for me.' Don't try to find me, I'll be in touch eventually.
Goodbye,
Ginny"
Author's Note: Waaaaaaaah, don't hurt me! I got mugged by an angst bunny and had to write it down to exorcise it. I don't know whether or not there'll be more, since I'm not sure this is the sort of thing anyone wants to read. Except for the spifferific Monki (and her new sidekick, the ever lovely Elf), and Acaciah and Anglynni, my new pals. (Hey, Ang, how's "Falling" coming along?) Anyway. If you read this, let me know whether to try to continue it is worthwhile.
The figure on the bed behind her stirred and she didn't even notice that she grimaced, her hand drifting over her stomach. She didn't know if there was life inside of it, if she could blame the disruption in her monthly courses on illness or tension or any number of things that wouldn't have forced her to face herself, the self she had buried in the all consuming desire for him.
She'd always been in love with him. She couldn't remember a time in her life when his name didn't thrill her, make her spin dreams about what it would be like to be his, and to have him for her very own. He'd been a hero of myths to her, a boy almost her age who was grander than anything, more important and special than anyone else, the savior of the world. Then he'd appeared in her brother's life and she was consumed even further with thoughts of him, pretty fantasies of her first kiss with this dark haired boy who had to be handsome, because he was who he was. From the day she'd first seen him, from a distance on a train platform, she'd decided that the only true masculine beauty involved dark hair and green eyes.
She'd only fallen harder when the stories came home in her brother's letters, of how he'd suffered growing up, of how brave and modest he was, of how lonely he'd been. She resolved that she would always, always, love him with all her might, her adoration offered with no conditions, as it should be, because it was for him. Her daydreams now were about how she would save him from the sadness he'd grown up in, her love helping him see what a good person he was, and how worthy he was of all the good things in the world.
He stirred again and she went back to the bed, almost seeming to float on the breeze that stirred the gauzy curtains and made wisps of her hair float around her face. He liked her hair long, so she only ever cut her bangs, and most of her hair was too heavy for the slight wind to lift. She lifted the sheet and slid into the bed, his arms automatically coming to wrap around her waist, pulling her close enough for his face to bury itself in her shoulder. It was uncomfortable for her, but it was the way he slept best, the way that the nightmares were least likely to plague him. She stared up at the canopy, wondering what she would do.
There was a press conference scheduled for later that day. Voldemort had been defeated, and every witch and wizard alive seemed to want a part of it, a part of The Boy Who Saved Us All, as the early edition of the Daily Prophet had named him. She had been at his side for many previous ones, in good times and in bad. She sometimes thought cynically that she didn't have to be there, really. She could just send a cardboard cutout with an adoring smile and perhaps a stock phrase or two about how wonderful he was, how happy he made her, the importance of his role in preserving the wizarding world that her family could trace its roots through from untold centuries ago. She never said anything to him, though. He hated when she complained, and she couldn't bring herself to add to his burdens.
She let her hand drift up to trace his forehead, now free of the scar that he had cursed and hated even as he learned how to part his hair to best display it. Publicity was important, after all. The hearts and minds of the average person might be a less bloody battlefield than direct confrontations between the forces of Dark and Light, but no less important for all that. He had learned from her brother how to crack jokes that would make him seem like a lovable scamp, and from the girl who was now her sister how to be serious and scholarly. It was when his two best friends formed a romance that he had started to spend time with her, their relationship shifting from friendship to intimacy without any particular fanfare. The press had invented a romantic mythos around their relationship, but it had been no more complicated than him finally accepting the love and adoration she had offered for so long.
It had been the night that she almost lost her brother that he had first come to her. Ron had tried to protect his best friend, and it almost cost him his life. He would never be able to run again, although the mediwizards had been optimistic about his chances of walking with only a slight limp. Harry had heard that, standing at Ron's bedside, and fought to hold back tears. Ron had managed a gallant smile and said that it didn't matter; he'd simply use his cane to trip anyone trying to run away from him. Hermione had burst into laughter and then lain besides him, sobbing into his shoulder even as she laughed and called him names. It had been too intimate, and the family had left them in peace, warning the hospital staff away before dispersing to find sleep after the long, harrowing hours of keeping a desperate vigil, as if their exhausted worry would make the difference between Ron's living or dying.
She had taken Harry's hand, leading him to his bed. She'd made him sit down, his motions those of an automaton, capable of being manipulated but not of controlling his own actions. She'd knelt at his feet to remove his shoes and almost jumped out of her skin when his hand raised itself to the side of her face, his fingers plunging into her hair as he tilted her head upwards to receive his kiss. He had taken her clothes off purposefully, his mouth moving on her skin as he whispered words, not of love, but of guilt. His words became indistinct but all she could do was lift her arms around him to hold him to her breast and soothe him, even as he buried himself in her body, his eyes tight shut as he tried to lose himself into her.
It had not been like in the romance novels that fueled her fantasies. It had hurt, and his fumbling had been awkward. Only when she had closed her eyes and reminded herself that this was Harry Potter, who she had dreamed of for all of her life, had it felt anywhere close to right. It got better, after the first time, but it had never approached the way that the books and magazines and gossiping women had always led her to believe it was supposed to feel. She was convinced that the problem was with her, a result of some flaw within her that had made her thrill to the brief touch of the memory of evil before she had lost the fight for consciousness and fallen to the floor of the Chamber of Secrets.
There had been a boy once that made her feel a small touch of that thrill. He wasn't forbidden, because it would never occur to anyone that he might be tempting enough to require her to be warned away. No one knew about the time they had spent together, starting the year of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. She was never quite sure how it was that it had started, but they had developed the habit of walking together every morning, through rain and snow and sun, twice around the lake without fail, in the half light before dawn when the barrier between the real world and the dream one was thin enough to allow for their fragile, unspoken friendship.
He had kissed her once. He had taken his hands in hers, his grey eyes intent on hers as he told her that he loved her, that he wanted to be with her, no matter what happened. She could remember how his face had hardened when she said Harry's name, the moment when she could see in his eyes that his heart was breaking, before he had nodded and retreated behind an impassive façade. He had walked away, and she had redoubled her efforts to show Harry he was loved, trying to make up for the moment when her heart had betrayed him by wanting to run after the boy who hated Harry Potter, but loved Ginny Weasley.
There had been no more walks around the lake. When they passed in the hallways, he always seemed to look through her, his gaze sliding past her as she walked behind Harry and Ron and Hermione, later gliding without pause over the way Harry would clasp her hand in his as they walked along. He didn't even sneer at her; it was as if she had ceased to exist to him. She told herself fiercely that it was better that way, that it didn't hurt, that it was /Harry/ she loved. He had only spoken to her once after their parting, and then only long enough to whisper in her ear that he would always love her as he slipped something into her pocket. She had cried as she read his letter, which had said simply that he respected her decision, even if he didn't like it, and that if she ever needed him, she should open the necklace that had been enclosed, and he would come. She had burned the letter, but the necklace never left her person, getting wrapped around a wrist if she couldn't wear it around her neck for any reason.
She had made her decision, though, and she was not one to back away from a promise. Harry needed her, and she would be there for him. There were times when she felt like her heart would break, because she knew that he didn't love her, and he never had. Oh, he was fond of her, and grateful that she was always there, ready to provide an oasis of calm in his troubled world. He cried in her arms before presenting the world with the face that they needed for their one last hope to show. She didn't fight, not like her brothers and friends fought. Everyone had their part in the drama of the war, and hers was not to bravely charge in against impossible odds. No, her part was to sit at home, trying to fill the time with things that might have been normal if she hadn't been constantly looking up to see the clock hands of her loved ones hovering over 'mortal peril'.
Now, though... The war was over. The world had been celebrating ever since the flash of green and gold light had cleared and Harry had been the one left standing. Harry had been exhausted, but he had smiled beatifically and crushed his two best friends into a massive hug, his tears of joy recorded by Colin Creevey, who had never lost the habit of carrying a camera everywhere, even through the years when his wand had come more readily to hand, his instincts honed by constant vigilance. The photograph had been on the front page of every wizarding newspaper around the world, and Colin had presented a framed copy of it to Ginny while she sat quietly, watching Harry laugh and celebrate with his friends and companions from the long war years. After a few hours she had slipped out, finding her way to the small chapel where she had attended too many funerals. There she had sank to her knees and prayed, thanking any deity that might be listening for bringing her loved ones through safely.
She had fallen asleep there, lying across the altar like some pagan sacrifice, or a desperate pilgrim seeking sanctuary. What had changed her, she wasn't sure, but she knew when her eyes fluttered open that she had been changed.
She hadn't been able to ignore the little voice that pointed out that Harry only ever sought her out at night, when he would fumble and grope his way to a release with his eyes tightly closed the whole time. He never called out another's name, but he never called out hers. Oh, it wasn't that he shunned her company. She was always welcome to join the circle of people surrounding him, but she wasn't part of it, not really. She usually excused herself, Harry remembering her long enough to plant a quick kiss on her cheek before returning to the almost giddy conversation and playing that all of the warriors who had fought at his side were indulging in. After the first few days, she had stopped showing up in the first place and found that she was missed almost as little as she missed being there; not at all.
He didn't need her any more, and when she was honest with herself, she knew she didn't want him to. She'd been content for so long to be taken for granted, her love given freely and without conditions, that it almost seemed sacrilege to think that perhaps, just perhaps, she might free herself from the vows she had made to herself at age ten. She still loved Harry Potter; she always would, and she knew that to the marrow of her bones. She might be carrying his child. And yet...
She shifted, pulling her hair out from where it was pinned by his arm, rearranging herself to a position where she could be comfortable, and have a chance of sleeping. His eyes fluttered open and he watched her with a small frown drawing his eyebrows together. "What's wrong, Gin?"
She always assured him it was nothing, when he asked. "Harry... Are you happy?"
He gave her a half smile as his arms tightened around her and pulled her back into the position he always held her in while he slept. "Voldemort's defeated, of course I'm happy. Ron and Hermione are okay, and Sirius, and your family. It's over." He nuzzled her neck before yawning and saying, "Go back to sleep, Gin, and don't worry about silly things."
She could feel him sinking back into sleep, his breathing evening out as it curled against her neck. She stared at the canopy again, waiting until she knew that he was deeply enough asleep that he wouldn't notice her slipping away. She ran a hand over his brow, pushing the hair away from his eyes before dropping a light kiss on his forehead. She wished the best for him, she always had, but continuing this masquerade of love was not best for him any more than it was for her.
Once she was sure he was asleep, she moved carefully out of the bed and stepped into the clothes she had taken off when she had crawled into bed the evening before. Moving swiftly, she gathered what she would need to take with her. She considered briefly going to the boy who had loved her, to see if he could love her still. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to imagine for a moment his arms around her, being able to hold him and /know/ he was safe, not just read in the newspaper that he had recovered from the injuries inflicted on him by the side he had refused to join. She wanted to, desperately, wanted to find the chance she had passed up and seize it with both hands. Ultimately, though, she couldn't, couldn't run from one man to another without taking the time to know that she was running to him, and not simply running away.
She had documents prepared, emergency travel funds and means that she had planned secretly during the war, when it had seemed a very real possibility that she might have to go into hiding. There was one set, which Harry and the others knew about, and then there was the set that she had made, to prove to herself that she could, to practice on so that if she needed to, she could make a new identity for the grey eyed boy who still lived in a corner of her heart. It hadn't been necessary, and she had nursed a secret pride in how he had made it through without having to depend on anyone. He had not fought bravely for the forces of Light, but he had persevered and stood against the Dark. It seemed appropriate, somehow, that the work she had done on his behalf, in secret, would instead go to allow her to follow his example and stand firmly on her own two feet.
When she was ready to go, she gave one last look to where he lay, the look of tranquility on his face making him seem a dark haired angel. She propped the note she had written where he would be sure to find it when he awoke and then once again slipped quietly out of his presence.
It was well after dawn when Harry woke up and fumbled for his glasses. Something seemed wrong, and he thought at first that it might be that Ginny hadn't woken him up earlier to prepare for the press conference. He lay back, waiting for her to come in with breakfast, as she always did when she woke up before he did. After a few minutes he opened his eyes to see a piece of parchment resting against the water glass she always kept on the nightstand.
"Dear Harry -
I've always been in love with you, and I guess you always really knew. You took my love for granted, and I was content... But it's over. Voldemort is gone, and all the people you consider family are safe and well. I wish you well, and I hope that you get all the awards and medals and adulations that you deserve, and those are many. I just can't stay, can't pretend that what's between us is satisfactory. 'In the gloaming, oh my darling, think not bitterly of me; It was best to leave you thus, dear, best for you and best for me.' Don't try to find me, I'll be in touch eventually.
Goodbye,
Ginny"
Author's Note: Waaaaaaaah, don't hurt me! I got mugged by an angst bunny and had to write it down to exorcise it. I don't know whether or not there'll be more, since I'm not sure this is the sort of thing anyone wants to read. Except for the spifferific Monki (and her new sidekick, the ever lovely Elf), and Acaciah and Anglynni, my new pals. (Hey, Ang, how's "Falling" coming along?) Anyway. If you read this, let me know whether to try to continue it is worthwhile.