A/N~So I have never written or read a Harry/Ginny fanfiction, but I thought it was necessary to explore new things ! Hopefully it is good, and please tell me what you think in a review!
Disclaimer: Absolutely everything is J.K. Rowling's.
"You don't always have to be the hero, Harry," you whisper, leaning towards his bent face, and twirling your fingers through the messy curls that lay at the nape of his neck.
He jerks away, a glare intensifying his brilliant green eyes. He's just told you that he can't be with you—that he is leaving, but he can't tell you where he is going. He looks so angry, so tired, so done.
Done with the world, done with Voldemort, done with you.
"I can't stay here and do nothing," he can't even look into your eyes, the ones that are brimming with tears. But why, you ask yourself?
Because you always knew. Knew that he would choose the world over you, knew that he would leave, knew that he would have to be the hero.
And you know you are being selfish because he has to be the one, the chosen one. And you've known it for awhile now.
"I know," is all you can force out of your mouth.
It is bitter, and hard, and heartbreaking.
He looks at you and notices for the first time that tears seem to be fleeing your eyes. Your brown orbs that read his heart, and soul, and desires better than anybody else.
"Ginny…" he says, trying to reach the logical part of your brain, the part that has seen this coming.
But you can't be logical, and reasonable, and detached because he could die. Because your fairytale might not happen. Because your love might be destroyed.
"No," you murmur, because you don't want him to pity you, and think you a fool.
He looks so helpless, and lost, and incomplete. And you want to stop. Stop evil, stop time, stop him.
Because you aren't sure if you could ever live without him. Not truly. And what if he doesn't come back? What if something happens—something inevitable?
"I'll come back," he says it so simply, so easily, so doubtlessly.
You nod because you can't voice your fears to him. Not the boy who lived. Not Harry Potter.
He gently kisses you on your forehead and chills run the length of your body because what if he never can do that again? What if you can never touch, and feel, and see him again?
He's walking away, towards the door that is taunting you with its distance.
And you could call out to him. You could stop him, make him turn, make him hurt with this decision. But what kind of person would you be then? So you let him leave, let him walk out, let him save the world.