Disclaimer: As always, it's not mine. All the wonderful characters belong to Jo Rowling. Cheers.
A/N: I quite like this story, even though it didn't turn out the way I'd intended. Let me know what you think and I hope it's enjoyed by all.
Nesserz.
Letters From The Heart
Ginny sits in her room at her small desk, Quill in hand, parchment in front of her, bare but for two words.
Dear Harry,
She crosses them out. He's not dear, certainly not to her. To the Prat, she writes underneath it, starting afresh. Looking at these words makes her feel a little better. If you didn't know, you really are a prat. Here, she smirks, feeling spurred on by finally having found a way to record her thoughts. It's quite therapeutic, really.
"How to insult his ridiculous Snitch captures," she mutters to herself, poised over the parchment again.
She shudders as a drop of ink falls to the parchment, and spreads itself into a perfect circle. It reminds her too much of the Chamber when Harry pierced the Diary with the Basilisk's Fang. Harry. Why does everything have to lead back to him? She supposes it has something to do with her feelings for him. It's really quite annoying. She shakes herself, preparing to insult him again.
Maybe you should get your glasses prescription altered, Potter, you could use a little more help finding the Snitch.
He seemed to have found her alright, glasses or not. He'd found her and then he'd let her go. She grits her teeth, thinking of her next onslaught of words. Words aimed to hurt him. Hurt him like he'd hurt her.
I hope you fall in the lake and catch cold.
She stares at the words she's written and rolls her eyes at herself. They're hardly going to offend him. She reads over everything she's written and sees that the intended insults are empty, but it still feels good to be admitting that there is a problem, that they're not together anymore. Everyone else has been avoiding the subject of their breakup, and at first, that's how Ginny liked it, but all too soon the sympathetic glances and the hushed tones were too much.
All too soon it was easier to be angry at him than to wish things were different. Anger was easier than dealing with the pain of being rejected; it hurt less to be angry and bitter than it did to be sad and gloomy. She knows it's immature to be mad at Harry for ending things with her, he has other things on his mind at the moment, but for now, she just wants to be angry. It numbs her from the reality and right now, numbness is welcome.
Looking down at the parchment in front of her, suddenly overcome with a great sense of frustration, she stabs at it, ink spreading slowly but steadily across the page, marring the words she's written. She doesn't mind, she doesn't mean them, even though she keeps telling herself she wishes she does. She watches, satisfied as the ink flows over her scornful words, satisfied that they've been erased.
She's interrupted from her writings as Ron calls her for lunch, and she gladly leaves her room, needing an excuse to not be alone with her thoughts for any longer, should she actually get the insane urge to send the letter to Harry. She's already halfway through lunch, rolling her eyes at some stupid story Ron is telling as the ink dries upstairs, several words she wrote without consciously realising, etched on the parchment's surface, surrounded by rivulets of ink, but stating their message perfectly.
I miss you.
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Fin
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A/N: Yay or nay? Review, hey?