Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter!
Harry sighed. He wasn't on guard duty, but he couldn't fall asleep, anyway. Ron was snoring in the bunk above him, and Hermione was rereading The Tales of Beedle the Bard by wandlight at the tent opening.
He rolled over and pulled the Marauder's Map out of his rucksack. He found Ron's wand and whispered, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." He tilted the ancient-looking parchment towards the fragments of light coming from where Hermione was sitting and studied the tiny black dots until his green eyes arrived at their destination.
A black dot itself isn't very expressive, but in the semi-light of the tent, Harry could better imagine what that dot symbolized. Warm brown eyes, feathery freckles, delicate fingers that danced on his skin, thick, soft hair the color of flame...
He watched as the dot named Ginny Weasley rose from her bed in Gryffindor Tower to gaze out the window. He wondered what she was thinking about, if she had awoken from a dreamy sleep. If she had been able to sleep. If she ever dreamed of him.
A heavy sadness fell upon Harry as his eyes remained transfixed on her name. He remembered those glorious sunny days at the Burrow, playing two-a-side Quidditch in the Weasleys' orchard and occasionally letting her steal the Quaffle from him, the heated flash in her eyes as she told Ron off countless times, the way she distracted him when he was trying to do his schoolwork in the common room, the first time he finally let his lips touch hers, and all those times following by the lake, in the library, in a corner of the common room, in the Room of Requirement...
He knew now that he was never meant for that life, not with Voldemort still alive and more than willing to kill those to whom Harry grew too close. Harry wouldn't let himself dream about a future life, where he might be worthy of Ginny's love without the worry of causing her injury. Instead, he wondered what might have happened if he was still at Hogwarts, Dumbledore was alive, and Voldemort never existed. He imagined those lost Hogsmeade visits, Quidditch practices, jokes, conversations, visits to the Astronomy Tower...
"Mischief managed," he whispered again, folding the parchment and tucking it away. He lay back on his pillow and tucked his hands under his head, staring at the wooden slats above him. He'd been away from her for much too long. He hoped she would understand when it was all over. He hoped he could live up to her expectations. He hoped that she would forget him rather than let him break her heart. He hoped that she would never know the things that he did for her. He hoped that he would have enough courage to let her let him go.
