Love. What a strangely complicated word. It sounds so simple. One syllable, four letters. Yet the word can be so much more. It can be the ending of a friendship, or the beginning of one. It can change everything in your life, for the better, or for the worst. It can be the last thing you hold onto in your life. It can be the only reason you live, or the reason you die. It started when I was a tender age of eleven. I became infatuated with him. Obsessed. Every time I saw him, my heart would burst, my face would grow warm, and my soul would soar. I couldn't figure out what I felt, but I knew that it was something related to love. It was nothing like I had ever felt before. He saved me. He saved my life. He cared. He saved me from Voldemort. Words could not describe the ecstasy I felt. He must have cared.


Then I turned twelve. He was only a year older. I watched as thing after thing happened to him. All I could do was watch him. I wanted to do so much more, but I was afraid. Afraid my love wouldn't be returned. The fear of rejection overcame me. At the end of the year, however, I realized that he was in more danger than I had imagined. He nearly died. I grew frantic.

My third year at school rolled around. I began to realized just how much better he was than me. He was famous. He was handsome. I felt so incredibly inferior, so I covered it all up. I covered it up by dating bunches of boys. I went through them as if I was just choosing a dress for a ball. After all that had happened to him in my third year, I found myself desperate for his love again. He had seen someone die. He had seen Voldemort return to power. He had seen Cedric Diggory die. I wanted so badly to comfort him. I wanted to share all my love with him, but I still felt inferior to him. So I continued dating all the boys I could. I finally stuck with one for a while. I watched as everyone grew more and more worried about him.

The years after that went by so quickly, it was amazing. Before I knew it, he was in his last year. His last year. It hit my like a truck. I had one year left to tell him. It was not until we were all faced with death, that I decided to do it.

I remember some of it clearly....

I was lying on the floor, blood trickling from my mouth. I heard Hermione screaming. I tried to get up, but I failed miserably. Something was broken in my leg. I could hear someone's shallow breathing next to me. I whispered his He whispered back.

Hermione's screams grew louder. I attempted to get up again. I hoisted myself up with my arms and sat. We were in a cold, dark room. The walls were dripping wet. Silver serpents were embedded all over the walls, their blood red eyes watching me. I turned to my left, where I saw my brother lying face down, his body moving gently up and down. I looked to my right. He was lying there, looking at me.

"Are you alright?" I managed to whisper.

He shook his head. I wiped my mouth and looked around.

"How do we get out of here? Where's Hermione? What's happening?"

He didn't respond. He closed his eyes. I watched him for a moment.

"Harry?"

I got no response. To my horror, I realized his chest had stopped moving. My hands went to his face. I opened his mouth and breathed into it as hard as I could. I pounded on his chest.

"Come on...please....please"

Nothing happened. Tears streamed down my face, and I was silent. I sat there, staring at his face.

"You were the only hope! HOW COULD YOU LEAVE US!" I screamed.

Hermione's screaming stopped. Harry's eyes opened.

"Harry?" I whispered.

He shook his head and closed his eyes once more. I was horrified. What was he doing?

"I love you Harry...."

Suddenly, I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. My insides burned horribly.

And that's all I remembered. After I had woken up in the Hospital Wing, Dumbledore had sat me down and told me everything. My brother, Ron, and Hermione had been killed. Harry was in St. Mungo's. My parents were on the way. Voldemort had fallen. All was at peace.

The memorial was the worst part. For the first time, I saw Harry cry. We stood together. He gripped my hand as tears spilled down his face. I was surprisingly calm. I leaned against him. We stood there, together.

Harry was never happy again. He told me he loved me, but I knew he never truly could. He was so dead on the inside, it was impossible that he could ever love anything.

We had lasted six years together. His death came as no surprise to me. When I came home from the Ministry one day, I found a piece of parchment on our kitchen counter top. The note sprawled on it was short.


I love you, Ginny Weasley.
Look out our window, I'm free now. I'm with my parents, and Ron and Hermione.


I did. I looked out the window. I peered down into our garden below. There he was, his body lying peacefully among our beautiful daffodils. His funeral was almost as sad as Ron and Hermione's had been. He was buried with them.

I will never be the same. Never. Harry Potter changed my life. For the better or the worse, I do not know. I do know that I was right about love. It can be the only reason you live, or the reason you die. So I sit here on this balcony, finishing this. This note, to whoever finds it first. Basically, what I'm trying to say is this:

Harry Potter was the reason I lived for so long. And he is the reason I died.