This is from Ginny's perspective, telling how she felt after Harry left in Deathly Hallows.
She was sitting on her window seat, her knees drawn up towards her chest, her hands tangled together in her lap, clutching a photo. Her long, wavy hair was the color of a fiery sunset, and was drawn over her shoulder in a pleat, stray ribbons of honey poking out of the braid. Her eyes were closed, but the long, brown lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, and her eyebrows – the color of changing autumn leaves – were relaxed. She looked almost asleep, but then slowly, she opened her milk chocolate eyes. They were red and puffy, as though she'd been crying, but her milky cheeks, which were dusted with cinnamon freckles, were remarkably dry. She leaned her head against the glass, a cool sensation running down her spine. She shivered and drew her knees closer, her jeans scraping lightly against the patched velour of the cushion she was perched on.
The area around her was littered with crumpled pieces of parchment and piles of books, ink bottles, and stray quills which had been cast to the side, none of which could hold her attention for more than a few minutes. The room was dark except for a few gray beams of light from the window; outside was bleak and hazy. The sun hadn't shown in days, and the clouds writhed in and around one another, always threatening rain, but never actually pouring. Shadows seemed deeper and more obsolete than ever, and everything matched her mood perfectly.
A slight wind rattled her window ever-so-slightly, a small tendril of a draft creeping in through the crack where the two windowpanes met. She shivered once again, but did not move otherwise. Her eyes slowly crept towards the photo she was holding, and her grip slackened as she chomped down hard on her lip. Her throat tightened and she could feel her cheeks tingle; she wanted to look away, but her eyes were glued to the photo as though she'd never seen it before, though she'd already memorized it.
It was a photo of her and Harry. It had been a warm, spring afternoon, one of the first glimpses of summer. The trees of the Forbidden Forest were not threatening; instead, they seemed to beckon to passerby. Their branches stretched towards the sky, competing for rays of warmth. Their leaves dappled the ground bellow, and a small breeze shook the chestnut branches. The grass swayed slightly, and some petals drifted through the air, the result of a cherry tree planted somewhere on the grounds. The lake was no longer a wintery black, but instead shone an inviting navy blue. Every so often, a tentacle could be seen drifting up towards the surface, searching for fish or just to get a feeling of warmth.
She and Harry had gone outside to study and do homework, and settled beneath a tall birch tree near the lake. She remembered the feeling of his cotton shirt against her arm as she leaned against him, pretending to concentrate on a Potions essay. She had instead been memorizing the way his hand curved just so over her knee, the way his scar glistened slightly in the light: "I must not tell lies." She had often snuck glances up at him. His hair was iron black and all over the place, but she loved the one thick chunk that drifted over his ivory forehead, barely concealing the scar there. She loved the way his eyes were the color of wet leaves and how they burst with fireworks when he smiled, and how they had been glinting with intelligence he didn't acknowledge behind his glasses that particular day as he struggled through an essay. She loved the way his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth screwed down into a slight frown when he concentrated. She loved the way he smelled when she nuzzled her nose on his neck and smiled; like fresh laundry and musty classrooms and ink on parchment.
The photo had been a mistake. She had been looking at him, and then he met her eyes, and suddenly her lips were on his. When they kissed, it felt like the world had stopped spinning. He tasted like chocolate and rain and mint, and his hands were gentle as they pulled her towards him. Her hands traced the curve of his cheekbones, the graceful arc of his neck as it gave into his collarbone. She counted the buttons her fingertips grazed, and then she circled back upwards again. One of his hands pinned her against him, while the other softly played with her hair as it fell like a curtain over them. Her heart had begun to beat irregularly, and words bubbled to her lips, but she couldn't speak; if she broke them apart, the world would surely end, because it was just her and him, just the heat of his tender kiss, just the feeling of their bodies and they shared secrets that neither one could bear to admit—
Click.
The sound of the camera had startled them both. Colin Creevy grinned and then ran in the opposite direction. Harry had laughed and sat up straighter, pecked her on the lips, and returned to his essay. She had been annoyed, but then demanded the picture from Colin later. Secretly, she had been glad that this moment had been captured.
The photograph's characters moved like a violin and a bow; perfect, melodic. Once in a while they would look up and laugh, their eyes wide with surprise. Her photographic self would blush, but she looked so happy. So full of life. Vibrant. It was quite a contrast to the way she appeared now.
She slowly swung her legs over the edge of the window seat. Her toes met the carpet, and she could feel the blood rushing down to her legs. She padded softly towards her mirror, where it hung, crooked, on her wall. She stared at herself, barely daring to believe the reflection before her. Comparing her to the girl in the photograph was like comparing night to day, black to white, jubilance to misery. Her skin was pasty and pale, and her nose was red and sore. Her eyes had dark circles, and they were no longer alive. Her mouth looked like it had never harbored a smile, and her lips were no longer pink and full. Her hair was lank and messy, strands sweeping over her face, as though she had just rolled from bed. She scowled and turned away.
"You look a right mess, dear," the mirror said.
She turned her attention back to the window. The garden below was once again overrun with gnomes, and the lawn was littered with rusty cauldrons and rubber boots. But her eyes were on the hills beyond the Burrow. She grazed over the slopes of grass, as if she were hoping that he would just turn up. He was somewhere out there in the world, somewhere saving the wizarding world, somewhere he didn't want her. She knew that this wasn't true, but the poisonous thought had crept into her mind days after he had escaped from the wedding. She hadn't seen him go. Had he been avoiding her? Did he not care for her anymore? Her thoughts and feelings were knotted together like old yarn; she couldn't seem to separate the two anymore. She bit her lip and blinked back the tears she knew would come. Did he think about her as much as she thought about him?
"Ginny!" a shrill voice from the other side of the door shouted, knocking harshly on the wood. "Ginny, it's time to stop moping around in there. Go de-gnome the garden, would you?"
Ginny sniffed and slapped her cheeks, hoping to bring some color back into them. She forced a smile on her face and, before opening the door, stole a fleeting look at herself in the mirror. The smile was somebody else's; her eyes were still miserable. She groaned and flung the door open. Her mother was standing there, concern apparent through all of her features. Ginny met her eyes before slipping past her mother and outside.
A cool breeze hit her face, a welcome change to the absolute stillness to her room. The grass rustled around her, and she could hear the gnomes waddling and cackling as they dove into the bushes to avoid her. Birds chirped and the wind whispered words of comfort to her. The ground was soft and gave slightly beneath her as she stood, closing her eyes and lifting her cheeks to the dismal sky.
The rain came at last.