She always wore a red jumper. That was what Harry had noticed, the first time he had seen her properly, all those years ago. Even before she knew she was meant to be a Griffindor.
It was soft, her jumper, and warm. Very warm. But she could wear it even in summer, without the merest gleam of sweat on her brow. He had always remarked on her amazing ability to resist the weather to wear whatever she liked. Denim skirts in winter, padded coat in summer. Always with her red jumper on.
He clutched it to his chest longingly, taking care not to crease it or stain it with his tears. She had left, just five days ago, and all he had now of her was her jumper, the one she seemed not to need any more.
It was a strange feeling, thought Harry, sitting on their bed, knowing that from now on it was only his. She wasn't coming back this time.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, shaking, feeling empty inside. It was a mixture of sadness and hunger; he didn't know the last time he'd eaten and he didn't care. There was no point in eating when he had lost her. But he needed to drink something. A Butterbeer would do.
There was a drinks cabinet downstairs in the kitchen. All the way downstairs. He didn't know if his legs could carry him there, but this time he was prepared to try.
The jumper still smelled of her, he realised. It smelt of honey, and Firewhiskey, and lemon air freshener. Those scents he'd grown to love, even past his dislike of strong alcohol, his allergy to air freshener, his fear of bees. She was everything to him, and he didn't want to be anywhere without her.
Without knowing how, or when, he was at the bottom of the stairs, shivering in just his boxers and a thin shirt. It wasn't too unusual for him to not know how he'd got there; ever since she had gone he found himself in strange places. He found himself with strange marks as well, scratches on his arms and legs that he couldn't have got from nowhere.
Harry padded over to the door on his left, turned the handle gently, and pushed it open, meeting with little resistance. The kitchen was still in the same state it had been in when she had left, all of the glasses on the floor in a million pieces, and his heart with them. He treaded carefully along the floor, trying his hardest not to cut his feet in the process. The light in the kitchen was on, and the glass caught the fragile beam at many angles. It reminded him of being photographed, flashes coming from every direction. But that wasn't right, he didn't want to be followed all his life. It was private, nobody should be intruding.
Anger built up in him suddenly, quickly, exploding the light bulb and adding yet another dozen pieces to the mess on the floor. It went as soon as it had come, and he was left with nothing but sadness.
He sighed. Was he a wizard? Yes. Did he know where his wand was? No. Could he do wandless magic? Yes.
With one quick arm gesture, he sent all of the glass to its original place, broken bottles fixing themselves and placing themselves on shelves neater than when they had first been put on there. The light above his head came on again, and he became very aware of a small cut just behind his left ear. That fixed itself too, as did all of the photos on the wall. But they didn't move. Harry knew enough about magic to know that they would never move again.
She had come home one night to find a very angry Harry waiting for her in the kitchen. He had shown her some pictures taken several weeks ago, showing her with a man he thought was Anthony Goldstein. But he hadn't seen the man in years, he didn't know quite what he'd look like now.
Ginny was very defensive. She claimed to be catching up with an old friend, and it was a very convincing story until Harry pointed out another photo where her hand was in an... unusual place, to say he was 'just a friend'.
He'd forgotten how powerful she was as a witch. Without making a movement, she had managed to destroy the kitchen almost completely, without harming its occupants. That was when she left. He had no idea where she was, or where she would go, but he knew that she wasn't here.
The drinks cabinet was opened, a large Butterbeer was taken out, and a newly fixed glass was placed on the table. Harry lifted the bottle with a shaking hand, and raised it to his mouth, deciding that a third item would just complicate the process. Just as it touched his lips, and he felt the salty warmth from its depths, he stopped, staring at a picture to his right.
It showed Harry and Ginny, in each others arms, laughing. That particular picture was taken in the middle of winter, when she had stopped wearing her jumper. That was when Harry felt uneasy first.
He rose to his feet, a dried tear on his cheek, the jumper in his arms. Whatever had gone on, it was then that it had started. The picture was frozen at a point when Ginny had her back to the camera and her arms around Harry. He reached over to pick it up, but in his emotional state, he managed to knock it over instead. It smashed again, this time into pieces so small, it was best described as dust. The frame splintered, and the picture itself fell out, leaving behind a small piece of paper covered in Ginny's simple script. He could read it from where it was.
16th February
The first time I was truly happy.
The first time she was truly happy? If Harry was right in his assumptions, that was when she'd started her... what? Her affair? That was when it had started. And Harry knew, he knew now with whatever was left in his heart, that he had been the reason she had been unhappy.
It was hard, he supposed, living in the shadow of 'The Chosen One'. She was never really accepted by everybody else, not when they all imagined some great burden which Harry was under. There were oney a few people in the whole world who knew that Harry's part was over.
Maybe she'd been pushed away by him. It was useless trying to tell himself that the thought was impossible. He knew how moody he was.
But as he sat in the kitchen, in the middle of England, in the middle of the night, he knew that it was her fault as much as his. She could have talked to him about things. They might still be together now. And if they weren't, if the problems were too great, the split could still be less painful than it was now.
He had to get over her, let her out of his life. His wand was on the table, he realised, where he'd left it. He walked quickly to get it, accidently cutting his feet on the fragments of what he'd broken himself. He left little drops of blood on the floor, but it wasn't that important.
Reaching out with his right hand to get it, he threw Ginny's red jumper on the floor. He pointed it at the jumper, and said very loudly and clearly: Incendio.
It burst into flames instantly, and in just a few seconds was nothing but a small pile of ash on the floor.
He let himself cry then, something he'd been holding off doing for more than just a few days. Months and months of sorrow was held in those tears, enough to give him a headache as he let them all out.
She was gone, he knew, and she wouldn't be coming back. She'd probably never see him again.
He could go on, he knew he could. He had friends, she wasn't his whole world, no matter what he told her.
Gasping for breath, he stood up and turned the light off. In the darkness, the orange walls looked black, the shadows on the wall looked more threatening, the room looked more alive. He felt more alive. And he had to go somewhere, do something. Anything to get him out of the house.
''Ginevra Molly Weasley,'' he muttered under his breath as he stepped outside barely dressed, and bathed in orange light, ''I will get over you, I promise!''
And he meant it.