"—You are a very strange girl. And you are goi—" Ginny was on the floor. How had she gotten there? Just a minute ago she'd been sitting with her head lying on a table, telling him that she didn't need to eat.
Worry instantly sprang in his chest in the split-second that these thoughts flitted through his mind.
He was kneeling beside her. He pressed two fingers against her neck to feel for a pulse—now where had he learned that?
He felt a faint cadence. She looked so pale, so fragile.
Ginny was swimming in a sea of color. It wasn't color like she had experienced in the echoing corridors of the—what was that place?
No, this was deep and rich and well, there was no other word for it: Beautiful.
It pulsed and flowed around her, caressing every inch of her body and sending new impulses through her brain.
Ginny was content just to float in that ocean of colors and emotions. However, something changed—something always changed and upset her happiness; she wished that, just once, she could stay happy for a little while—a week, a few hours, just a little while!
Ginny began to feel desperate and the colors around her reflected this change.
Then, she was at home—but something wasn't right, the furniture was, well, newer, less worn and torn; and there were no pictures of her in any of the places they had been when she'd left at the beginning of term.
This bewildered her. And she felt the air around her swim, for a moment the scene around her shimmered and changed colors to mirror her mood change.
She saw her mother—definitely younger and thinner (she had never fully lost all the weight she'd gained from her pregnancy with Ginny) and a few less worry lines on her face—worriedly appear in the room and begin pacing. Every once in awhile she'd gaze up at the family clock to check the whereabouts of her husband.
Ginny watched—just as she had so many times before—as her father's spoon moved to "traveling" and a second later, with a faint pop, he appeared in front of her mother.
"Hello, dear." He said cheerfully, his hair just beginning to show signs of thinning. "How was your day?"
Her mother looked faintly flustered, and cautiously hopeful. She wrung her hands, "Arthur, we need to talk," she said nervously.
And Ginny knew. She was reliving her life.
"Yes?"
"Sit down, please."
"Alright." He said moving to the sofa and seating himself. "Really Molly dear, you act as you did when you told your father you wanted to marry me." He said lightly.
Molly's smile was genuine, if tentative.
She took a deep breath and steadied her hands, "Arthur," she said and took another breath, "We're going to have another baby."
Ginny watched as her father sat there for a moment, stunned and then leaped from the couch and enveloped his nervous wife in a joyous hug, lifting her and swinging her around.
She watched as the months progressed and Molly Weasley's belly burgeoned.
And then she was in her parents' bedroom, her mother bathed in sweat, giving birth in their bed.
Her first bath. Her first words. She watched as she took her first steps.
Then, as Ginny watched, she was transported to a little room that she had never seen before. Sybil Trelawny, looking much younger and less harassed, was sitting with an also much more spry Albus Dumbledore.
"She is born of the seventh son of the seventh son and the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter. With hair of flames and spirit to match she will be an integral part of the destiny of the world.
"She is the key to the course of the New World. Her powers will be unmatched and never before seen—"
The room was fading around her and she was once again awash in a sea of color. Ginny's head throbbed as she tried to wrap it around what she'd just heard.
She had her own prophecy!
Time seemed to have no existence here.
All too soon (also not soon enough) Ginny was back in her dream room.
She peered around. Exactly the same as before.
She began to wonder if it ever changed.
Ginny turned to gaze out the window—its ethereal light spilling onto her shoulders—and pondered what she had just witnessed.
Standing there for a time she became aware of angered breathing behind her. Slowly pivoting, though she already knew who it was, Tom stood there looking furious and disheveled.
Alarmed, Ginny backed into the wall—the window, more like, almost falling out—her heart beating faster.
All of the things he had ever done to anyone running through her mind.
Her breathing quickened, but her fear was melting into anger.
Slowly, she drew herself up and…
Ginny gasped. Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy stood over her; both looking worried.
She was still breathing hard, like she'd been running a 6-mile race at full tilt.
Pushing herself up on her elbows—ignoring Draco and Blaise's protests—Ginny looked around.
No longer at the table on the edge of the stacks.
She was laying on a bed in one of the out of the way corners in the stacks. There were two beds in this little nook both done in green and silver (two of her favorite colors), a table (with a tray of fabulously smelling cuisine sitting atop), two desks, a trunk at the end of each bed, and a little cast iron gate barring the entrance to this little hideaway.
"So, this is where the two of you have been keeping yourselves, is it?"
A.N. I fixed a few errors and added a little to the prophecy. I should have the next chapter up soon, I hope. I've been having a little trouble with it; but then again, I'm a perfectionist.