"H-Harry?"

The shape isn't moving. If that dark shape is a person, then it isn't doing anything. Is it a trick? Is it my guilty conscience finally manifesting? Is this all a game inside my sick, twisted mind?

Hermione stirs out of the light sleep she'd fallen into. She blinks several times and looks up at me. She seems puzzled as to why I'm sitting bolt upright. I look at her and then I look at my conscience. She follows my lead, sitting up to see what's going on.

Her face is stricken by a terror. There is no mistaking that reaction.

"Harry!" she shrieks, unable to do much else.

Fuck. He's real. He isn't a figment of my cruel imagination. Harry is standing there. Moonlight shimmers over his face and he looks as horrified as we are.

"Fuck," I utter. There's no other word for it.

Hermione breaks herself out of her catatonic state. Embarrassed, she clings to the sheet and pulls it over her bare body.

"Harry, I can—" Hermione starts but all too suddenly Harry is jolted out of his own immobilised state. Before another word is spoken, he turns and flees.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," Hermione cries frantically, as she pushes herself from the bed and searches in the dark. I can only assume for something to wear. She doesn't look or turn to me once

I'm still sitting here. Unable to move, caught in my own limbo.

Hermione grabs her black robe and pulls it tightly around herself whilst running down the stairs. The rattling of the bedroom door its frame jolts me back to reality. Jumping from the bed, I cannot see any other quick option than to wrap our sex soaked sheets around me if I want to follow. I can't think of anything more distasteful.

But I do. I wind the white sheets around me, bunching them up at the top in a fist and take off after Harry and Hermione.

I have never heard my heart thunder so loudly and I am having no trouble breathing now. I'm gasping for any and all air available. The front door slams again and that's where I must follow.

Going out into the cold air like is as bad as wading into the Great Lake in the dead of winter. The dampness of the sheets ensure that they cling to me, making me shiver. From the pale moonlight I can see Hermione running after Harry at the bottom of the garden.

She's caught up to him. She's grabbing his arm. He swings round to throw her off and she hits the ground.

That's when I start to run and when I reach them no words have been exchanged. Hermione's looking up at him fearfully and he's just at a complete loss.

I try to help her but she pushes me away, pulling herself up. She still won't look at me. I may as well not be here.

"Harry," I start bravely before he turns sharply to me with a murderous glare which disturbs me to my very core.

"Don't," he warns me, his anger barely contained. "Don't you even look at me, Ginny. Don't you fucking look at me!"

I obey him immediately, my sight dropping to the ground.

"Harry," Hermione implores him. "Harry, please, I'm sorry."

His expression is that of sarcastic shock.

"Harry, don't do this. This was a one off mistake. This was cold feet, this was nothing!" she begs him.

Nothing was a mistake. It wasn't an error. Nothing can be corrected.

"Whatever 'this' is, it most certainly is not nothing," Harry replies indignantly.

"Harry," Hermione whispers, struggling to hold on. "Harry - please don't tell Ron."

Harry roars with furious laughter. He doubles over. He stares at her in absolute amazement.

"I'm sorry, don't tell Ron?" he repeats in disbelief. "Don't tell Ron? That's what you have to say to me? Hermione – you fuck my girlfriend the night before you marry my best friend and you're asking me not to tell him!"

"Harry, we were drunk, it was a terrible, awful mistake," Hermione lies – at least about the drinking part. This is one of the few times we haven't been.

"I'm drunk. Ron's drunk. Miraculously – we didn't shag!" Harry roars.

"Please, Harry. Please don't tell him. Please," Hermione cries, holding onto the front of his jacket. "Please. You know me. You know this was a mistake. Please."

"You know what, Hermione?" Harry says cruelly, leaning into her face. "We should've let that troll fucking gore you."

A solitary sob escapes from her chest and she stumbles back, hand over mouth, suppressing the rising despair. She staggers ever backwards, swaying like she may lose her footing and fall to the ground once again.

Instead she turns and backs far enough away that we can't see her face but we can hear her cries.

Harry looks like seven utterly different emotions are bursting out of him. He grunts in frustration, turning away and kicking the soft, yielding ground several times. He lets out a low, guttural scream from between clenched teeth and grips his hair. His body flops and he crouches low to the ground, holding his head fiercely. His breathing is as fast and furious as an animal on the prowl. At any moment I fear he may turn and charge. I don't know what will be left of me when the dust settles.

"Harry," I whisper, advancing ever so softly. "Harry?"

"What?" he mutters, choked.

Oh fuck, he's crying. Don't I feel more like a cruel sadistic bitch now? I reduced the Boy Who Lived to tears: The Chosen One, the boy who would save us all, the boy who would live with me and love me and marry for all the years to come is crouched in a ball in front of me with tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Harry, I'll never make this right," I tell him clearly. "Never. I know that. I never expect you to forgive me."

Hermione's words, her lies, maybe her truth whirl around in my head, uprooting everything else in there. I stop. I try to calm the storm. I attempt to focus. I try to block that out for the moment. I owe Harry that much.

"Bloody right you never," he utters, sniffing loudly and clearing his throat violently as if that covers him wiping his eyes roughly with the sleeve of his jacket.

Now he rises, still with his back to me. If he does face me, I don't know what I'll see.

"Was this the only time you—you slept with her?" he asks, still incredulous that this is all actually happening.

"Yes," I answer quickly; truthfully. His head shakes as he raises a hand to his face. I don't know if he's crying again. There's no way he'd show me if he was.

"Why?" he asks in a clear, determined voice.

"Why?" I echo in a hollow voice.

"Yes, Ginny –Why?" he repeats in a hard tone. "Why?"

"I don't have any answers that you want to hear, Harry," I reply quietly. His head drops again as he audibly exhales.

"So what is it I don't want to hear?" Harry persists.

"It happened, Harry. There is no why."

Oh, there is plenty of why, Harry. Plenty of disgusting confessions and hurtful explanations that you will never hear. I would never tell you. Because I am not that cruel. Or honest.

"I don't believe you," Harry sighs, slowly turning round.

"I know you don't," I tell him simply, trying to catch a glimpse of his face that is cleverly shielded by darkness. "I have never expected you to believe me."

"But I did."

"You did," I concur, daring to take a step toward him. "I always expected to be caught out in the lie. I always thought that you could tell. But you couldn't. I don't know if it's because I worshipped you for so long, or because everyone else has but you've became what everyone wanted you to be: Brave and just and true. It seems plausible that you'd be able to detect the people who were the complete opposite of you."

"But I didn't," he says, with no emotion.

"No. You didn't. Under the same roof for all those years and did you never suspect?"

"No. Because I believed you."

"I never thought I was good enough for you, Harry. And not because I feel inferior to the Boy Who Lived. But because you're a good person and I never wanted you. For that I will always be sorry. You don't deserve someone like that, Harry. You don't deserve someone like me."

He makes a small sound which is amplified in the isolated darkness. A part of him is dying. And I know who has blood on her hands.

"How was it?" he asks clearly as he comes closer, revealing himself to me.

"What?" I snap. After everything I've just explained to him, he's enquiring about the quality of the sex? After I've explicitly told him I'm not worth it?

"Was it good?"

Good? What a pedestrian, mediocre way to describe something so extraordinary. You clearly have no idea, Harry.

"Yes. Yes, it was good," I reply staunchly, hoping that this is where the conversation ends. How much harder do I have to push until you fall out of love with me, Harry?

"Right," he nods, his tone very businesslike and his face impassive. "And this is the only time you've cheated on me?"

"No," I tell him through gritted teeth.

"Right," he nods again, colour flooding his face. But he does his level best to retain his professional veneer. I feel like I'm on a bloody job interview, not talking about who I've been fucking behind his back. "Who else?"

"Harry, why-"

"I just want to know when my girlfriend started fucking women – that's all," he interrupts placidly. The thinly veiled subtext speaks volumes

"No one you know," I reply shortly.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" he retorts crisply. "Men? Women? What are their names?"

"I don't know their names," I utter under my breath. But he hears.

"You don't know their names," he reiterates, sounding very close to breaking his calm. "Well. How many?"

"I don't know, Harry," I moan, exasperated. "It's not as if I carved notches on the bedpost."

"If you did, I imagine your knife would be blunt by now," he mutters. His gaze locks with mine and I can't explain what is happening between us. The silent exchange isn't one of anger, rage, sadness or betrayal. It's not of sympathy, empathy, love, remorse or passion. It feels like a filled empty. And it feels as bad as it sounds.

"How many?"

"Many," I say dully, attempting to not roll my eyes.

"How many?" he batters on.

"Harry, I don't know, I'm not going to pull a number out of thin air just to make you feel satisfied--"

"After what you've done to me, you should be doing everything in your power to explain this to my satisfaction!" Harry yells, his fists clenching and clearly trying to resist the urge to grab me. He's never hurt me and I'm sure he's struggling to keep that record intact right now.

"It's not an explanation, Harry. The answer to that question isn't an explanation," I tell him sadly. "This number -- it signifies that all of the times that you were away, or every other weekend when I told you I was going out with work, or when I said I had to pull an all-nighter at the Ministry or any other hideous lie I told you, day-to-day, week-to-week – It all means the same thing."

"That you were out having random sex with random people and not caring about me in the slightest," he surmises. I suck a breath in. It certainly does sound worse when he says it.

"There were no other men, were there?" he guesses astutely.

I shake my head and look away.

"I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse," he says in low voice. "You like women. You like having sex with women. You're gay."

It sounds so ugly. The way it trips off his tongue makes it sound harsh and cruel. A fierce accusation hangs in the air that I cannot possibly refute.

"I-I am," I hesitate, my heart beating wildly. It's unpredictable, my heart is. It thumps away quite happily within the confines of my chest most of the time but on occasion – just to remind me how fragile and erratic it is – it behaves like this.

"I wanted to marry you," he trails off, his words choking him.

I feel that heart of mine sink into a marsh of despair.

"I can't believe you did this to me when I trusted you so much," he says, swallowing. "Doing that is one thing, but Hermione? My best friend? Your brother's fiancée?"

I don't know if it was her name or the fact that she'd suitably composed herself but Hermione chooses this moment to come back to us.

"I'm not like Ginny," Hermione cuts in and tells Harry in no uncertain terms. The air around her is cold and impenetrable. This seems like it's going to launch into a rehearsed coercion. "I'm not. You know that. You know me."

I feel like I am not even here. As I watch her edge her body in between Harry and I, I feel like I am fading fast. Her words make me flicker from life. I used to exist just fine without Hermione but her absolute denial of everything I know is real and true smothers me.

"Harry, I am begging you. I will get to my knees if that is what you want. But I am begging you not to tell Ron," she pleads, moving closer to him and further from me.

"Hermione, if you think this is the time to ask for a favour, you're sorely mistaken!" Harry barks, looking at her with possibly even more vitriol than he reserved for me.

"It's not a favour, Harry," she says coldly. "Ron—"

"Ron will be as gutted and disgusted and hurt as I am, no doubt," Harry snaps. He considers that the end of it and walks away from Hermione. She runs after him, rounding him and pushing back on his chest to keep him from escaping.

"Harry, listen to me!" she exclaims, torn between panic and anger.

"Don't see any reason why I should."

"So you can listen to your girlfriend when she's shagged half of London behind your back, but not me?" she spits vindictively.

Now the memories are fading fast. Everything is tainted and melting away. I'm not even convinced this is reality anymore as I am just a spectator to this farce.

Harry looks equally stung by her words; with him stunned into silence, Hermione ploughs ever onward.

"I want to marry Ron. I need to marry Ron," Hermione tells him, her hands still on his chest. She is polishing the silver dagger which is poised to pierce my heart. "It's all I've ever wanted. You know that. This is my entire life, Harry. If you tell Ron about this stupid, silly mistake then he'll never understand and he'll almost certainly never forgive me. This is my life, my future."

"You don't deserve my silence," Harry replies through his teeth.

"I don't but I'm begging for it," Hermione implores him. Her eyes shine under the moonlight with tears of frustration and panic.

"Not a chance, Hermione," Harry growls, leaning into her again.

"Harry, I deserve this one," she says warningly as he tries to sidestep her. She blocks him again. "After all I've done for you and with you, I just need this one secret."

"A bloody important secret to keep," Harry sneers, trying to duck her again.

"Harry I have never asked you for a thing," Hermione says in a low, dangerous voice. "I stood in front of death at your side because I believe in you and I love you. I was with you every step of the way; every duel, every loss, every victory. Every narrow escape and every forced spilt drop of blood. I was there for you. And I am begging you, pleading you not to tell Ron."

Hermione's words have an immediate, visible impact on Harry. His demeanour changes; his shoulders drop and his forehead smoothes over. Instead of looking at Hermione with such hate that could pierce armour, he tilts his head and looks almost wistful. He's remembering something from long ago; most likely something which only he and Hermione share from the struggle during the War a few years ago.

"Harry," she repeats firmly. "I have never asked you for a thing."

Neither of them acknowledges that I'm still here. Hermione is buying Harry's silence with words I do not understand. I doubt I speak the same language as them.

Now they communicate without speaking. Just looking.

"I-I can't stay and watch," Harry whispers finally. "I won't."

"OK," Hermione nods tightly. "I understand."

"Tell him… Tell him it was a work thing and I'll try to get back," Harry stutters, rubbing his forehead. "I won't be back. But tell him I'll try."

Hermione relaxes into a smile. "Thank you, Harry. Thank you."

"Don't," Harry holds up a hand. "You've just made sure I can never be honest with my oldest friend again. So, don't."

Hermione understands. She nods and backs away from him. Now would be the time for the embrace under any other circumstances. But they both turn and walk away from each other.

Hermione is nearly at the steps of the house before I realise what has truly happened. Harry is at the foot of the field.

"Harry! Harry, where are you going? Come back inside, there's no where to go," I call after him, suddenly finding a voice and trying to run. "Harry you can't drink and Disapparate. You'll splinch yourself or something horrible!"

"Thank you very much for the concern about my well being, Ginny dear," he spits out sarcastically. "But I'll be just fine."

Despite the venom, he strides forward to close the gap between us. He takes a red velvet pouch out of his pocket and holds it in front of me.

"The rings. Give them to Charlie. He'll be a good Best Man," Harry instructs me.

The pouch dangles threateningly in front of me. I have no choice but to reluctantly accept it.

"I trust you'll do at least that," Harry says bitterly before half-turning on the spot and Disapparating.

And here am I alone again. In the cold night air, clutching the symbols of my future demise, in a thin damp sheet, mud in between my toes and racked with the most exquisite pain I have ever had the unfortunate privilege of knowing.

--