Disclaimer: Don't own it.

A/N: Something happened to me several weeks ago that I need to get off of my chest. So here it is an unfortunate byproduct of my teenage angst. Enjoy, people. And yes, I will update my other stuff soon enough.

Ginny POV and the reason why she's at home is because it's Easter Break. (Do they have those I wonder? If not, my apologies for researching enough) Oh yeah, this fic is devoid of any influence from HBP.

Hello, you think. What a surprise.

Hello again, you repeat to yourself, I haven't seen you in a while. Why don't we sit and talk for a bit? How's life? What have you been doing? Are you enjoying everything so far? Good, good, I'm glad.

A soft chuckle escapes your mouth, but that's okay because no one's present to hear it, to laugh at you. After all, it's just you in your room with the door closed and the window open, letting springtime inside. You're glad that it's spring because right after that comes summer.

Yes. Life can be good. Can be.

You lie down on your unmade bed and look up at the bare ceiling, very bored, but also very curious. You wonder where he is, what he's doing right now. That was quite a racket he caused at school, with what his sudden disappearance and all. Those rumors flew like anything, and the word was out by the time 24 hours had passed.

"Did you hear?"

"No, what?"

"They say he just up and left Hogwarts in the middle of the night while everyone was asleep. Can you just believe?"

"No."

"Yes, really."

"Well, I don't believe you."

"Fine, then. Go ask everyone else. Not the teachers though because they're thin-lipped about anything interesting. "

"I'll ask then. There's simply no way he could have left without a trace or hint."

For the next several days and 2 weeks after, that's how breakfast, lunch, dinner, and free periods were, students whispering and professors ducking their heads, low, together, in tandem, when minors pass them in the hallways. You listen to some rumors and ignore others that are beyond the realms of possibility, but all the same, you still wonder. And wonder. And wonder some more, don't you know.

It's even worse in the common room. They huddle by the fire and discuss it until the subject matter has been completely exhausted; they let their imaginations run away with them until there's nothing left to stretch and dramatize; they irritate you so damn much that if you hear one more hushed sound coming from their flock of sheep, you may just have to kill someone.

Then again, you think about it as much as they do, torture yourself during class while absently doodling on your parchment, toss and turn in your too-big-for-comfort bed, and that isn't exactly the appropriate way of how one acts when one isn't supposed to care. Is it now?

No, you mentally berate yourself, no it isn't because I'm not supposed to care, not supposed to obsess over it, and not supposed to worry myself so badly that I get severe head pains from the sheer emotion of it all. Oh, but I still want to know where the hell he is, how can he just abandon me like this? How?

And why do you ask yourself these stupid questions anyway?

Because you're too hopeful, that's why. You're too idealistic, too optimistic, too everything for anyone and everyone. Well of course he'll owl you, just like all his other close friends. So where's their mail? Where's their correspondence? At least he treats everyone equally, no updates, no clues as to where he's currently stationed in, no tidbits as to how he's faring.

Fine then, you don't mind. You're not angry at all, in fact.

When you first heard the news, you couldn't –wouldn't- believe it. In fact, it didn't really sink in until only 3 days later when you realized that no one, not even Filch, has seen him. And that's when you accepted with a resigned mind set, and suddenly you felt so tired that you had to go sit down. You always feel tired when you're hit with something big.

The question is: how much do you care now that he's gone for good? You don't know, actually; no one knows, in fact. You notice that sometimes you'll get this very light, very abrupt pang in your chest when you don't see him at all in the corridors, but that doesn't bother you because you bet that other people who knew him get the same flutter too.

And it's not strange when you can't see him amidst the chaos during mealtimes because he usually skipped them anyway; it's fine just fine when you feel like talking to him, but you realize that he isn't here, and it's even alright too when you go looking for him outside, around the lake or herbology gardens, only to find no trace of memory anywhere, just an empty spot beside the lake, a patch of dewy grass where he'd sit and read with a hand running absently through his hair.

Because, well, you don't care right?

So now it's near midnight in the Gryffindor Common room; everyone has retired early for once except you who's still trying to finish your homework (on the your stomach, on the floor, no less) because McGonagall decided to be an utter something today so yeah. Lovely.

The fire makes its cheerful crackling sounds, and the quill in your hand continuously dips the shaft into the inkbottle again, again, and again in the vain efforts of somehow attaining the inspiration to write something, anything to appease that old bat. Needless to say, it hopelessly fails, and, frustrated, you drop the quill into the dark bottle and sink your head down onto the pliable, slightly rubbery parchment, wanting things to go away.

No, scratch that, you want things to go back.

The last time you and he talked was already pushed far into the back of your mind, blurry, indistinguishable, like it was any other snip of a recollection. Try as you might, you can't remember, and the moment sits there stagnating and dusty; you're so tired, so damn tired right now and want some sleep because your eyelids are heavy and drooping while your hand plops next to you.

Maybe you'll just lay your head for a bit, only for a few minutes, and then you'll get back to finishing that essay. You promise.

So your head is pressed against fuzzy carpet, and flickering shadows leap from wall to wall because no one but you is there to see them. It's comfortable, yeah, comfortable lying here like this, being lazy, being selfish and thinking about…thinking about…things…all sorts of things…

"Is that you?" The plush decorating of the room absorbs the echoes in his voice.

There are bright lights behind your eyelids, and you rouse with fuzzy sounds going off inside your head. You rub your eyes and open, widen, close, and open back up again at him standing before you, the fire behind his body giving off a sharp silhouette, like some kind of anti-hero coming to rescue you. But you don't want to be rescued.

And it's like a dream. Everything is just a dream (all languid, vague figures and moving, abstract colors).

Your voice comes out a croak. "You?" And this time, your voice echoes (he appears out of nowhere, your unwanted dues ex machina). How did he get past the wards? What of the portrait? How could she not have heard him? Is this even real? And you're past caring, really.

He nods and slowly kneels, his nose becoming level with yours, eyes on you the whole time. "Are you mad?" he whispers.

You don't answer; a hard look appears in the dark brown of your eyes, and it's answer enough for him, for all the questions he was going to ask. He thins his mouth and lets out a breath, and out of nowhere there's a determined glint in his gaze that you didn't notice because you were too busy watching his mouth.

"Look, you-" he starts, and then stops. Looks down, looks up again to make sure you're still listening (he doesn't need to make sure). "You should understand that…it's hard."

You sit up, hands primly placed on your kneecaps. "Oh, I should because I'm this genius who knows what you're thinking," you say in absolute seriousness.

That irritates him. "Hey now, I came here to explain to you so that you'd understand. You're the first person I'm telling this to." But his voice still stays low.

Your mouth twists into a strange smile. "What else is there to explain? You left; people talked, and that's all."

He's surprised, dazed, and a little hurt, that much you can tell, but why would he be hurt? You always say things like that and since when have you ever meant them? (And I don't care that you're gone. I don't care at all.)

"You know there's more than that," he replies haughtily. (your half-assed assumptions that I loathe)

You blink. "No. I don't."

"If you don't want to hear the truth, then I'm leaving," he says, a hint of anger in his voice and that strange, strange hurt again.

"What would someone like you have to confess?" you shoot back, and a convoluted expression briefly graces the contours of his face before sinking back into shadow. (off and on like flicks)

He laughs hollowly. "A bloody lot of things."

"Well I don't have time to hear them," you snap, "as you can see, I have assignments to finish and tests to study for and friends to meet up with. Time won't freeze for you, okay? Just because you disappear without a trace doesn't mean that the school will close down, and everyone goes looking."

"I never said that; there you go twisting my words again." By this time, his voice begins to rise (I always had that way of pissing him off).

"And here you go again, always thinking about your problems, your angst, your everything when what is everyone else doing? Oh wait, you don't care because it's all about you."

He stands, and so do you, and the both of you are facing each other with pent-up frustration and a chaotic mess of problems that you didn't even know were there to begin with. He takes a deep breath, calms down a bit (his temper rises and falls in accordance with the moon, my unstable acquaintance). "Do you want me to leave? Because I don't have to stand here and tell you what happened when I can go tell someone else."

"Fine, go ahead," you whisper hoarsely, syllables tumbling out in a rush, "it doesn't matter anyway because you had all the chance in the world to come here and tell me, but instead you disappear for what, nearly two months? You don't bother owling anyone, and come back one night, expecting me to roll over and forget that gap? I don't work that way; I just don't."

He throws his hands up, eyes ablaze on you. "But I didn't ask you to forget everything, God! I want a chance to tell someone how and why I disappeared so these stupid rumors can be cleared up. I thought that I could tell you, but apparently, that's not the case. You won't even let me talk, much less hear me out."

No, no, no, no, no. You widen your eyes (have you ever heard me out?). "I'd been giving you all the chance in the world those few weeks before you left to tell me what was going on. Couldn't you tell? If anything, you're the one that doesn't listen, not at all."

And finally, there's a pained look on your face as you retort, "You never have."

Silence. (I hate you; I hate you so much because-)

And then he lets out another breath. "All right then. Tell me, and I'll listen."

What? "What?"

There's more than a hint of exasperation. "Just what I said. Tell me what you think, and I'll listen."

You glare at him; it's too easy. What is he trying to prove here? You're standing there, twisting the ends of your hair together, agitated and slightly nervous. Several seconds drag by before he rolls his eyes. "See that? I'm letting you say whatever you want, but there you go, clamping up like you always do when I put you on the spotlight."

It slips out. "It's not like I do it on purpose. It just...happens."

"Right," he says slowly, loudly, nodding. (that familiar, condescending tone that I hate so damn much. I don't want you here. I don't want you here anymore.)

"Why don't you just go away? Hogwarts doesn't need you, no one needs you, and I don't need you. Go back, back to wherever to you disappeared off to." You mean it this time, and this is so maddening, annoyingly so. This whole encounter has exhausted you, and it's not doing you any good.

The emotions playing across his face from before suddenly closes up, sealed in tightly. "Is that what you want?"

"Sure," you reply carelessly. "Go ahead, leave. See if I care."

He takes a step forward. (the fire crackles and spits unexpectedly, fueled by some inexplicable rage) "What is wrong with you?"

Your eyes pop at this one. "What's wrong with me? What about you? You fool me and everyone else by acting so cheerful and nonchalant about everything that somehow I get this notion in my head that maybe you're content, maybe you're improving, but then, without any warning, you leave us in the middle of the night with no note, no message, no hint as to where you could be."

"It drove everyone crazy, you idiot, wondering what could have happened. For two damn months, absolutely no word from you, how else am I supposed to react when you appear out of thin air right in front of me? God be damned if I'll keep quiet and listen to your interesting adventures! I hate you, bloody hell, you're so irritating, I-"

He clamps his hand over your mouth; another grips your shoulder tightly, but not painfully. You scream weakly against his mouth and struggle for a few minutes, but eventually, your shoulders slump, giving in. (why do I even bother?)

At first, all you can hear are even breaths coming from him that collide with your erratic huffs and puffs, and then, calmly, he asks, "Will you keep your voice down this time?"

You look up, his skin pale even though there's shadow cast on him. You nod. His warm hand releases you, but a hand is still kept on your shoulder, his thumb barely grazing the skin left exposed by your giant t-shirt of a nightie. "I hate you. You're rude and don't think of anyone but yourself."

He cocks his head to the side, looks at you from an angle. "Go on; you're not finished yet."

"And," you continue reluctantly, "you're pretentious sometimes and avoid me for no reason when I try to talk to you." (and it's all I can do to keep from looking back)

"Anything else?"

You expel another huff of breath. "You eat your meals too quickly and never return the things I lend you, especially books. You like to hum off-key in the library when I'm trying to study, and you also have that god-awful habit of letting your hair get all over your eyes."

"And you still hate me?"

"I do," you reply almost immediately, "I mean it." (I hate you)

"Well," he says in a businesslike voice, "you bother me all the time. Like for instance, you're too hasty and don't think before saying and doing anything. You get yourself into the worst scenarios most of the time, and who's there to get your arseout of it?"

"No one," you mutter stubbornly, and he smirks. (the closest thing you'll ever get to a smile)

"Another thing is where you always insist on wearing these old, ratty hand-me-downs even when your friends buy you new clothes." And here he rubs the material of your worn-down cotton shirt. "That really gets on my nerves."

You focus on a particular spot on his chin. "You're done yet either."

"Of course I'm not," he scoffs,"You scribble random notes on my planner and parchment, and I waste money buying more only to have you ruin them again."

"True, but they're always funny to read," you point out.

"Yeah, but it doesn't help me with my schoolwork," he replies without missing a beat. "Now that I think about it, there are a lot of things wrong with you."

You open your mouth on the verge of saying something, but stop at the strange look in his eyes. He weaves his fingers into your hair. "And your hair's so red; it almost looks orange right now in this light. A pale orange." (don't touch me or I'll burn you)

You wonder haphazardly what time it is, but instantly forget that train of thought as he traces a finger across one of your eyebrows. "You can scarcely see any hair there; it's like you don't have any eyebrows from a distance."

You purse your lips and steal a glimpse at him, long enough to notice a tight look on his face, as if touching you is painful. His fingers glide over your cheeks, and the pressure he exerts makes the hair on your neck stand on end. It's as if he's not even touching, but you know he is because he's standing right in front of your, as real as can be.

"Soft, baby skin," he breathes, and his hand hesitates to do any further, to go any further, and at this point,you change your mind becausethis is an illusion because the real him would never do anything like this. (if you do anything else, you can almost kiss me)

Your breathing has calmed down at this point, and your dark eyes follow his hand as it travels across the features of your face. "There's a sprinkle of freckles near your ear. Right there-" He brushes your ear and evenly presses against some, sure enough, tiny, brown spots.

"I've never noticed them before," you say gently.

"Just proves how oblivious you are to details," he responds flippantly, and once, just this once, you let him get away with that statement.

"And look, you're so skinny that your collarbone's poking out," he says with a derisive chuckle, "God, the way you look is so aggravating." (too aggravating to forget)

"You're going to leave again." It's more of a statement than a question.

"I am," he admits, his hand now resting on the back of your neck, "I don't know when I'll come back either."

You mull over it for a bit, all the while unconsciously leaning towards him. "I guess it's alright then. If you're leaving soon, I mean."

"Why the change of heart?"

"Actually, I don't know. That's how I feel though."

A laugh. "Girls feel too much of everything; bloody hysterical you all are."

"We're just more complex than you boys."

"Apparently."

"Well, that's more than you can say about your gender."

"What can I say? We're a simple species."

"Don't leave me."

You blink, as if unsure if you had really said it at all, but one glance at his expression confirms it. "Why not?"

"I don't want you to, but I still wouldn't care if you did," you reply, utterly confused.

He looks down at you incredulously. "What?"

"I'm babbling; don't pay any attention," you say, "it's late, and I haven't completed my essay yet, and it's due first thing in the morning because I just know I'll have Transfigurations first, and I just can't seem to make the words come out –not even now too-, and-"

"Just shut up."

You shut up. "Sorry." (I never want to apologize to him again) It's late; far into the early morning, and the effect of staying up makes your eyelids heavy.

"I'm going to leave now, and there really isn't anything you can do to stop me."

You numbly nod. For a quick second, there's that odd flash of hurt going across the planes of his face. "Do you still want to know why I left?"

"I'm tired," you complain abruptly and yawn. "Can you tell me why I'm so tired?" (don't remind me again)

"I don't know why," he whispers irritablyand takes you by the hand, to the couch. Picks you up as though you weigh him down like downy feathers and lays you on the couch. "Maybe it's because you're sleepy, that's why."

"No, it's not," you manage before yawning again, "Wait, are you going to go right now?"

A distant "yes" reaches your ears through blurry sleepiness. You feel light-headed, and your eyelids flutter up and down.

And then, then you know that he'll probably never come back. It hits you hard, almost hard enough to jolt you awake, but you're too tired, and it never mattered to you anyway. You don't care remember? (I don't care; I don't care.)

Hold your arms out like you're almost trying to fly in your almost-sleep into a world of almost-everythings. "I hate you, you know. Don't you ever forget that. I hate you because you made me happy a long time ago." (I hate because I never wanted you to be the one who made me happy)

Your arms fall back to your sides, and he places a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth that's almost too perfunctory and brief too count as one. Unfortunately you were too out of it to notice anything.

"I hate you too, Ginny."

You wake up the next morning to loud voices and the reckoning of wondering what had transpired last night. All you can remember is snips of misplaced dialogue and a blazing sensation concentrated on one corner of your mouth, like a might-have-been kiss.

You shrug and sigh the lightest of sighs. "It was probably all a dream." (and we go on like nothing ever happens, floating from one lifetime to the next)

Look readers, the young man Ginny talks to could by ANYBODY so this fic is open to interpretation alright? Though, I like to think that it isn't Harry…Still! Eheh. Actually, if anyone reading this is able to detect certain nuances that really do give away the identity of this man, then I give them a cookie! And believe me, these hints are rreeeaalllyy subtle…(but they are there) Right then!

Readingwhiz! You sneaky person; I put the inside references just for you!

I definitely think it's fluffy for anybody to read, but it just came out this way, grrr…So yeah, please review alright?