Disclaimer: Don't own it. Don't sue.

A/N: This was suppose to be a fluffy-go-lucky tale of young love but turned into this. I'm not surprised. Fluffy-go-lucky has never been my forte. Ginny PoV, pre-series, GinnyHarry. And a dash of angst. Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.

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When you were ten you told your mother you'd marry Harry Potter.

Years later you will remember that she smiled and nodded with that half-attentive glaze in her eyes, the sort of sweet sugary coating that all mothers incase their daughters' flights of fancy.

When you were ten and stupid, so very stupid and timid and naïve, you would trace your initials next to his, and draw a sloppy heart around the two, dragging your finger through whatever condensation was at hand.

G.W. + H.P.

And you would giggle and smile, like a fool, admiring your work with a floppy smile you will never really use again after, watching the letters until they began to melt, tracing them again when they became indecipherable. It was perfect, renewable, a small joy you allowed yourself to indulge long after the fact.

When you were ten you were so sure that everything would happen like it was meant to happen and you and him were simply meant to happen. To you anyway. It meant something.

What you did not know, however, was that not everything could be coated in sugary sweet hopes or dreams. Not everything was renewable and nothing was ever truly perfect. Not even destiny.

Years later you will learn that cruelty and hopelessness and death are meant to be too, that darkness can feel as easy as light, and perhaps even more so than love did-will-does.

But when you were ten you knew none of this and hardly paused to think of that which you knew nothing about.

Years later you will remember that and long for it.

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End

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