Spring, 1996
April Twentieth. She looked up at the crowd, sweaty and a bit muddy. A small trickle of blood wound down her chin from where she bit her lip by accident. Hoisted triumphantly in the air by her small hand was the Snitch, as those sharing her colors screamed with joy.
Gryffindor, 450; Ravenclaw, 140.
Early afternoon, the portrait swung forward, and Ginny's eyes lit up when she saw who had crawled through the door. Her brother began to yell at Harry over the roar of the party-goers, repeating the score, but Ginny's eyes were focused upon Harry's smile and his green, green eyes.
She knew what she wanted to do.
Adrenaline and lust compacted into one, but she checked it back quickly, rushing over to give him a hug. She turned her head, ready to whisper that she hadn't let him down, but instead, his lips closed over hers.
Petrificus Totalus.
June Nineteenth. The sounds of the forest surrounded them. Birds chirping, the rustle of branches and plants as the centaurs left the humans. She had put on her rosewater, the scent that she hoped would cheer up Harry – she knew he loved her to smell of flowers.
She knew what he was going to say before he even had the chance to open his mouth. She expected nothing different from The Boy Who Lived. While he explained, she didn't cry, didn't let anyone know what was happening between them. To most, it looked like they were conversing politely, trying to make up for the public displays of affection that their friends were making by keeping a comfortable distance from each other.
Yes, no one would know they were ending what could have started unless they saw her face: adrenaline, rush of the unknown, and lust, hope for her future. The same look she had had a few weeks before, when they first kissed.
She laughed for one of her answers, her eyes shining a bit too brightly, then immediately regretted it when Harry got up, turned his back to her, and walked away. Light caught in his hair, making a small halo around his head (she never noticed the red sheen in his hair until that point, she realized, a small reminder of his mother, aside from his eyes), and the position of the sun in the sky cast his shadow over her as he walked away.
Their love would bloom. Then just wasn't the time for it.
June Nineteeth, sunset. The sun-stained tomb glistened in the sun, as though it had been covered with the tears of the mourners.
Point Me.