Author's Note: This chapter title is also a play on words ~ You're Not Sirius as in Taylor Swift's song You're Not Sorry and also, you know, You're Not Serious or You're Not Sirius (like he's not the person). Lalala I confuse myself too, so it's okay if you are a little confused right now.

You're Not Sirius

There's a suspicious buzzing noise filling the air. Suddenly, a toddler with messy jet-black hair and sparkling hazel eyes zooms past me, goes on through the family room, and disappears out into the hall, peals of giggles and a breeze of freshly-stirred air following in his wake.

"James! No! Come back!"

After calling to the toddler (who of course, pays me no attention), I hastily gather my hair into a messy ponytail and chance a look over at you where you are lazily reclining in an armchair as you watch the Muggle contraption with moving pictures you can turn on and off with a 'remote control'. "Harry! A little help please?"

You slowly tear your gaze away from the thing you and Hermione call a telly. "Huh? Yeah, honey, that's great," you mumble and resume watching that Muggle sport called rugby. It looks kind of like Quidditch but on the ground.

I growl in exasperation at your royal lazy ass and dash after our two-year-old son who is zooming happily around the house on his toy broomstick while he wreaks havoc. James Sirius Potter, who we were blessed with on March 18th two years ago, is the biggest troublemaker I have ever met. He is the epitome of the two men he's named after. Although only a toddler, I can tell he is going to be a heartbreaker when he grows up, what with those mischievous hazel eyes (a mixture of my brown and your vibrant green) and untidy black hair. James already has a rakish charm to him and has managed to perfect the infamous Potter smirk.

"Gotcha!" I cry out triumphantly when I see my son hovering uncertainly over by the front door. That's when I realise something is wrong; something is terribly wrong.

There is a hooded stranger in a dark cloak standing on our front doorstep. Everything about the person exudes danger and death. I run for James and clutch him to my chest, quickly backing away up the stairs. I see the figure reach into its cloak and pull out a wand – a wand that I had never hoped to see again.

"Harry!" I scream just as the front door is blasted to rubble. Red lights are flashing in sporadic bursts as you and the unknown person battle it out downstairs; I pray that the stranger who is breaking into our home won't resort to a certain green-coloured spell anytime soon.

"Shh, sweetie, shh," I hush to James as I hurriedly rush to the nursery. "I've got you, baby. Everything'll be alright." I pray to Merlin that my words are true and not just a false sense of hope.

The noise is deafening downstairs. There are crashes and bangs and terrifying sounds of defeat on your end.

"Ginny! The Burrow!" I hear you yell out to me.

The tears are starting to flow as my heart clenches in fear. You would have only told me that if you wanted me to take James and Apparate to The Burrow without you.

But I can't Apparate within our house, and the only way to escape our property lines is to jump out of the two-story window in James's nursery. My choices are to stay and wait for the killer to come murder James and I or to jump and risk breaking our necks. Either option is too awful to even consider.

"Mummy?" James asks in fright as the display of lights downstairs starts to subside. Immediately the house grows eerily quiet until all I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears. The shadows start to engulf us even though the sun is shining brightly outside.

My head snaps in the direction of the stairs when there is a slow but sure crrreeeak on that one rickety step that I've been trying to get you to fix for ages, letting me know how close he is . . . how much time I have left to live. All of the sudden, I have never been so glad that you did not heed my demands.

"Oh, Godric," I breathe in terror. If I focus hard enough, I can hear his rasping breaths steadily approach the nursery. My body is paralysed in fear but my mind is racing at a hundred kilometres per minute with only one thought resounding in my head: protect James.

The doorknob of the nursery slowly twists and long, pale fingers wrap around the edge of the wood. "Why so scared?" I hear his awful voice cackle out in glee.

I gulp and hold James closer to me. One glance at my son and his terrified wide eyes lets me know that although typically verbose in most situations, he won't be talkative in this one.

I see the infamous death stick before I see him. He slowly raises his wand in a calculating motion, pointing it straight at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting his ugly twisted face to be my last memory. And then I hear it, those last two words that have ended the lives of so many before: "Avada Kedavra!"

There's a sudden burst of a blinding green that sears my eyes even behind my eyelids. It's a beautiful green, a green that reminds me of your irises and how captivated they could make me. It's a green of beginnings and endings of something in between and yet nothing at all. It's the green of the Killing Curse.

And then I am falling, falling down into a deep, unconscious black of nothing . . . .

.

.

One thing I have never asked you about is how your parents died. I know that you've searched far and wide to the answer of that question, and I also know that you are the possessor of the answer after the summer of my Fifth Year when you stopped questioning the circumstances of your parents' death.

But I do know that even though unintentionally, yours and my lives paralleled that of your parents. Your mum was a redhead, just like me. She was immersed with Muggle artefacts all throughout her childhood – as I am, due to Dad's interest about all-things Muggle even though the Weasley's are a Pureblood family. Nobody thought Lily Evans or Ginny Weasley had a chance with a Potter but we proved the world wrong. And we would both gladly die for you, Harry.

What I would really, really like to know about Lily Evans Potter is that when she died, was it your face or James's that she saw before her mind went blank?

I know what my own answer to that question is.

.

.

Floating around in a sea of nothing isn't as cracked up as it is made to be. It's rather boring, if you can believe it. My limbs feel like jelly and my brain is porridge. I guess my toes can be the toast while I am on the subject of breakfast foods. Does a dead person feel hungry? Cos my stomach is making its baby dragon noises, like, really loud. Does a dead person even feel anything? What about thinking? I guess it wouldn't be the person feeling anything; it has to be the soul.

Wait, so I'm a soul now? That would explain the empty nothingness I'm in since I would not be able to see or hear as a soul. Feel emotions, perhaps, but none of the other sensory organs would work.

Harry, I don't want to be dead. I don't want to live in a world without you. Where are you? Why can't I find you? Harry?

.

.

I don't know how much time has passed. I don't how much time remains. I don't know anything. I don't know. Who am I?

I. Don't. Know.

I don't like being a soul. I want to be human again.

I close my eyes and count to three. I breathe in, I breathe out. Nothing changes. I'm still trapped all alone in this dark, empty void where you do not exist except for in my memory.

.

.

You never realise how much you love someone until they are gone. You don't realise how much you miss the way they talk animatedly about something as boring as how a Snitch is made (toss me a Quaffle sometime soon, anyone?) or the way there are pillow creases on their face in the morning or how they like their morning tea to have exactly two sugar cubes, a dollop of cream, and five stirs clockwise.

And then, when you are alone with no one to share these memories with anymore, that's when you appreciate the way the sun seems to create a halo of golden light above their head wherever they go; the sound of their voice when they're angry at you but you know you'll end up kissing and making up within a matter of minutes; that look in their eye when they are wrong and you're right but they are so damn stubborn that they refuse to admit it; what a dork they are when they can recite Quidditch Through The Ages verbatim from memory; how sweet and thoughtful and perfect and gentlemanly they are when they insist on opening doors for you and pulling your chair out at the dinner table even though they know you are a devout feminist and can kick their ass in a game of Quidditch despite how bloody brilliant they are at Seeking; and how they promised you that they will love you until the end of time and only you two will remember what once happened in a life so long ago.

I guess that's what love is. Scratch that, I know that's what love is. Because I love you, Harry. Even as a soul, I promise to search for you so we can be together.

You're my other half; my missing puzzle piece; the peanut butter to my jelly; the day to my night; the every-freaking-cliché-you-can-possibly-think-of because that's what we are to each other.

You're the Harry to my Ginny.

As soon as that thought reverberates throughout my mind, a Zen sort of peace echoes throughout my being and I know it's time to stop resisting whatever this oppressive black everything-yet-nothing surrounding is. And so I let go.

.

.

.

.

"Gin? Ginny? Love, wake up, please. You're scaring me."

There's a frantic voice saying something near my left ear. With a great deal of effort, I turn my head towards the noise. A hand is now holding mine.

"If you can hear me, Gin, squeeze my hand," the voice pleads with me.

I can't. I try to do so just to make the sadness and the fear and the deflating hopefulness emanating from this person go away but my hand won't cooperate.

"Ginny," the voice whispers brokenly. "Please, love. You're not serious, are you? I know it is April Fool's Day but this has got to be the worst joke ever played by Merlin. Oh, Godric. Ginny, c'mon, wake up, love. Please please please. Think of the baby, of yourself, of me." Wet drops of grief splatter my wrist where my hand and this person's are joined.

"Mr Potter," I hear a voice say sternly. "Mrs Potter is in a magically-induced coma as a result of early childbirth. There is not much we can do for her besides keep her vitals stable and wait patiently. You're worrying and stressing is not good for her or your unborn baby. Please remain calm until she comes to. Mrs Potter has been through a rough night what with the premature contractions, the magically induced coma, and her hallucinations. It would be best for everyone if you would relax, Mr Potter."

Is this Heaven? I didn't think there would be so much pain and sadness here. I try to open my eyes to see where I am but nothing happens.

There is a faint pressure on my lips, a feather-light stroke brushing my face, tiny little butterfly feet dancing across my mouth. "I love you," you kiss me goodbye.

No! I scream out in my head, frantically clawing to hold onto your hand. But my limbs won't move and slowly but surely your hand slips out of mine leaving me so, so cold. And without your anchor holding me down, I drift back into the nightmare of death where no one can reach me.

Author's Note: Hey, there. I didn't intend for this chapter to be so dark or intense but, er, it kind of wrote itself. If you think this chapter doesn't belong in Superman, review and let me know and I'll write up a new one. The tone of this chapter is a little out of place compared to the light flirty-ness of this fic, but I think You're Not Sirius captures some good thoughts and feelings Ginny has about her love towards Harry. So, yeah.

If you need any sort of clarification (I tried to explain things in that last little blurb) ~ No, Ginny is not dead. She's in a hospital because she went into premature labour (the baby is Albus, by the way). And then she blacked out and is in a coma where all those nightmares and intense thoughts occurred. The End.