Ten Years Gone

Ten Years Gone

The last time I had seen Harry Potter had been on the last day of fourth year.

He had kissed me, his lips pink and swollen in the heat; he had tasted slightly sweet. I remember the inexperienced entwining of our tongues, the warm flush on his cheeks, the grin he had on his face.

I had kissed him back, my teeth clicking against his; his lips found their way to the soft spot behind my ear. I had moaned gently into his neck and nipped teasingly at his earlobe.

It was perfect.

(Through your eyes an' I sparkle, senses growing keen

Taste your love along the way, see your feathers preen

Kind of makes me feel sometimes, didn't have to grow.)

He had returned to the Burrow for the last month of the summer holidays. I had just turned 15; I remember the brusque way he had handed me my gift, kissed me on the cheek.

It was as if nothing had happened between us.

Our moments alone had petered off until I spent my days with Hermione instead; he and Ron played Quidditch for hours, returning to the house shining with sweat, sanguine. He had avoided me, ignored me when he couldn't evade my presence.

The break up, six weeks later, was cleaner than either of us had expected.

I remember the forced coolness in his voice, the explanation that we needed to 'take a break.' I had smoothly agreed; I remember the point he made, that he still loved me as a friend. I laughed and we joked around (as friends), but my mind was flaming with derision.

(Then as it was, then again it will be

An' though the course may change sometimes

Rivers always reach the sea.)

I confessed everything to Hermione that night.

I loved him, hated him, was dying to forget him if I couldn't be with him.

Hermione would end up being my best friend.

Weeks later I would discover how she tasted, the thick, feminine sweetness of her tongue. She had lips like cherries, chapped from the winter coolness, swollen in exhilaration. I remember the feel of her breasts under my hands, the warm suppleness of her skin. She had turned in her seat and kissed me, an audacious smile on her lips, and for a moment I had been too shocked to respond.

She pulled back, her eyes alight, and I smirked coyly. It was my turn, my turn to brush her lips, my turn to slide my tongue between her teeth, my turn to feel the arch of her back against my stomach.

(Changes fill my time, baby, that's alright will me

In the midst I think of you-

And how it used to be.)

I love her mostly as a friend, maybe as something more.

It's easy to get caught up in such an enigmatic mystery, easy to drown in 'love' for someone new, something you'd never dreamed of before.

Easy kisses between classes make me forget about him, blissful moments that encompass my whole day.

What I hate is lying to my friends, my family. What I hate is lying to Harry.

(Did you ever really need someone, and really need 'em bad?

Did you ever really want someone, the best love you ever had?

Do you ever remember me baby - did it feel so good?

'Cause it was just the first time, and you knew you would?)

Harry and I made it a habit of staying up late in the common room.

I convinced Hermione that we were unimaginably close friends, had assured her that no matter how much he wanted me back, I'd never take him.

But I knew I was lying, knew it even then.

He regretted the separation, I could sense it, could tell from the way he sat beside me every night until one, from the way he fidgeted in my presence, the nervous blush on his cheeks, the way he stared at my mouth.

I remember that our conversations were much as they had been when we were dating. We complained about our friends, shared ridiculous stories, laughed for hours over nonsense. I was too afraid to tell him that I couldn't be with him, too afraid to break it off with Hermione.

He said he was dying to kiss me; I laughed and made no comment, feeling the hot blush in my cheeks. I think he knew I was aching to feel the way I had before.

(Blind stars of fortune, each have several rays

On the wings of Maybe, down in birds of prey.)

I told Hermione.

I told her that I couldn't be with her, that I needed Harry, needed him more than I'd ever cared to need someone before.

She started crying, twin tears slipping down her cheeks.

I had urged her not to cry, brushed the tears away with the pink pad of my thumb - hated myself. I remember the way she had spoken, her voice broken; I was dying to lean over and kiss her once more.

I knew it was what she wanted, but I knew it was more than I could ever give.

What it was worth when she said she understood.

(Vixen in my dreams, with great surprise to me

Never thought I'd see your face, the way it used to be.

Oh darlin', oh darlin')

It was freezing outside.

Ginny Weasley snuggled up to Harry Potter, who wrapped his arms tighter around her waist. The fleece blanket he had brought from his bed was warm and comforting, and she rested her head on his shoulder. The water in the lake lapped at their rock; the dense darkness of the night was closing in around them. Harry had brought a jar of bluebell flames with them; now they rested, unused, on the grass.

A tear stung at Ginny's eye, but she kissed Harry on the neck, pushed it away. They laughed over an old joke between them, and she closed her eyes.