All I Can Think About

The snow is falling softly, hanging onto my hair, kissing my cheeks, and nipping my nose playfully. The bejeweled flakes are a stark contrast to my raven coloured hair, covering the black surface like shards of silver, or diamond. I shake my head, the flakes flying off in all directions. I am going to meet her again today, for the first time in five years. And all I can think about was how beautiful she will look in the snow.

White flakes continue to fall as I outstretch my arms and throw my head back, laughing. I am deliriously happy. The sound is immediately swallowed up by the snow, and I smile. I feel as if I were truly alone here, as if I was the only person in the world. But not for long. She would be here soon.

I struggled to remember the last time I had really seen her. She had been at the Burrow, her long auburn locks pulled back hastily, a quill stuck behind her ear. Beside her was a bulging, slightly battered suitcase, on top of which was her old, very battered wand. She sighed heavily, dipped her quill in the inkpot, and scribbled furiously. I withdrew into the shadows of the staircase, watching as a tear fell down her cheek, landing on the paper. She cursed under her breath, but continued writing. I could feel a sense of urgency in her frantic words, and in the way she threw down the quill when she was finished, as though it were on fire. She grabbed her suitcase just as I stepped out into the kitchen. Her eyes, those round, probing brown eyes seemed to look past me, not at me. It was like she was looking at a future far away from her life, that was impossible, unreachable, but that beckoned to her. She smiled slightly.

"Give Ron a hug for me, Harry," she said.

Then she was gone, the only evidence of her was the door swinging slightly in the gentle autumn breeze, and a tearstained letter on the rough, scrubbed table. I looked down at that letter, trembling fingers lifting it, unfolding it. My eyes traveled over the letters, trying to piece together the meaning through two sets of tears; hers, and my own.

Dear Mum,

I'll be gone when you get this letter, so don't try to stop me from going. Mum, I want you to know that nothing is your fault. Tell Harry, Ron, Fred and George that the blame does not fall on them either. I can't tell you where I'm going, or when I'll be back...

I remember twisting the parchment between my hands, tearing it, and throwing the remains in the fire. I slammed the table with my fist, upsetting the ink, which spilled over onto Ginny's white quill. I softened immediately. How vulnerable that quill looked, small rivulets of ink running over the tip, slowly dying the feather a steady, unredeemable black. Then rage hit me again, an unforgivable wave of emotion that battered me repeatedly, hitting me harder and harder than it ever had before. I threw the quill into the furnace as well. A lifetime of Slytherins had ruined Ginny Weasley, and I was powerless to stop them.

All I can tell you is that Draco will keep me safe. We would ask for your blessing Mum, but you would never give it to us.

Ginny Weasley - my Ginny Weasley - was going to marry Draco Malfoy.

The sound of someone approaching hurls me out of my reverie as my stomach somersaults uneasily. My heart leaps into my mouth as I whirl around. A figure is slowly approaching, her deep red hair struggling to fly out of the hood of her cloak. I strain to keep myself from running to her, to stop myself from gathering her into my arms. The wind blows harder, and her hood blows away from her face, and I stop short. A long gash runs down the side of her smooth, freckled face. It ends right above her lip, and even as she smiles slightly, the right side of her mouth remains limp, and motionless.

"Harry," she whispers, but the snow doesn't swallow her words like it had done to mine. The words hit me, throwing me back to that day, to that girl that had sat in the kitchen, staring at me avidly, putting her elbow in the butter dish, and blushing profusely. I was flung into another world, a world where Ginny ran away from Draco Malfoy, and who cursed him in Umbridge's office. Where has Ginny Weasley gone?

She tries to smile again, and this time it works, though her eyes are dead and cold, the sparkle gone from the brown interiors. "It's been so long," she forces out, and takes a step towards me. I take a step as well.

"And how is...your husband?" I try to force his name out, but I can't. It was like the mere mention of his name would bring him to us, laughing, taunting, and mocking our every move. Ginny glances somewhere over my shoulder, again looking through me at that future she has for herself. But this time, she looks away quickly, and back into my eyes. That future is lost now.

"He's dead, Harry."

We stand across from each other, our eyes boring into the other's soul, trying to figure out their true meaning. The snow, which had been falling delicately and lightly before, is now icy. The diamond shards sting my cheeks. The wind, which I had welcomed before, chills me to my soul. Ginny looks away slowly, turning her face so as to hide the unsightly gash.

"A small band of Aurors stormed the Malfoy Manor four days ago. The last of the Death Eaters were hiding there. I was there too, and when they took Draco, I tried to stop them. They hit me, and I blacked out."

Such an intense feeling of pity comes upon me that I want to succumb to it instantly, to have it take away my worries, and to let me float along in my river of guilt. But I tried, for Ginny, to resist it. "There's still a chance that he's in Azkaban, Ginny. We could let you see him."

She raises her eyes, and they twinkle dully before she sighs, a fine mist issuing from her mouth. "Being a Death Eater is treason. Treason is an immediate death. You know that as well as I, Harry." I take another step towards her, and gather her slender body in my arms. I realize that she is shaking, and I turn her face towards me. Tears run down her cheeks, and I wipe them away gently with my scarf. "I'm so sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be sorry, Ginny. You're here, now, we can go home." She hiccups slightly, and the tears stopped briefly. "Home?" she repeats.

"Yes, Ginny. Your mum misses you, Ginny, and she's wanted you to come home for five years." I feel her body relax, the icy frigidness gone.

"I think I'm ready to go home too, Harry," she murmurs, and slips her hand into mine. "Thank you," she adds almost silently.

The snow is falling more gently now, the flakes catching in her hair, forming a layer of frost. I know that she will be welcomed at home, because the Weasleys didn't expect me to come home without her. They have hot chocolate and cookies laid out, and a warm sweater for Ginny Mrs. Weasley knitted herself. She shivers slightly, and I drape my cloak around her. I know that underneath that frost is my Ginny, but it will be a little while before we can thaw her out again.

And all I can think about is how beautiful she looks in the snow.