Fly Away Home

"Just swallow it all already, Ginny!"

I drummed my knuckles impatiently on the breakfast table, next to her glass of watermelon juice that was as annoyingly full as it was ten minutes ago, while bouncing on the heel of my left foot and then the right.

"Go on! Finish your breakfast, hurry!"

She raised her glass to her lips and her eyebrow in a quizzical arch, and downed the last of her melon juice in one single gulp, choking slightly but no questions asked.

No "Why should I?", no "Where are we going?", no "What are you showing me?" Just a triumphant grin laced with last traces of glistening breakfast juice and she looks up at me, ready and willing.

I can take her wherever I want - to the ends of earth, to a Quidditch match, to the clouds above, to a pillow fight; no questions asked.

"About time, you snail!" I returned her grin and took her hand in mine. "Come on now, follow me! You've got to see this, quick!"

Just after breakfast, Ron pulled Ginny by the hands through the wood to show her an icy-white tree covered in shimmering, shivering pupae. There in the muddy brush they stood for long minutes, one of Ginny's hands still holding his, whispering and waiting, until a sweet note rent the spring-heavy air and a violet-winged butterfly burst out of its chrysalis, crawling out on sticky black legs to stretch its wings out like deep, twilight-coloured petals of a morning glory. He could feel her squeeze his hand in delight, and he squeezed back with a smile.

I don't have answers for many things, especially for the ones that really matter. Like what do we get when we add vanilla to the essence of the first morning dew (being best friends with the smartest witch in Hogwarts is honestly no help during a Potions final) or why she makes me wish I am the - her Boy Who Lived.

Or why I dragged her all the way through the snowy woods, stopping once every carved tree for her to catch up, to show her how baby worms get their butterfly wings.

But she didn’t ask why, she never did. Sometimes I think she knows what the rest of the world would never understand – that as long as there are no whys, what we have will remain pure and true. Love is love. It doesn't have to be wrong. Not in our little secret place.

The twills of a thousand butterflies were soon singing out in rampant little solos, as one by one, every few seconds, a butterfly would squirm its way out of a cracked chrysalis and open its wings to the streaky fingers of light penetrating in through the trees. They sang in harmonies like an army of tiny prismatic violins of every colour, crimson and gold and emerald and blue, and one of each shade in between, all with glistening black exoskeletons. When the last butterfly hatched from its chrysalis, its note seemed the sweetest of all, frail and warbling.

Much like the cocoon from where the first hint of colour emerged, we spun ourselves around a world of our own. One made of lazy afternoon hide-and-seeks and bedtime tickles. One built on memories of a tiny, wrinkled fist of a baby girl with hair the shade of autumn and a freckled loop-sided smile from a brother proud as me. A world just small enough for the two of us to stand toe to toe but not yet nose to nose.

"You’re so tall, Ron!"
"Of course, I am! I'm a boy! But one day you'll be tall, too!"
"Promise?"
"When have I ever lied to you, silly girl?"

She loved it, she loved watching the born-again butterflies flutter around her, encasing her in colours made of tears, leaving a trail of powdery magic as they fly off into a new beginning. I knew it made her happy because she squeezed my hand so tight and I smiled back at her because I love her, too.

Will things still be as simple as this when my baby sister gets her wings?
Will she still run to me crying when she gets a boo boo on her knee?
Will I still be her first kiss when she meets her knight?

A sigh and then a hug from her. Affirmations of trust left unsaid, but not unheard. I bent down, pressed my lips to the top of her head (will she still smell like mine?) and put my arm around her shoulder where her wings will grow.

As if they were all one entity, the butterflies ceased their singing, and in the silence Ron and Ginny waited for a long time, watching their wings shine like crystals upon the branches of the tree, and then, with a sorrowful tune of goodbye, they rose unto the air, a living rainbow, and fluttered away. Ron could scarcely breathe for the wonder he'd just witnessed, and Ginny wrapped her arms around his middle and said, "Thank you."

I'm not worried, you know. Because she will always be my favourite sister, no matter how tall she grows up to be. No longer a little girl but she will always need a home to come back to.

And I'll be here.

Just like I've always been.

Just for her.

Grow up, Ginny.

I'll be waiting, like no big brother should.

End.