Au Claire de la Lune

i.

They sit alone, side by side, as the moon beams dance over the water. It's like ballet, she thinks, although her knowledge of dance is limited to Hermione's frenetic whispers about the opera house in France. She sighs, a happy sigh, and he glances at her sideways, and his hair is hanging in front of his eyes, and she doesn't think she's ever seen anything as beautiful as him and her at this very moment, with the silver dancing across the still black lake.

They don't talk much, when they're here together. They don't need to. Her heart is thumping in her chest and her molecules are doing acrobatics as an electric hum vibrates through every limb. Something is between them, pulling them closer. His pinky finds hers, they link in the darkness, and a spark shoots from her hand straight to her toes.

Sometime between dusk and the time that the moon begins to grow pale against a grey sky, their fingers lace together like ribbon. She is silently grateful that he can't see her ragged nails, but he gives a soft hum when she rakes one over his palm.

When the sun peeks over the clouds, and the stars start to fade, they both stand. Silent, afraid, and wistful. The daylight always comes too soon.

She turns to leave, but her still has her hand, and he pulls her against him. His chest is warm and solid and she feels a blush rise to her cheeks. She must be as red as her hair.

As she opens her mouth to protest, his mouth stops her. Gentle, warm, soft.

Everything a first kiss should be.

ii.

It is getting crisp, and the leaves are falling. The full moon hangs in the sky, scattering light like rose petals over the lake.

This is their first night together all week. He had disappeared that Monday, returning last night and slipping her the usual note. She had been so excited, so alight, that everyone had noticed. It had been torture to keep it to herself.

But now they sit, inches and miles apart. Her hands are clasped in her lap, her lips pursed, trying to hold her breath until the stinging sensation behind her eyes stops. He is cradling his left arm, scowling at the ground.

They sit this way for an hour before the silence becomes too much to bear. She stands, her arms wrapped around herself, and takes slow, deliberate steps back towards the castle.

He catches her, pulls her to him, buries his face in her hair. His left arm is stiff around her waist. They breathe each other in. She smells of cinnamon and ink, him of winter and pumpkin juice. He pulls back, kisses her forehead - a tight, dry kiss - and whispers, "I'm sorry," before letting her go.

She wants to ask what for, but she takes another look at him, at the way he holds the one arm close to him - protecting it - and realizes she already knows.

iii.

The next week, she walks over the frozen ground to their tree. He isn't there. She sits and sighs a deep sigh before seeing the parchment, neatly folded and adorned with a green ribbon. Her heart takes a nosedive as she breaks the seal and begins to read.

Ginny,

It's over. I'm sorry.

-Draco

She reads it over and over until the message sinks in. Tears begin to flow down her cheeks as she looks around her in one last, desperate attempt to believe that he's coming. He is nowhere to be seen.

After the next Quidditch match, Harry kisses her in the common room. She closes her eyes - seeing Draco's face and swallowing tears - and lets him.

The night that Dumbledore dies, she knows Draco is involved. She watches from the North Tower, just feet away from the headmaster's lifeless body, her eyes fixed on the edges of the forest.

After what seems like hours, she sees them. Harry, wand aloft, bellowing at Snape. And a glint of white hair above a black robe.

She sighs, bites her lip as the tears come in torrents. And moves her eyes toward the lake.

She watches the full moon dance over the water, and closes her eyes.

~*~fin~*~