Detox

    Every day, I must hear people mention Harry Potter at least once. Whether it’s giggling girls (“Oh, Harry’s so adorable!”), angry Slytherins and just as malicious professors (“Potter hexed me, Professor Snape!” “Let’s get him, then.” “He’s going down.”), members of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team (“Wait ‘til I owl Wood about that Wronski Feint Harry did at practice today! He’ll be so proud.”), or his closest friends (“Harry’s been a bit quiet lately, Ron. Maybe you should talk to him.”), his name seems to be the center of a few conversations at any point during the day.

    The thing is, though, that they talk about Harry as though he is a person. A bloody person, I tell you! Well, not meaning to burst anyone’s bubble, but he is no person. No, Harry James Potter is a virus.

    Yes, a virus, that’s right. He is a disease of the neurological system. He eats his way into your mind until you fall madly in love with him. And the worst part? You only have to look at him to be intoxicated. Symptoms common to those infected include: willful embarrassment of oneself in order to ’win his heart’, increased heart rate, undesirable sweating when near the subject, and (in severe cases) bright splotches of color across line of vision and a burning sensation in the ‘nether’ regions. It is, needless to say, a horrific ailment.

    I was infected with Harry before my first year at Hogwarts. The young are more susceptible to the virus, though no cases under the age of ten have been reported. I was the youngest ever. A simple glimpse of him was all it took - and then, it all went downhill. Mere minutes after the initial infection, I found myself yearning to join him on the train, yearning with all of my ten years.

    It is not a necessarily unpleasant sickness.

    I went through only minor withdrawals the year before I joined Harry at Hogwarts. That is, in more words, I only spent about half my time day dreaming about him. By the time summer arrived, I had convinced myself that Harry Potter was, indeed, my destined lover, and we were already madly in love. Perhaps, I thought, he had smiled at me as he got on the train? Or maybe he could not through his sorrow at leaving the woman of his dreams. Needless to say, the disease only worsened when he joined my family at the Burrow.

    One day, I awoke and (sleepily) stumbled downstairs in my pajamas. For a few moments I questioned my mother about the state of my jumper. And then-

    He said hello. Well, sight had been bad enough, but conversation…well, in my current state, this was well beyond me. I scurried out of the room. Alone upstairs, it occurred to me: I had been standing behind him for almost an entire moment. Who knew how many particles of Harry I could have inhaled? They could be meshing into my brain, forcing his face into my eyes, causing me to fall in love.

    Needless to say, there were some questions on Mum’s part when she found me clawing at my eyes.

    And so my life at school with my infector began. It seemed to worsen when we were, naturally, destined to be in the same House. But not only is ignorance bliss, but so is…the infection of Harry.

    For, you see, it is not hard to fall in love with him. By February, I was up to my eyes in adoration for him, and had a plan. Not necessarily a good mix.

    The singing valentine situation did not go over as planned. It ended up…well, I suppose you know the story.

    And then, something either miraculous or terrible happened. He saved my life. Now, of course, this has it’s advantages and good sides. I was not dead, always a good thing, and furthermore, I saw him as my own knight in shining armor. I was a beautiful but forsaken princess, the damsel in distress. The less than wonderful side to him saving me was the fact that I, over the summer, created my own personal complex over it. And while the memories of Tom Riddle were traumatic to say the least, visions of him haunted me much more, even in Egypt.

    The years passed much the same for me. Chronic anxiety around him, increased heart rate, and the rest. Over the summer’s I worried uncontrollably for him, where was he, what was he doing, was he even alive? And then it happened, sometime in my third year.

    I entered the third stage of the Harry infection, and became subject to the splotchy vision and an unfamiliar sensation, which I later described as lust, of those victims reaching their fourth year with the disease.

    It was uncontrollable, that year. I saw him, and I would sweat, and soon after that found myself dreaming of him doing rather unspeakable things to me. Later there would be daydreams about this as well, which were, of course, rather embarrassing things to experience during History of Magic, or worse, Potions.

    I lived with Harry for five years before I was successfully diagnosed.

    It was in fourth year, very late in my fourth year that I knew something was wrong, had been for quite some time. The first diagnosis was a joke, or so I thought. I remember the twins laughing at me as a gazed hopelessly after Harry.

    “Oooh, Ginny’s got Harry-itis!” George had exclaimed, to laughter from Fred.

    I had slapped them both. “I have not, so shut up and leave me be!”

    The twin ’doctors’ did not attempt to analyze me for quite some time. Malfoy made some passing comment about it, and at this time, I was wondering if perhaps they were all right, after all. So I consulted perfect prefect Hermione.

    The twins’, Malfoy’s, and my suspicions were confirmed with a simple oral test: I had become infected with Harry. Hermione confessed that she had a mild case of the same disease, but it surfaced in the form of friendship. Lucky her.

    And so I subjected myself to the most rigorous detoxification program. I must force these thoughts out of my head! He did not love me, never would.

    The first prescription was a new boyfriend, which, Hermione informed me, could not be Harry. I chose Michael Corner. It worked, sort of. It distracted me from Harry a bit, but in the end, I just kept wishing Michael’s hair would suddenly darken, his face lengthen, and his eyes change into a stunning shade of deep green.

    There were others, of course, but it all ended fruitlessly. Perhaps Harry had entered into my bloodstream, found his way to my heart, and was, as I spoke, eating away at me? Was I terminal? Silly thoughts, of course.

    Or were they? I found myself slipping back into his clutches after my weak renunciation. Perhaps, I thought, there was hope. Perhaps, ‘it is always darkest before the dawn’? Unlikely. No, I was head over heels for him, for a boy I could never have…

~

    Ginny Weasley stared out over the veranda, midsummer’s breath licking at her hair. A set of beautiful silken white robes flapped in the breeze; the setting sun glowed on her very skin, gilding her hair but casting shadows on her face. Her lashes were like spikes of jet against pearl as she peacefully closed her eyes.

    A man, clad in equally fancy black robes strode to her side. Slipping an arm around her waist, he nuzzled into her neck. She felt his moist lips soften to the warmth of her skin.

    “This is wonderful, Gin,” he said, his voice gently muffled by her hair.

    “It is,” she said, absently caressing his messy dark hair.

    He turned to her then, slowly, and kissed her with his eyes open, and for Ginevra Weasley, the sun set to a pair of shockingly bottle green eyes.