Into And Out of the Red

Into and Out of the Red by SnapeJuice

Ginny Weasley woke up yesterday morning and realized she was in love.

Not that You hold my books, I'll hold your hand when people are looking kind of love.

No, this was in the soul, in the eyes, in the heart, in the mind, I-can't-stop-thinking-about-you, you-are-with-me-always kind of feeling that permeates your body and your brain so that when you are looking at your Trigonomancy homework, you see that the variables (the x's, the y's, the z's) can somehow be connected to him.

Ginny Weasley woke up yesterday morning and realized that this was it.

That she'd found him.

That she was 14, foolish as all hell, but that her heart hadn't been pounding steadily in the four months since they'd been dating - and regularly, she'd have gone to Madame Pomfrey about this - the irregular heartbeat - but she was in love, and apparently love was a cure-all.

She saw him and her heart melted.

And although it mystified her, for some reason, this artist with dark hair and dark eyes saw something worth keeping in a gangly, redhead possessed by spitfire, rebellion and once-upon-a-time, Tom Riddle. There was no problem with it, though.

Because he was possessed by art, by life, by Quidditch, by a search for humor and perfection.

Dean was a boy so intrinsically different from the others: from Harry, the brave hero, secretly insecure, or Michael Corner, whose friends superseded anything else in his life, or even Tom Riddle, for his intentions were never pure.

No, Dean Thomas was a boy made up of skinned knees, childish arguments, posters, coal stains on paper (and on his face)... He was made up of colors Ginny couldn't see, but she was sure existed because he saw it, and it was the look of sheer excitement on his face as he described them to her. He was made up of Muggle roots, and art, and a pale Siamese twin with an Irish accent who was almost intimidated by her. He was made up of images wheeling somewhere inside of his brain. He was made up of snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails, with hints of determination, frustration and love thrown in for good measure.

She skipped around. She laughed for no reason. It wasn't one of those all-consuming kinds of love. It was more like a preoccupation, if you asked Ginny, with her hands on her hips, moving her bangs out of her way. No, she wasn't in love, per se, she liked him a lot.

But not one person - not even herself - believed her.

The silver-tongued flame, as Harry had taken to calling her, (it made her feel like a character in a graphically cheesy romance novel - but love makes you feel like that anyway) had suddenly been reserving some of her best quips for that boy with whom she shared secretive glances and quietly walked with in the corridors for fear of Ron finding out, and bloodying Dean up during a nameless night no one would suspect.

The thing about love is that it's a sly character. It pops up with you least expect it; it's fleeting, it's slippery, it's horrible, it's difficult to deal with because suddenly another person lives in your brain.

It's not all-consuming, it's not that the other person suddenly becomes deified in your eyes, but it's the feeling of knowing you're not alone, that someone cares if you get home on time, that someone cares if you've eaten - and that the GREAT thing is that the person is not your mum.

It's the small things like that that make it real.

Yes, Ginny Weasley woke up yesterday morning and realized she was in love.

The beauty of this romance is that Ginny Weasley woke up and realized that she was Ginny, but not Ginny of DeanandGinny.

It was the fact that Ginny Weasley woke up and realized that he made her life better, not fulfilled, not complete, just better.

She was still Ginny and he was still Dean, and they loved each other.

And, perhaps, love was just that simple. Or complex.

Or maybe she was just idealistic. But she supposed it didn't matter, because this feeling was far too wonderful to extinguish with useless, meandering analysis.