to Be Said
Disclaimer: You can tell I'm not JK Rowling. How?
Because I will not hesitate to call people delusional. Everyone.
Harry/Hermione shippers, Ron/Hermione shippers, I don't care. We're
all loony. I sure am. So's my imaginary friend, Stumpy.
No, I won't kill them all. You always say that.
It's not cute anymore.
was as far as Harry has gotten on his letter after approximately half
an hour of failed attempts. It was more than it seemed, though. At
first he'd written "To Ginny Weasley," but felt it too
impersonal. Then he'd tried, "Hi, Ginny!" but felt it
didn't match what might eventually become the subject matter.
"Dearest Ginny," had been briefly considered, and it did
fit the bill--she was probably the most dear person he had, Ron and
Hermione excepted. For a time he toyed with
"Dearer-than-almost-everyone-especially-Cho Ginny," but
dismissed it due to its awkward phrasing.
The others hadn't been as hard. Ron, Hermione,
the Weasley family, Professor Lupin, Neville, Luna, Professor
McGonagall... of course, by the time he'd reached the last few he'd
had to admit to himself that he was putting it off.
knew what to say to each of them. How he'd know what to say to Luna
was beyond him, although he'd had to stop himself from making an
obscene amount of veil-related puns.
Harry wasn't sure why he
found this so easy to take lightly. Perhaps because there had been
precious little lately to take lightly, and letter writing,
regardless of the subject, was hardly on his list of fears.
course, neither were spiders, so perhaps he was, as Ron said, a
He tapped his quill against the desk as he
thought. After a moment, he laid his quill down, dug through his
trunk, and pulled out an old pencil. He then returned to his desk and
resumed tapping, this time with a much more satisfying noise. Quills
were no good for writer's block.
It would have been easier, he
thought, if he knew where they stood. Ginny wasn't dating anyone (to
Ron's infinite relief; he'd suggested that Harry continue his
nobility complex until Ginny turned thirty) but that didn't mean that
she wasn't dating anyone because of him or in spite of him or simply
because she didn't want to date.
For all he knew, she didn't
like boys, and that's why she wasn't dating. She was struggling with
her sexuality. Harry spared a moment to imagine Ginny coming to the
Burrow with Lavender in tow.
Heh, he thought.
They hadn't talked much during his brief stays
at the Burrow. Bill and Fleur's wedding had been a bit too much of a
headache for all involved for any conversation more intense than a
request to carry a box of candles outside. And he'd made it to see
her off at King's Cross and she'd made a gesture from the window that
could have been a wave, or could have been blowing a kiss.
life was an endless cycle of confusion.
His mind wandered to
the letters he'd written for Ron and Hermione, who were currently at
the Hogwarts library doing research. More likely, Hermione was doing
research and Ron was wondering how much he could read about
Transfiguration before his eyes dissolved.
He looked around
the room in search of inspiration, as though old beds and dust were
of particular musing ability. He was in a spare room in Grimmauld
Place for the moment, which was uncomfortably quiet. The only others
in the house were Sirius' mum, who was doing whatever she did when
her curtains were closed, and Phineas Nigellus, whom Harry had been
avoiding as Phineas had taken to insisting that, through inheritance,
he was the last son of the House of Black, and thus was duty-bound to
carry on the family name.
The room, in fact, was the same
room where Hermione and Ginny had stayed two summers ago, and Harry
imagined he could still smell flowers in the air. It was probably
ridiculous, but so was the fact that he apparently couldn't write
He refocused his
attention to his letter, which was not writing itself. He resumed
tapping on the desk. There were many ways to start it off, of course.
"If you're reading this," was always a standby, but
obviously if she was reading it then she knew she was reading it.
hadn't been nearly so picky with the other letters. But Ginny was...
different. His ability with words was rather lacking, though Ginny
had once told him that although he might not have been a good
speaker, he was a fine talker. And a great kisser, but unless he sent
his lips and tongue along with the letter, she was on her
Finally he decided that "talking," at least,
could serve as a rough draft. He picked up his quill again and put it
to the paper. Without letting his brain get in the way with stupid
issues such as "eloquence" or "not embarrassing
himself," he wrote. He didn't bother looking at what it was he
wrote for several seconds. After a few lines, though, he checked to
make sure he was reasonably well lined up. He then sighed, traded his
quill for one that wasn't made of sugar, and tried again.
I suppose the news will make it to you before this
letter does. I'm sorry not to be coming back. It seems like
everything between us is time that could have been better spent,
doesn't it? Between Dean and Cho and my being an idiot for the better
part of the year. It hardly seems like we had a couple of months
together. To me, anyway.
I don't know how I'm going to go. Or
rather, how I went, I suppose. Grammar is rather confusing now. I
hope I died well, as well as anyone can die. If I had to pick a way
to go, it'd be like Sirius, fighting to my last breath. No, to be
honest, if I had to pick a way to go, it'd be after a very long life
That's a shocker, I think. Not just for you, but for
me. I had no idea that I wanted to grow old at all, let alone with
someone in particular. I hope this letter never gets sent. Not just
because I'm terribly innarticulate, but because there are very few
more frustrating ways to learn that someone loves you than from a
letter from a dead man, but it needs to be said; I love you,
That seems lacking, somehow. Yet another reason for me
to fight harder. So know this, Ginny. If I did die, and you are
reading this, then I fought as hard as I could to get to back to
crying. She was not crying. She sniffed and her eyes burned
and she did not cry as she put down the stupid letter. "It's
beautiful," she said, in a voice that did not sound like she was
about to let loose.
She sniffed. "You spelled 'inarticulate' wrong, though."
picked up the letter and looked through it. "So I did.
Misspelling a word meaning I'm not good with words, that's strangely
She hugged him suddenly, and Harry hugged
back. Her lips found their way to his, completely of their own
volition. "Thank you for coming back," she said, as they
broke the kiss.
He didn't reply, but instead threw the letter
at the fire. "Stupid idea, showing you that," he decided.
"There're better ways to tell you I love you."
this was an ambiguous story. No date, barely any places, really.
suppose you'll all be wanting a closer for this then. Something
witty, brilliant even, to tie it all together.