I Killed Him
I know it's on UR and SIYE, but I decided to post it here too.
Title: I Ran Away
Author: Telwyn Dubois
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Harry Potter/Ginevra Weasley
Date Completed: Monday, December 26, 2005
Word Count: 2712
I ran away. Me, Harry Potter, wizarding prodigy and warlock extraordinaire. The one who was supposed to save the world.
Hell, I did. I saved the blasted world, and did they thank me for it? No. They celebrate the Weasley families, Aberforth Dumbledore, the others. Then again, I faded away purposely, not wanting to face the world. Not ready. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to face my Ginny, though.
Sure, I faced off with the fucking Dark Lord, and won. It’s not like it was this big, cataclysmic battle people dream about. The glory of war, they say. Glory, my ass. There’s nothing glorious about torture and death and there’s absolutely no white horses to speak of. No knights either. Damn, I wish!
No, I had to sit there and watch as they killed off Snape, killed off the only man we had as a halfway decent spy. Poets never mention death, do they? With them it’s the glory, the honor, the fucking glory! That’s all they ever mention, yeah? Not the nightmares, not the screams of the tortured, not the feeling that you didn’t do enough, that you could have saved that one comrade or something.
It was awful. Merlin and Agrippa, I can still remember the blasted, fucking day that happened so many days ago. Thirteen days ago, I killed Tom Riddle. Three days later, I kissed Ginny and then left abruptly to hide. To run. Not only that, but, well… I didn’t exactly kill Tom Riddle.
The field was empty. From far off, Harry could see sparks and flashes of light that indicated battle still raged elsewhere. A shed was on the edge of this battleground. He’d spent a lot of time in that shed just now, and not by choice, either. This field only held three people in it at the moment, and one of them was dead. Because of him.
“Was that fun, Potter? Fun, watching people die?” The Dark Lord laughed meanly, wickedly. Snape’s crumpled body fell to the ground. Harry’s mind flicked towards an automatic count he had in his head. Five. Five people had died for him. First Cedric, then Sirius, then Dumbledore, and Percy, and now Snape. Not including his parents. That made seven, didn‘t it. Seven noble, virtuous people who’d decided to make the idiotic choice of associating with Harry. Everyone lost something around Harry. Whether it be an arm, a leg, a life… There was always something.
Harry was helpless, his wand lying limply at his side, both of his arms broken by Bellatrix Black, deceased. It was the result of three weeks of torture in a dungeon. He was a gruesome sight, and he knew it. Spattered in the blood of Bellatrix Black and Lucius Malfoy, his green robes were also stained with dirt and grime. He’d worn them for three weeks straight, now. How he’d escaped from the dungeon and found his wand, he still didn’t know. Voldemort had probably engineered it in an attempt to speed up the prophecy.
In comparison, Lord Voldemort was as fresh as a daisy, with clean black robes on and his bony white hands spotless. But his eyes…his red eyes gleamed with menace and fury. They were the only proof that he was angry. His body was perfectly still, poised like a cat ready to spring upon a mouse. “How does it feel to know that somebody died for you,” he taunted. “Again, Potter.”
He knew he didn’t have it in him to produce the raw power necessary to finish the spell. But he had to try, he had to. He was the one in charge - the one supposed to lead the world into a new age. The one in the Prophecy that had foretold either his death or victory. He craned his neck, looking around. Of course there was no one there. He’d been tricked out there to do battle with Voldemort, and Snape had come to try and warn him. But he was too late, he was always too late. He’d been too late to stop the awful torture, and now he was yet another casualty of the war.
He gasped the word. Nothing happened. Of course it didn’t. After Hermione had created the spell, she’d specifically told him many a time that he needed all his storage of raw power. Neither of them had thought that perhaps Harry might be drained of it all beforehand. Malicious, Voldemort laughed at his enemies’ efforts to vanquish him. He was all powerful now, and he knew it. All he was doing with Potter was toying with him, giving the boy little time.
There was another choice, but he didn’t want to do it. Nevertheless… he was fading fast. Ginny’s image hovered in his mind, her smiling, laughing face making a mockery of him. Quietly, Harry muttered one final word, a word to the end of a spell that he‘d tied to his scar, an appropriate place for it, since it linked him directly to Voldemort. It was a powerful safe-guard that he’d woven inside himself many years ago, forgetting about it…until now.
With the last vestiges of his strength, the young, world-weary man watched as his final nemesis began to whirl, a blindingly white pentagon forming around him. A terrified growl erupted from Voldemort’s throat as fiery red sparks arced away from his fingertips and went into the pentagon’s walls, creating a barrier between him and any other Death Eater. It seemed like eternity, but was really only the matter of a few seconds. The next thing anyone knew was that Voldemort was gone, and Tom Marvolo Riddle was back, an empty shell of his former glory. Long graying hair, eyes faded blue from age, wrinkles lining his face…He was a sight to scare children at night, his eyes shocked and the menace leaving his slumped shoulders.
Perhaps he had more strength? Yes, he must. His final words would not be a spell - it would be a mockery. Harry summoned energy from even deeper within and croaked, “I sentence you to death as one you hated - a Muggle.”
Then the world went black, and he knew no more.
A not so tragic ending for the man. Damn it all, the bloody prophecy wasn’t even correct! Neither of us died, unless you can say that Voldemort “died” as a magical being. But who honestly has time to be so darn technical? Bloody hell, that prophecy took me through every single bloody circle in hell that there ever was, and dragged me out of them again to face what I had done inside. Repenting is so hard, and giving the people what they want is even harder. It’s almost laughable that “they’ve” forgotten me, now. I’m just the “Boy Who Lived and Disappeared.” The end. Nobody was there to witness me & Voldemort, and since Neville Longbottom was actually the one who had the damnable courage to say “Avada Kedavra.” Apparently, Voldemort was wandering around like a lunatic when Neville found him.
Yes, anyway. So I woke up, looked around, and found Ginny leaning over me, concerned. She was always beautiful, with that messy red hair I adored and expressive brown eyes, usually crinkled in worry for someone. This time, it was me. I hated to worry her, I really did. She said something about it being three days at St. Mungo’s, and I dimly registered it for recall later. Before I knew what I was doing, I sat up in the hospital bed, kissed her firmly on the mouth, and half stumbled/half walked out of there, dressing gown and all. Next thing I remember is being in one of my various hideouts that dot the landscape of the earth - hideouts that didn’t work but still proved useful at times.
Sea spray sprinkles lightly onto my arms, drawing my attention outward to the physical plane of existence. I stand, half smiling, teetering over the edge of the cliff. An eagle soars overhead, causing me to shade my eyes and look up. I want to be that eagle, flying high and flying free. No, here on the lovely planet we humans inhabit, I am tied down by millions of obligations. At least the big one is gone - there’s no more Moldiemort to taunt me in my dreams and haunt me in my nightmares. Now it’s just the Weasleys, and the Grangers, and Luna and Neville and everyone else who I’m friends with. It’s not fair, really. They all look at me like I’m this savior, when really, I’m not. I’m just this ordinary boy who was born on the wrong day. Curse my parents for that, if you will. I would, but they’re my parents. You just don’t do that, you know? Not if you want to be a dutiful child and have your parents rest in peace.
What the hell am I saying? Here I am, supposedly the most powerful wizard on the planet, and I’m sitting on a cliff on an island out in the South Pacific, refusing to sleep for fear of the nightmares, refusing to return to civilization, and I don’t even own the fucking island! I don’t even belong here, because the island’s not mine! I’m just wandering around, entrenching upon people’s privacy and lives. B.D.V. (Before Death of Voldemort), life was all about preparing to fight him. I spent all my time training and preparing to fight the Dark Lord. People’s words to me were full of encouragement and hope. They looked up to me as someone with a purpose who would defeat the guy. But see, the thing is, nobody ever remembers what happens to the heroes after they defeat the bad guys. Heroes have to die in order to be of any use. They always die in storybooks, or they marry the right girl and go on to become kind and ruler of a perfectly peaceful country. If they don’t die, then they’re celebrated for the rest of their lives as a Has-Been, a Already-Accomplished-His-Life-Goal-At-The-Age-Of-Twenty. I should’ve died so that I could live up to the expectations of the people around me, but I didn’t. I lived. Weakly, to be sure, but I’m still alive.
I don’t want to be a Has-Been. To disappear is the same as dying, and maybe I should just die and get it over with. But I don’t want people to give me preferential treatment as a savior. I just want to be normal, and you can’t do that if people are constantly pitying you or worshipping you.
You always want what you can’t have, isn’t that how the saying goes? Many people dream of being heroes, of getting the envy that they “deserve”. The ones who actually are heroes protect the others by telling them only of the good in being a hero, the pros. The cons are hidden, and that is what it means to be a hero. To be a hero is to find out that life’s not full of glory. There’s that word again. I hate the word glory, I loathe it. It’s an empty promise of salvation, of another chance at happiness.
Everyone thinks I’m away, worrying and crying about Percy’s death. I’m not. I’m here for Snape, evil git that he was to me, sometimes. Or maybe I’m not even here for him. Maybe I’m just here because I want time to wallow in self-pity before I go and confront the world. I’m sick of the world, I’m sick of the universe and everything in it, and I’m tired of people in general. There’s just some things you don’t tell people, and something like this can only be solved my self, I suppose. Snape wasn’t even that bad, if I think about it now. At least he cared enough about humanity in general to set aside his hatred of me the person and help Harry: the Hero.
Sometimes I think I should just go back and congratulate Neville on everything - nobody knows what part I played. I wouldn’t be a Has-Been, I’d be a Might-Have-Been, someone who’s supposed task in life was completed by someone else. It’s not Neville’s fault he’s being celebrated - he can have that as far as I’m concerned. He deserves it for having the courage to Avada Kedavra someone; something I could never do. Everyone around me has done it, like it’s something matter of fact about. But it’s not. It’s ending someone else’s life, and off I go, rambling like a madman.
There are two kinds of pity. The pity that I would get if I came back and told everyone that it was I who had stripped Voldemort of power and am now carrying it around inside of me (therefore doing most of the work), the pity they’d give me by thinking, The poor boy has to suffer for the rest of his life with all those horrid memories and awful thoughts. I’m glad it’s not me who had to face Voldemort. Or the kind of pity I’d get if I came back and kept quiet, leaving the public to realize that Neville had done my entire job for me and I’d just been tortured by Voldemort and left for dead. Then they’d think, The poor boy, his work’s been done already, and he didn’t do anything! I’m glad I’m not him, the awful shame!
I’ve been reading the Prophet, and they’re so busy praising Neville. Once in awhile, my name pops up with little exclamations of pity. Pity is another word I despise. Pity is worse than support, worse than empathy. Pity is the same thing as glory - an empty, filthy word that just really pisses me off.
“Harry?” I turn, recognizing that voice. Sure enough, it is Ginny, dressed in a sunny yellow sundress, red hair tied back and crinkled brown eyes glowing.
I can’t help it. I haven’t spoken in days. My voice comes out as this ugly croak, and I wince. “Ginny. What are you doing here? How did you find me?” I know I’m a mess, with baggy jeans full of holes and a ratty gray shirt. The jeans were Dudley’s, and the shirt once belonged to Sirius. I found it at his house - my dad had given it to him.
She shrugs, as casual as ever. “I guessed.”
“This island is hundreds of miles away from England. You didn’t just guess.” My voice is immediately accusing as I turn away, unable to stare at her. She’s so beautiful, so clean, so pure. I don’t know how I could go on without her, I really don’t. I am all broken up inside, all shattered pieces. I don’t deserve her. I’m not even grieving for her brother. I’m grieving for Snape of all people, a ridiculous notion that even Hermione would laugh at. Ron would have been apoplectic by now, he really would have.
“All right. I checked the records at the Ministry. They still track where people Apparate, you know.” Her voice is gentle, kind. No one’s ever died for her, though many would, or claim they would. Death is the final sacrifice; I doubt that Colin Creevey would be brave enough to do it. Or perhaps he would. He too has cast Avada Kedavra upon someone. It’s just me, the Boy Who Lived, who can’t do it and succeed. Not in sixth year, not last year, especially not now.
It’s raining - big fat drops of pure water drip onto me, soaking me and soaking Ginny. She doesn’t say a single word as I begin to cry, my tears intermingling with the water. I don’t know why I’m crying, but I do it anyway. I guess it’s for Snape, for Percy, for everyone who died for me. But it’s also for me too, because it’s me they left behind to face the world with an already battered façade. Ginny merely holds out her hand, and I take it. Our eyes meet, and underneath all that worry in her expressive brown eyes, I see a depth of love that warms and frightens me at the same time. We say nothing as we begin walking to an Apparation point.
It’s time to get out of the rain.
Title: I Ran Away
Author: Telwyn Dubois
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Harry Potter/Ginevra Weasley
Date Completed: Monday, December 26, 2005
Word Count: 2712
I ran away. Me, Harry Potter, wizarding prodigy and warlock extraordinaire. The one who was supposed to save the world.
Hell, I did. I saved the blasted world, and did they thank me for it? No. They celebrate the Weasley families, Aberforth Dumbledore, the others. Then again, I faded away purposely, not wanting to face the world. Not ready. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to face my Ginny, though.
Sure, I faced off with the fucking Dark Lord, and won. It’s not like it was this big, cataclysmic battle people dream about. The glory of war, they say. Glory, my ass. There’s nothing glorious about torture and death and there’s absolutely no white horses to speak of. No knights either. Damn, I wish!
No, I had to sit there and watch as they killed off Snape, killed off the only man we had as a halfway decent spy. Poets never mention death, do they? With them it’s the glory, the honor, the fucking glory! That’s all they ever mention, yeah? Not the nightmares, not the screams of the tortured, not the feeling that you didn’t do enough, that you could have saved that one comrade or something.
It was awful. Merlin and Agrippa, I can still remember the blasted, fucking day that happened so many days ago. Thirteen days ago, I killed Tom Riddle. Three days later, I kissed Ginny and then left abruptly to hide. To run. Not only that, but, well… I didn’t exactly kill Tom Riddle.
The field was empty. From far off, Harry could see sparks and flashes of light that indicated battle still raged elsewhere. A shed was on the edge of this battleground. He’d spent a lot of time in that shed just now, and not by choice, either. This field only held three people in it at the moment, and one of them was dead. Because of him.
“Was that fun, Potter? Fun, watching people die?” The Dark Lord laughed meanly, wickedly. Snape’s crumpled body fell to the ground. Harry’s mind flicked towards an automatic count he had in his head. Five. Five people had died for him. First Cedric, then Sirius, then Dumbledore, and Percy, and now Snape. Not including his parents. That made seven, didn‘t it. Seven noble, virtuous people who’d decided to make the idiotic choice of associating with Harry. Everyone lost something around Harry. Whether it be an arm, a leg, a life… There was always something.
Harry was helpless, his wand lying limply at his side, both of his arms broken by Bellatrix Black, deceased. It was the result of three weeks of torture in a dungeon. He was a gruesome sight, and he knew it. Spattered in the blood of Bellatrix Black and Lucius Malfoy, his green robes were also stained with dirt and grime. He’d worn them for three weeks straight, now. How he’d escaped from the dungeon and found his wand, he still didn’t know. Voldemort had probably engineered it in an attempt to speed up the prophecy.
In comparison, Lord Voldemort was as fresh as a daisy, with clean black robes on and his bony white hands spotless. But his eyes…his red eyes gleamed with menace and fury. They were the only proof that he was angry. His body was perfectly still, poised like a cat ready to spring upon a mouse. “How does it feel to know that somebody died for you,” he taunted. “Again, Potter.”
He knew he didn’t have it in him to produce the raw power necessary to finish the spell. But he had to try, he had to. He was the one in charge - the one supposed to lead the world into a new age. The one in the Prophecy that had foretold either his death or victory. He craned his neck, looking around. Of course there was no one there. He’d been tricked out there to do battle with Voldemort, and Snape had come to try and warn him. But he was too late, he was always too late. He’d been too late to stop the awful torture, and now he was yet another casualty of the war.
He gasped the word. Nothing happened. Of course it didn’t. After Hermione had created the spell, she’d specifically told him many a time that he needed all his storage of raw power. Neither of them had thought that perhaps Harry might be drained of it all beforehand. Malicious, Voldemort laughed at his enemies’ efforts to vanquish him. He was all powerful now, and he knew it. All he was doing with Potter was toying with him, giving the boy little time.
There was another choice, but he didn’t want to do it. Nevertheless… he was fading fast. Ginny’s image hovered in his mind, her smiling, laughing face making a mockery of him. Quietly, Harry muttered one final word, a word to the end of a spell that he‘d tied to his scar, an appropriate place for it, since it linked him directly to Voldemort. It was a powerful safe-guard that he’d woven inside himself many years ago, forgetting about it…until now.
With the last vestiges of his strength, the young, world-weary man watched as his final nemesis began to whirl, a blindingly white pentagon forming around him. A terrified growl erupted from Voldemort’s throat as fiery red sparks arced away from his fingertips and went into the pentagon’s walls, creating a barrier between him and any other Death Eater. It seemed like eternity, but was really only the matter of a few seconds. The next thing anyone knew was that Voldemort was gone, and Tom Marvolo Riddle was back, an empty shell of his former glory. Long graying hair, eyes faded blue from age, wrinkles lining his face…He was a sight to scare children at night, his eyes shocked and the menace leaving his slumped shoulders.
Perhaps he had more strength? Yes, he must. His final words would not be a spell - it would be a mockery. Harry summoned energy from even deeper within and croaked, “I sentence you to death as one you hated - a Muggle.”
Then the world went black, and he knew no more.
A not so tragic ending for the man. Damn it all, the bloody prophecy wasn’t even correct! Neither of us died, unless you can say that Voldemort “died” as a magical being. But who honestly has time to be so darn technical? Bloody hell, that prophecy took me through every single bloody circle in hell that there ever was, and dragged me out of them again to face what I had done inside. Repenting is so hard, and giving the people what they want is even harder. It’s almost laughable that “they’ve” forgotten me, now. I’m just the “Boy Who Lived and Disappeared.” The end. Nobody was there to witness me & Voldemort, and since Neville Longbottom was actually the one who had the damnable courage to say “Avada Kedavra.” Apparently, Voldemort was wandering around like a lunatic when Neville found him.
Yes, anyway. So I woke up, looked around, and found Ginny leaning over me, concerned. She was always beautiful, with that messy red hair I adored and expressive brown eyes, usually crinkled in worry for someone. This time, it was me. I hated to worry her, I really did. She said something about it being three days at St. Mungo’s, and I dimly registered it for recall later. Before I knew what I was doing, I sat up in the hospital bed, kissed her firmly on the mouth, and half stumbled/half walked out of there, dressing gown and all. Next thing I remember is being in one of my various hideouts that dot the landscape of the earth - hideouts that didn’t work but still proved useful at times.
Sea spray sprinkles lightly onto my arms, drawing my attention outward to the physical plane of existence. I stand, half smiling, teetering over the edge of the cliff. An eagle soars overhead, causing me to shade my eyes and look up. I want to be that eagle, flying high and flying free. No, here on the lovely planet we humans inhabit, I am tied down by millions of obligations. At least the big one is gone - there’s no more Moldiemort to taunt me in my dreams and haunt me in my nightmares. Now it’s just the Weasleys, and the Grangers, and Luna and Neville and everyone else who I’m friends with. It’s not fair, really. They all look at me like I’m this savior, when really, I’m not. I’m just this ordinary boy who was born on the wrong day. Curse my parents for that, if you will. I would, but they’re my parents. You just don’t do that, you know? Not if you want to be a dutiful child and have your parents rest in peace.
What the hell am I saying? Here I am, supposedly the most powerful wizard on the planet, and I’m sitting on a cliff on an island out in the South Pacific, refusing to sleep for fear of the nightmares, refusing to return to civilization, and I don’t even own the fucking island! I don’t even belong here, because the island’s not mine! I’m just wandering around, entrenching upon people’s privacy and lives. B.D.V. (Before Death of Voldemort), life was all about preparing to fight him. I spent all my time training and preparing to fight the Dark Lord. People’s words to me were full of encouragement and hope. They looked up to me as someone with a purpose who would defeat the guy. But see, the thing is, nobody ever remembers what happens to the heroes after they defeat the bad guys. Heroes have to die in order to be of any use. They always die in storybooks, or they marry the right girl and go on to become kind and ruler of a perfectly peaceful country. If they don’t die, then they’re celebrated for the rest of their lives as a Has-Been, a Already-Accomplished-His-Life-Goal-At-The-Age-Of-Twenty. I should’ve died so that I could live up to the expectations of the people around me, but I didn’t. I lived. Weakly, to be sure, but I’m still alive.
I don’t want to be a Has-Been. To disappear is the same as dying, and maybe I should just die and get it over with. But I don’t want people to give me preferential treatment as a savior. I just want to be normal, and you can’t do that if people are constantly pitying you or worshipping you.
You always want what you can’t have, isn’t that how the saying goes? Many people dream of being heroes, of getting the envy that they “deserve”. The ones who actually are heroes protect the others by telling them only of the good in being a hero, the pros. The cons are hidden, and that is what it means to be a hero. To be a hero is to find out that life’s not full of glory. There’s that word again. I hate the word glory, I loathe it. It’s an empty promise of salvation, of another chance at happiness.
Everyone thinks I’m away, worrying and crying about Percy’s death. I’m not. I’m here for Snape, evil git that he was to me, sometimes. Or maybe I’m not even here for him. Maybe I’m just here because I want time to wallow in self-pity before I go and confront the world. I’m sick of the world, I’m sick of the universe and everything in it, and I’m tired of people in general. There’s just some things you don’t tell people, and something like this can only be solved my self, I suppose. Snape wasn’t even that bad, if I think about it now. At least he cared enough about humanity in general to set aside his hatred of me the person and help Harry: the Hero.
Sometimes I think I should just go back and congratulate Neville on everything - nobody knows what part I played. I wouldn’t be a Has-Been, I’d be a Might-Have-Been, someone who’s supposed task in life was completed by someone else. It’s not Neville’s fault he’s being celebrated - he can have that as far as I’m concerned. He deserves it for having the courage to Avada Kedavra someone; something I could never do. Everyone around me has done it, like it’s something matter of fact about. But it’s not. It’s ending someone else’s life, and off I go, rambling like a madman.
There are two kinds of pity. The pity that I would get if I came back and told everyone that it was I who had stripped Voldemort of power and am now carrying it around inside of me (therefore doing most of the work), the pity they’d give me by thinking, The poor boy has to suffer for the rest of his life with all those horrid memories and awful thoughts. I’m glad it’s not me who had to face Voldemort. Or the kind of pity I’d get if I came back and kept quiet, leaving the public to realize that Neville had done my entire job for me and I’d just been tortured by Voldemort and left for dead. Then they’d think, The poor boy, his work’s been done already, and he didn’t do anything! I’m glad I’m not him, the awful shame!
I’ve been reading the Prophet, and they’re so busy praising Neville. Once in awhile, my name pops up with little exclamations of pity. Pity is another word I despise. Pity is worse than support, worse than empathy. Pity is the same thing as glory - an empty, filthy word that just really pisses me off.
“Harry?” I turn, recognizing that voice. Sure enough, it is Ginny, dressed in a sunny yellow sundress, red hair tied back and crinkled brown eyes glowing.
I can’t help it. I haven’t spoken in days. My voice comes out as this ugly croak, and I wince. “Ginny. What are you doing here? How did you find me?” I know I’m a mess, with baggy jeans full of holes and a ratty gray shirt. The jeans were Dudley’s, and the shirt once belonged to Sirius. I found it at his house - my dad had given it to him.
She shrugs, as casual as ever. “I guessed.”
“This island is hundreds of miles away from England. You didn’t just guess.” My voice is immediately accusing as I turn away, unable to stare at her. She’s so beautiful, so clean, so pure. I don’t know how I could go on without her, I really don’t. I am all broken up inside, all shattered pieces. I don’t deserve her. I’m not even grieving for her brother. I’m grieving for Snape of all people, a ridiculous notion that even Hermione would laugh at. Ron would have been apoplectic by now, he really would have.
“All right. I checked the records at the Ministry. They still track where people Apparate, you know.” Her voice is gentle, kind. No one’s ever died for her, though many would, or claim they would. Death is the final sacrifice; I doubt that Colin Creevey would be brave enough to do it. Or perhaps he would. He too has cast Avada Kedavra upon someone. It’s just me, the Boy Who Lived, who can’t do it and succeed. Not in sixth year, not last year, especially not now.
It’s raining - big fat drops of pure water drip onto me, soaking me and soaking Ginny. She doesn’t say a single word as I begin to cry, my tears intermingling with the water. I don’t know why I’m crying, but I do it anyway. I guess it’s for Snape, for Percy, for everyone who died for me. But it’s also for me too, because it’s me they left behind to face the world with an already battered façade. Ginny merely holds out her hand, and I take it. Our eyes meet, and underneath all that worry in her expressive brown eyes, I see a depth of love that warms and frightens me at the same time. We say nothing as we begin walking to an Apparation point.
It’s time to get out of the rain.