Miss Taken Love
Title: Miss Taken Love
Pairing: Harry and Ginny (implied)
Word Count: 885
Written: February of 2006
Notes: Shh! Shakespeare at the end just … fit. And it's my favourite Shakespeare quiote ever, so a fitting tribute. It was written for Stephie's fic challenge (Vows are spoken/To be broken/Feelings are intense/Words are trivial/Pleasures remain/So does the pain/Words are meaningless/And forgettable -- Depeche Mode)
I hate you. He fingered the ring slowly, thinking of her words. It had been so long ago, yet they still stung like his very first bee sting, when he had been at her place, The Burrow. They had been chasing gnomes out -- what an adventure that had been -- and he'd swatted at the incessant little bugger until it stung him. At first he'd thought maybe it was Ginny, being mean, but then his hand started to swell, then his arm. Ginny had screamed and screamed for the twins; when they'd finally come running out, they'd paled at the sight of his arm. It was only after the formidable -- and yet loveable -- Mrs. Weasley that the damage was rectified and his arm had shrunk back to normal.
It was 2010 and he should have moved on with his life, he was the Minister of Magic, youngest in history (just like Quidditch -- he seemed to have a knack for being the youngest at things), he had a support system, hell, he had Ron right there with him every step of the way. And when Ron had broken things off with Hermione and entered the Auror programme, Harry had been right behind him, supporting him the entire way. He would have been an Auror had his injuries not prevented him from doing so.
Right. His injuries. From a war half a lifetime and place ago. Twelve years to be exact. He twirled the ring again. They could have had children just about to start Hogwarts right now, if only she'd listened. She listened to some, the testaments of love, the testament that he would die for her, all of it. How he wanted her safe, to live on even if he couldn't. How she'd begged him to get her pregnant before he left. Said she'd go into hiding if the war ended badly, but she wanted him, the black hair, the green eyes. And he'd consented, doing everything he could until he had to leave.
More than a life time ago. Before it was ... this. Not that he hadn't enjoyed his life, he had, there was just a Ginny sized hole. It was her fault, really, for everything ending up the way it had. He'd proposed for Merlin's sake, just before he left, baby or no baby. And what had she said? I hate you. So much for the promissory pre-vows they'd taken. The laughing. The hopes for a future. But vows weren't ever binding, not really -- that was the Ginny Weasley philosophy. And so it was.
Before even that, before he'd even heard of a nasty thing called a horcrux, there was so much ... passion between them. They could laugh, joke, cry, just ... enjoy life. There was Quidditch and teasing Ron behind his back and mocking Percy and so much more. The sharing of last years notes and the goodies and gossip that Ginny seemed to know so well.
Everything had started to slip, and he did his best to hold on. Only, after school ended, and they were back at the Burrow, before the Trio had gone off, they'd fallen in love ... again. And he'd said it over and over again, I love you, I love you, I love you.
It was because he loved her that he didn't want her coming with (or so he'd rationalised). She'd wanted it to, hadn't she? The baby, all of it? All she had to do was take the ring ... and he would come back, and they would have a life worth living for. She'd come back with her cruel remark, and they had left the night.
He should have seen it, that she was following them. But once you're so far focused on what lies ahead, you forget to look behind once in a while. Maybe even then, he could have saved her. Voldemort had gone after her first, provoking him. And he'd stood and watched. Of course he had. Defeating a powerful evil required sacrifice, and here he was, sacrificing that whom loved him most to save the entire Wizarding world. Looking back on it, he'd been stupid, and foolish, and he should have died, jumped after her, shouldn't he have? But what would have been gained? Not a free society. Some people spend their whole lives wishing they had died for something they'd believed in. He'd spent 12 of his wishing she hadn't had to.
He twirled the ring again. No, she hadn't really hated him, much as he'd never really loved her. He'd said it, but really, when it came down to it, he didn't. He couldn't do what it was his mother had done to save him to save Ginny. He had watched her die, and he had justified it as the greater good for all Wizarding kind. It had been meaningless. All of it. The words, the actions, the expression, the inaction. And here he'd been for 12 years, pretending -- even to himself -- that he had loved her. He didn't need to pretend that her words stung -- at the time he hadn't needed her to voice what she felt about himself. But she had, and there was no going back.
There was only tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
Pairing: Harry and Ginny (implied)
Word Count: 885
Written: February of 2006
Notes: Shh! Shakespeare at the end just … fit. And it's my favourite Shakespeare quiote ever, so a fitting tribute. It was written for Stephie's fic challenge (Vows are spoken/To be broken/Feelings are intense/Words are trivial/Pleasures remain/So does the pain/Words are meaningless/And forgettable -- Depeche Mode)
I hate you. He fingered the ring slowly, thinking of her words. It had been so long ago, yet they still stung like his very first bee sting, when he had been at her place, The Burrow. They had been chasing gnomes out -- what an adventure that had been -- and he'd swatted at the incessant little bugger until it stung him. At first he'd thought maybe it was Ginny, being mean, but then his hand started to swell, then his arm. Ginny had screamed and screamed for the twins; when they'd finally come running out, they'd paled at the sight of his arm. It was only after the formidable -- and yet loveable -- Mrs. Weasley that the damage was rectified and his arm had shrunk back to normal.
It was 2010 and he should have moved on with his life, he was the Minister of Magic, youngest in history (just like Quidditch -- he seemed to have a knack for being the youngest at things), he had a support system, hell, he had Ron right there with him every step of the way. And when Ron had broken things off with Hermione and entered the Auror programme, Harry had been right behind him, supporting him the entire way. He would have been an Auror had his injuries not prevented him from doing so.
Right. His injuries. From a war half a lifetime and place ago. Twelve years to be exact. He twirled the ring again. They could have had children just about to start Hogwarts right now, if only she'd listened. She listened to some, the testaments of love, the testament that he would die for her, all of it. How he wanted her safe, to live on even if he couldn't. How she'd begged him to get her pregnant before he left. Said she'd go into hiding if the war ended badly, but she wanted him, the black hair, the green eyes. And he'd consented, doing everything he could until he had to leave.
More than a life time ago. Before it was ... this. Not that he hadn't enjoyed his life, he had, there was just a Ginny sized hole. It was her fault, really, for everything ending up the way it had. He'd proposed for Merlin's sake, just before he left, baby or no baby. And what had she said? I hate you. So much for the promissory pre-vows they'd taken. The laughing. The hopes for a future. But vows weren't ever binding, not really -- that was the Ginny Weasley philosophy. And so it was.
Before even that, before he'd even heard of a nasty thing called a horcrux, there was so much ... passion between them. They could laugh, joke, cry, just ... enjoy life. There was Quidditch and teasing Ron behind his back and mocking Percy and so much more. The sharing of last years notes and the goodies and gossip that Ginny seemed to know so well.
Everything had started to slip, and he did his best to hold on. Only, after school ended, and they were back at the Burrow, before the Trio had gone off, they'd fallen in love ... again. And he'd said it over and over again, I love you, I love you, I love you.
It was because he loved her that he didn't want her coming with (or so he'd rationalised). She'd wanted it to, hadn't she? The baby, all of it? All she had to do was take the ring ... and he would come back, and they would have a life worth living for. She'd come back with her cruel remark, and they had left the night.
He should have seen it, that she was following them. But once you're so far focused on what lies ahead, you forget to look behind once in a while. Maybe even then, he could have saved her. Voldemort had gone after her first, provoking him. And he'd stood and watched. Of course he had. Defeating a powerful evil required sacrifice, and here he was, sacrificing that whom loved him most to save the entire Wizarding world. Looking back on it, he'd been stupid, and foolish, and he should have died, jumped after her, shouldn't he have? But what would have been gained? Not a free society. Some people spend their whole lives wishing they had died for something they'd believed in. He'd spent 12 of his wishing she hadn't had to.
He twirled the ring again. No, she hadn't really hated him, much as he'd never really loved her. He'd said it, but really, when it came down to it, he didn't. He couldn't do what it was his mother had done to save him to save Ginny. He had watched her die, and he had justified it as the greater good for all Wizarding kind. It had been meaningless. All of it. The words, the actions, the expression, the inaction. And here he'd been for 12 years, pretending -- even to himself -- that he had loved her. He didn't need to pretend that her words stung -- at the time he hadn't needed her to voice what she felt about himself. But she had, and there was no going back.
There was only tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.