by She's a Star
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and 'Paper Cup' belongs to Heather Nova.
Author's Note: This song is completely gorgeous, and it reminded me of Harry and Ginny for some reason. Hence the fic. This takes place the day before Harry has to go and face Voldemort for the final time. I got a bit abstract with the lyric formatting, blah blah, 'cause I thought it fit the fic better that way. J (That is a smiley, but it probably is tragically fated to turn into a J once it's been uploaded. It must be tough, being a MS Word smiley.)
I might be yours.
She remembers seeing him the first time; traipsing down the stairs in a white nightdress, expecting breakfast – porridge and pumpkin juice. Never him, not the boy she already secretly called her Prince Charming. Everything froze when she saw him, and she thought that maybe she could stare at him, stare into those lovely green eyes for the rest of her life. But then she'd realized, of course, that time went on even when maybe it should have stopped, and so she'd run back upstairs. Embarrassed, certainly, but she had an excuse for that now. She'd been only a child then.
Only a little girl.
Now she is sixteen, newly so. She doesn't keep a diary, and paints her fingernails bright colours only to chip them at Quidditch practice. She's been kissed three times – twice by Michael, once by Dean Thomas, and if this was a fairytale, she'd still be sleeping. She's given up, of course, on Prince Charming noticing her like that, and is content to laugh with him about stupid little things and remind him teasingly to eat his vegetables at dinner.
But sometimes, when he sits alone in the common room after everyone's gone to bed, staring into the fire with eyes so intense she almost can't bear to look at them – almost – she's only a little girl.
Drifting on every step—
I'm always drawn to the dark horse.
He was quiet for the entire summer after he lost Sirius. She recalls that time very well, because the air was uncomfortably hot and stifling; she choked on it at midnight and wished for rain. He stayed with them and went on long walks as the sun set; she followed him, once. And he didn't say anything when he saw her—
Sweet, sweet – o, nothing's said
-but he didn't push her away either.
And so she had started to fall in love with him again, only to discover that she'd never quite stopped falling properly in the first place.
(And every dream is just a dream after all.)
In her fifth year, there was a New Year's Ball; she had worn white dress robes and placed loose curls in her hair, and felt a bit like an angel. Ethereal. She'd gone with Dean Thomas, but within an hour, he'd left her to dance with Parvati. Dean had never been suited for her, really.
And so she'd stood alone for a while, not quite anyone's angel, tarnished halo, until Prince Charming came over, a bit awkwardly, and asked her if she would like to dance.
-I'm not very good, he'd warned her straight away.
Then their fingers gingerly entwined, and they may as well have been dancing upon the sky. She began to believe in subtle fairytales.
And everything stands so still when you dance;
everything spins so fast.
She sits alone in her dormitory now, smiling a bit to herself. Or maybe she's crying; she's not entirely sure. She's tired of everything; of war and pain and agony and the way that death stains the air and night.
She simply wants to dance again, but his mind is filled with heroes' thoughts, and there's hardly time for dancing.
and the night's in a paper cup
when you want it to last.
In the common room, he is staring into the fireplace. She knows this, and suddenly everything seems very silly. It could all very well end tomorrow, after all, and things can't be left unsaid or they may become buried.
She is wearing a white nightdress and mismatched socks, not so much an angel anymore. Not something particularly beautiful.
She doesn't care. She's suddenly very impatient, after all the years of waiting.
He is sitting alone, watching the flames, and looks up when he hears the door shut behind her.
-Ginny, he says, and his voice is tired and far older than it should be. What are you doing up?
-I'm in love with you, she replies clearly, not bothering to dance around it. Before, she might have regretted it, but by now she's grown sick of regret.
He studies her silently for a moment. Doesn't protest. Finally, he simply replies, I could die tomorrow.
-Yes, she agrees,
And everything stands so still when you dance everything spins so fast and the night's in a paper cup when you want it to last.
-But we still have tonight.