Disclaimer:HP belongs to J.K. Rowling. Ya know, just in case you didn't already know that. ;-) And Romeo + Juliet isn't mine either. Which is equally as surprising, I'm sure.
Author's Note:Ah. A good ol' angsty Harry/Ginny. How simply delightful. I very rarely write G/H, but this just...came to me. So I wrote it. Whoohoo. Go moi.
Basic plot: Harry has to leave to go fight Voldemort, Ginny doesn't want him to. Yay.
JULIET:Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.
Believe me love, it was the nightingale.
ROMEO:It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
I watch the snow fall.
Absently, it dances from an ebony sky, surrendering to a sea of airy whiteness below.
I don't want to be alone.
I don't want you to leave me now.
Not now, when the faintest trace of your kiss still lingers upon my lips, when a million silent 'I love you's have surfaced from your caress. Beside me, I can hear you breathing; quietly, evenly.
It soothes me.
Your leaving is inevitable; I pretend not to notice the sunlight that peeks timidly from the corners of the darkened sky. I wish morning wouldn't come.
Last night you told me in a whisper that I was beautiful. That you love me and you shouldn't, because no one deserves to be cursed with the tainted love of a doomed hero.
I silenced you, softly, with a finger to your lips. Begging.
I only hope that guilt won't overwhelm you, envelop you. I wish that I could make you see that I choose to love you, that I don't care if it brings along blood or pain or death.
Can't you see that I'm not a child anymore? Sometimes I worry that all you'll ever see is the shy little girl who clumsily spills her secrets to darkness because nothing light seems to care.
And then I worry that perhaps I'm still that girl, perhaps I always will be.
And maybe you won't always be here to save me.
Smiling a bit - a sad sort of smile - I absently brush a lock of dark hair away from closed eyes. For one night, we abandoned the sadness, the impending tragedy that mercilessly approaches, steadfast and cold.
For one night, we surrendered to this foreign, quiet, beautiful passion, and now I can't help but fear that something so blissful will have to be met with calamity just as extreme. Why can't night reign for the rest of time? Why can't we stay in this moment, in this evening, in this joyous haze of kisses and fingertips and light, whispered sentiments?
I love you. It seems I've always loved you; so much that it's sheathed my soul and I couldn't quite feel alive without loving you.
But never before have I felt this new sensation, this overpowering felicity, this beautiful knowledge that comes with your loving me.
'Please,' I whisper to the night, to God, to whoever may bestow the mercy I yearn for, 'Please don't leave me.'
I try to fight reality. I try to content myself with the faint possibility that perhaps you won't leave, that perhaps you'll wish to stay with me forever.
But you won't.
I know that you could survive: you have a quiet strength, something strange and almost seamless, and you can escape this alive.
If only you weren't a hero.
I know you, Harry. You'll put everyone else before yourself; you'll die happily if it means that it can save someone else.
I know that I'm selfish. I know that I should admire you, think you noble and good and valiant because you'd so willingly succumb to darkness in order to ensure light for others.
But I can't.
I can only sit here, tiny and helpless, blinking back tears as I wish the sun wouldn't rise.
Your lashes flutter, and I lean down to kiss you; hungrily, because I don't know when I'll ever kiss you again.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, and I know that you mean it.
Weakness struggles within me; screams and wails and shrieks. 'Don't leave me. Don't leave me. You can't leave me like this. Not after you said you loved me.'
I try to ignore it, to fight it, and yet tears still spring to my eyes and an aching appears, so strong that it takes my breath away.
"I'm sorry," you say again, more desperately now, brushing away tears with lightly callused fingertips.
A weak smile plays around my lips. "It's all right."
I want to melt into your embrace again, to entertain this strange new passion that's only just surfaced.
And suddenly, I know.
I know that I am still a little girl with ink-stained fingers, desperate for someone to love her, wishing and yearning for strong arms to keep her safe and free of pain.
I can't be like this anymore.
I kiss him one last time, gently, telling him that I understand. His green eyes fill with a strange sort of relief; his lips rest tiny thank-yous on crimson curls.
I cannot ignore the pain.
"Go," I tell him, softly.
Alone, I watch the sun rise.