Author's Note: I don't know where this came from. Suffice it to say that I went temporarily insane and therefore wrote this nonsensical, OOC letter from Harry to Ginny declaring his undying love.
Or, at least, something like it.
Disclaimer: Of course I own Harry Potter. My name isn't J.K. Rowling and I'm not rich and famous, but who cares about petty details like that?
The Clumsiest Love Letter Ever Written
Sometimes, when you think about it, life's really ironic. Funny because, well, one day you are obliviously going through the motions of battling evil wizards and losing dismally against Ron at chess, and the next you're . . . well all of a sudden you're life takes on this whole new perspective about-- things.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that Harry Potter has, just now, gone insane. He has crumbled from the pressure of saving-the-world and ridding it of egotistical Dark Lords, when in fact he's just musing and being broody.
I have to be, you know. The whole 'Hero' thing.
Anyway, I'm assuming that you're wondering at this point why the hell I'm writing this stupid letter. And I'll tell you, eventually. I guess one of the main reasons would be Ron and Hermione are hovering behind me, one brandishing a frighteningly sharp quill and the other George's Beater bat. (And, in all honestly, I can't be sure which is more frightening.)
Since we're being completely and totally honest-- oh, did I forget to mention that? Well, we are. Just to let you know.-- I've re-written this letter about eighteen times. (And what a show of determination on the part of my two best mates! Still standing behind me, looking just as terrifying with their own respective weapons as they did in the beginning.) The first one was ridiculously sappy and when I re-read it, I made myself blush because it looked like I'd copied it right out of a Muggle soap-opera.
It started somewhere along the lines of, 'Dearest Ginny, I am writing in order to confess what I have held in my heart for so long...' etc., etc., etc. Ron tried to make me read it out loud, but it was incinerated before any major damage to my pride could be done.
So I re-wrote it. This time it was entirely too Colin Creevey. (Not that I've got anything against Colin.)
(I'll tell you later.)
It read, basically, 'Ginny! Hey! How are you! Look, I have to tell you something!' I didn't manage to save that one from Ron, but he was silenced when Hermione told him she'd never kiss him again if he read it out loud.
. . . Which was a little awkward, now that I think about it. But I greatly appreciate the gesture.
Anyway. The third was just as horrible-- I sounded like a Malfoy reincarnate. 'Well, well, well. The littlest Weasley, eh? Imagine, the "famous" Harry Potter writing something like this to the beautiful redhead.' And not only was I horrified by how utterly arrogant that sounded, but it was almost . . . insulting.
Also, in what I can only call the singular most horrifying moment of my life, I caught myself signing Malfoy's name above the post script.
But the point is, all the letters were rubbish. And I couldn't find the right way to say what I've been trying to say this whole letter. And I know Hermione is probably getting frustrated, because it's taking me ages to write this stupid bloody thing, but in the end I think she'll be pretty happy with the way this turns out.
So now you're getting irritated, right? Because I still haven't told you what this rubbish is about? And now you're confused as to how I know you so well, and getting a little suspicious and frightened as to why I am describing things exactly as they happen.
Now you're an endless bundle of confusion, suspicion, annoyance, nervousness, excitement and (if I'm right; which I hope I am), hope. By now, you're eyes are completely bugged out of your head and the only thing stopping you from hexing me to next year is the fact that you really, really want to know what I'm trying to say.
You're even thinking about just skipping all this deadweight and getting to the good stuff. But don't. I really want you to read this before you read what I'm trying to say.
Ginny, I know you so well because I've been watching you. (Close your jaw.) I know almost everything about you, from your favourite colour (lime green) to your best friend (Luna Lovegood) to what sheets are on your bed. (Don't ask how I figured that one out. Let's just say that it involves Ron, a bet, and a very, very angry Hermione. Don't get freaked out, either. I swear I'm not stalking you.)
The point is, I know you almost as well as I know myself. (Which isn't that difficult, all said. I'm pretty complicated. Well, at least in my eyes. Half the time, I don't even know what I'm feeling.) And for the past few months, every time you come into the room I get this odd . . . butterfly-ish feeling in my stomach.
And the fact of the matter is, when Colin (Colin! Do you hear me? I was jealous of Colin Creevey.) came up to you just after the end-of-the-year feast and gave you that big hug and you kissed his cheek, it took (quite literally) Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, and Fang to keep me from running over to where the two of you were, shoving Colin into the lake, hexing him, before turning to you and giving you a very thorough, very Ron-ish explanation as to why you must never speak to him ever again.
Of course, once I realized that I was being held back by a half-giant, a huge dog, and my two best friends, I remembered that I wasn't, in fact, your brother, and really, what right did I have to 'protect your virtue'?
Now, Ginny. It's rude to snort.
So. I did some serious thinking over the summer. Why did I get so mad when I saw you and Colin? Why did I get so upset when I thought that the two of you were an item?
And then, in a flash of epiphany and horrible embarrassment, I realized I was acting exactly like Ron had when Hermione went with Krum to the Yule Ball and continued to correspond with him over the summer. And that, even if I had come to this realization, it wouldn't be okay for me to just go and assault all of your guy-friends. Because that would be rude. And slightly homicidal.
So I did the only thing I could possibly think to do.
Denial, denial, denial. It's not just a river in Egypt, you know.
I pretended that it was all in the interest of a pseudo brother, and that, as such, I had EVERY right to do such things. So, all summer, I fumed and thought about how you and Colin must be writing very mushy, very lovey-dovey letters like, 'Oh, my sweet Ginny, how I long to taste your lips once more!' and 'Oh, Colin, how very glad I am that I got over stupid, talentless, ugly Harry Potter so that I can now play tonsil-hockey with you!'
This went so far that eventually, I wrote Ron and said, 'Ron, is Ginny writing to Colin? Because there is something seriously fishy with him, and if they are going to be a couple, you'd best make sure his intentions are honorable.'
So, really, it's my fault that Ron charged into your bedroom in the middle of the night, demanding you show him all of the letters he was sure you had from Colin. And also that Colin never wrote you again, because Ron and I may or may not have written him a very lengthy, very stern Howler saying something along the lines of, 'Colin Creevey, if we EVER hear you of doing ANYTHING to hurt Ginny, if you don't give her the last piece of PIE, then you will WISH YOU'D NEVER BEEN BORN and you will NOT LIVE TO HAVE CHILDREN, and if we DO let you live by some miracle, you won't be able to have them ANYWAY, because we will PERSONALLY make sure your bits are TORN OFF SLOWLY AND PAINFULLY, UNDERSTOOD? Signed, Ron Weasley and Harry Potter.'
But I'll never tell you if we did or not. I don't even think Colin will. And that may or may not have something to do with the 'P.S.: Tell Ginny about this letter and DIE!' signed at the bottom. Maybe. You'll never know unless you give me your wand first.
So as the summer progressed, and I found myself being genuinely apologetic for what I may or may not have said to Colin, I forced myself to look in the mirror and say, "I am Ron." And for almost two weeks, I did that. I just looked at myself and said "I am Ron" until it was so ingrained into my head that I was acting like the idiot I call a best mate that when Tonks came to check on me and said, "Wotcher, Harry!" I replied, "I am Ron."
I think she was a bit afraid for my sanity, after that, but I managed to assuage her fears by laughing and shaking my head, assuring her that I was just taking the mickey.
At the end of this very lengthy, very pointless letter, I am finally going to tell you what Ron and Hermione want me to. And although it may not be in plain English, like you'd probably find best, I hope you'll be able to accept that it's the best I can do.
Ginny, I, uhm, care. About you. A lot. Like, as much as my dad did for my mum. And not in a strictly platonic way. Not in a platonic way at all, in fact. So you know what your Mum and Dad are always saying, just before bed?
Okay, wait, ew, that's not what I meant.
Or . . . or . . . how about this: you know what Lavender and Parvati are always saying about clothing they like? You know, "Oh, that would look fabulous, I love that on you!"?
Well, it's like that. Sort of.
I know what you're thinking. 'For pity's sake, Harry, just SAY it!' But I can't, really. I can't just . . . write something like that down. It's too big. It's too huge. And I probably can't say it to your face, either, because it's so big and so huge. And I'll just lose my nerve. Because I've never said it before, and no one (well, besides Hermione and - grudgingly, you know how he is - Ron) has ever said it to me. So I don't really know how this works.
Is it casual? Is it calm? Is it just random, or does a guy plan for it for weeks? Does it just slip out? What?
But . . . I think . . . the point is, I fancy you. But more than that, you know? I mean, I fancy you a lot. A lot, a lot. Which translates into something else that I just can't bring myself to write down.
And now both Ron and Hermione are getting impatient and I reckon I've wasted enough parchment rattling on about Colin Creevey. So I'm just going to fold this up and give it to you. And, Ginny? I'd really rather you didn't storm into Ron's room and demand that I explain myself. Because I can't, not really.
Although if you storm into Ron's room and demand I snog you senseless, I'd be a bit more obliging.
Ouch! Ron's just whacked me with that bat. I guess that goes under the heading of 'less-than-honorable-intentions' list. So, er, he tells me to write 'No, I was just kidding. I think we should just be content with the knowledge that I like you, and if we MUST, without any way to get around it, it's all right look at one another every once in a while. But that's it. No contact. And only look at one another when it's absolutely unavoidable.'
But that's all rubbish, don't listen to him.