Author's Note: This was supposed to just be a one-shot! Really! It was! But after an INSANE amount of reviews asking for Ginny's reply, I relented. (I'm a sucker for compliments, you know. :P) So here is Ginny's response to the letter. And I hope it's up to standard. :)

Disclaimer: I hate these things. Bad for my ego.



Well, I don't really see how life being or not being funny ties into your somewhat... unexpected letter, but I have to disagree with you. It's actually a really entertaining pastime, living. I, for one, don't know how I would go on without it.

All right, sorry. Not the time for jokes.

I guess I'm going to have to be completely and totally honest with you, too. Turnabout's fair play, after all. This is the first letter of this nature that I've ever sent to you . . . but it's not the first I've ever written. There may or may not be a box hidden in my room stock-full of letters to you.

They're sort of like my diary. I know what you're thinking- Ginny? Keeping a diary? This may not be regarded as a good move on my part. But that's just it- I don't think I'll ever be able to actually keep a diary again, but you . . . I don't know. I just have always felt that I can trust you totally and completely. There are only two blokes outside my family that I trust like that-- and even some of my brothers aren't trustworthy. I mean, Fred and George? Not a bloody chance-- and you're one of them.

The other is Neville. (This is hard to explain. Suffice it to say that we had a bet, I lost, and he turned out to be an all right bloke.)

I know that trust in you is only to be expected, after the Chamber. But let's just pretend that it had never happened. There is no doubt in my mind that I would trust you just as explicitly. There's something about you. It's a little annoying, actually-- I find myself telling you things that I've never told anyone. (Like about said letters. And that teddy-bear thing. Which, by the way, I am still holding you accountable for. And Charlie taught me a lovely spell to make your you-know-what stop working for a little while if that little secret ever leaks. Kapeesh?)

Okay, so, back to this letter. I'm sure you expect me to just start immediately on how I feel about you.

Well, tough beans. You made me wait, and I'll do the same to you. As I said before: turnabout's fair play.

I'll be honest, when you started telling me what I was feeling, I went a little spare. I know you said that you've been 'watching' me (which is a little bit creepy, to be frank), but I don't consider myself someone who wears their emotions on my sleeve. So, despite the creepiness about it, I was impressed. I am impressed.

And you know, I know all that stuff about you, too. Your favourite colour (dark green), your best friends (obviously; Ron and Hermione), and the sheets on your bed (plain white. Wool. Pain in the arse). And as for how I figured that one out... well, can I just plead the fifth and get on with it? There's a bit of an embarrassing story involving a very, very pissed off Hedwig, a love-letter, and a twelve-year-old redhead.

Ron, obviously. Which reminds me, if you ever happen to find a spare bit of parchment that has dear Hermione across the top in Ron's chicken scratch scrawl, you'll let me know, won't you?

All right, so, moving on. Harry . . . Colin is not and never will be anything more than a friend. He doesn't-- er-- he doesn't really . . . he's not one for the fairer sex.

Well, I guess that's all a matter of opinion, actually. I mean, he fancies Millicent Bulstrode. And I am convinced that she is a man. Convinced. She has hair on her chest and everything! And I'll be damned, I will PROVE it to the world if it's the last thing I do!

. . . Right. Well. Anyway.

But it's funny you should mention that letter to Colin about tonsil hockey. Did you intercept it or something? Because he said he never got it, and I know Errol isn't THAT old...

Kidding, Harry. No need to go bash Colin's head into a wall or anything. I promise. I will, however, have you know that I was in the middle of a very nice dream when Ron barged in for those letters! And just for that, I had to confiscate and send all his love-letters to Hermione, so you'd better watch your back. Revenge is near. Very near. Right under your pillow, in fact.

I mean . . . what?

So YOU'RE the reason Colin slipped me a letter at lunch that read, roughly, 'I can't talk to you or look at you or be anywhere near you anymore! Because I'm allergic to Harry and Ron! I mean! Er! Wait! No! I mean, I'm allergic to dust! And there is dust! In the castle-- Colin!' ?

Hm. That explains a lot.

As for what my father and mother say to one another at night . . . I'm not entirely comfortable being called your dragon tamer, just yet.

I know, I'm sorry. But I couldn't resist.

Harry, I know-- well, I think I know-- what you're trying to say.

And If I'm wrong, I'm about to make a completely and utter arse of myself, so remember that you're really fond of me before you read the next bit. All right? Feeling the fondness?

I mean, I don't really know how to say it, either. Because I'm not used to this sort of mushy stuff, you know? At home, it's "You're all right, kid," and, "Ginny's my favourite child." I guess Mum and Dad have said it, but somehow it's different to say that sort of thing to your parents than to a bloke.

So I-- er-- well-- you know. I fancy you . . . a lot . . . a lot, a lot, too. I didn't, for a really long time. I'm sure Hermione told you when I was fourteen that I'd given up on you-- and I did. I gave up and I moved on. I honestly stopped feeling "that way" towards you. But... and I don't know exactly when, but it might have been at the Department of Mysteries, when you stepped in front of me (thanks for that, by the way) . . . I started feeling it again. And then suddenly it was just... out of control.

Harry, you've been there for me in ways no one else has been able to be-- even without meaning to be-- even without realizing you were. I can't help but love you.

As for Ron, where does he get off thinking he can tell me who I can and cannot snog? It's not like I go around telling him to keep his hands off Hermione! And if he wants her ignorance of what we as Weasleys call "The Matter of the Kitchen Clock", he'll stop ordering me around.

See you soon, Harry.

Love always,