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I see Potter standing before me, acidic eyes blazing, his face caked with mud and dirt, but that blasted scar glowing like the sun. He gives me a look of utmost loathing and I search his eyes, waiting for the flash of fear. But it never comes. He leans down beside you, pulling you onto his lap, brushing red strands out of his eyes and shaking you slightly. At the sight of his arms around you, I am overcome by the urge to hex him into oblivion. But I don't. Because he is holding you.
I scoff at his display of heroic affection and loudly inform him that you'll be dead soon. But the words feel like fire on my tongue and my throat constricts as I say them. Gritting my teeth, I twist my face into a snarl, keeping up my evil, loathsome facade. I stare at your face and feel my heart speed up as I regret my actions. I want nothing more than to hold you, snatch you from Potter's arms and warm you back to life. But I don't. Because I can't.
I am a memory. And this is not my reality. I only wish I'd met you when I was this age. Maybe I wouldn't be stuck in this limbo, not alive, not dead, my only source of life an old notebook. Maybe I wouldn't have continued my sickening and fateful quest to become the most feared wizard the world has ever known. Maybe you could have been my salvation.
I'm jolted back to the chamber as Potter stands up, having laid you back on the cold, stone floor. And so I fight him. And watch you die, my own heart being ripped in two, despite my best efforts to ignore whatever effect you're having on me.
Ginny Weasley, I think I love you.