A/N: I received a lot of requests to write another Twilight/Harry Potter crossover, so here you all go! Also, I'm sure some of you will be pleased to know that I am reading the second Twilight book now.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Twilight; they belong to JK Rowling and Stephanie Meyer, respectively. I make no profit from this.


The ship swayed slightly, and his drink followed the motion of the waves, sloshing over the brim occasionally and staining his shirt cuff. Not that it mattered anymore; anyone who would have cared was too drunk to mind by this point.

Feeling sick to his stomach, he looked around at all the happy faces, his nearest and dearest all rejoicing in that strange high that comes from being suddenly released from prison, from having overwhelming pressure suddenly removed.

The aftermath of an injury often yielded the same feeling, and Harry knew damn well that the Wizarding world was not as well-of as they believed themselves to be just because the most immediate threat was now eradicated. Voldemort might be dead, but the same unwieldy economy, deep-set prejudices, and poor leadership were still there, crippling them.

It was strange, he supposed, that while everyone he'd fought for was overjoyed and celebrating their new freedom, he'd never felt more suffocated. He set down his drink on the bar top, number four if his fuzzy memory served him like it should, and braced himself for the wobbly journey to the door.

He had to carefully squeeze himself between Rita Skeeter and Minister Shacklebolt, who was no doubt telling her things that he would regret in the morning, in order to get outside. She grasped for his sleeve clumsily, movements dulled by alcohol, but he slipped through her manicured nails and managed to push the door open.

"Mr. Potter, if I could just have a moment of your time-"

It slammed shut behind him, cutting her off, pushed firmly back into place by the powerful wind. Bending his head slightly in order to alleviate some of the pressure it was putting on his poor head, he circled the walkway to a side with far less exposure and settled into a lawn chair.

The idea to take a two-day celebratory cruise was Hermione's fault, since she said that it would minimize the damage to important buildings should some of them prove to be rowdy drunks, and keep them from being mobbed in the streets. He had to admit that it had been a good idea at first, but now all he wanted to do was throw up from the ship's gentle rocking.

Resting his elbows on his knees, he rested his head on his palms and stared out into the blackness straight ahead of him. After several peaceful minutes of this, he frowned, noticing something.

There was no line distinguishing the sea from the sky.

Craning his neck back, puzzled, he perceived that this phenomenon was because there was no moon and the stars were obscured by a thick black cloud.

The door banged again, and he started, looking down. Someone was standing there by the door he'd just exited minutes before, outlined in gold from the light spilling out of the windows of the lounge. Looking carefully, he saw that her hair was copper-colored and groaned quietly.

She looked in his direction, and stood up straighter. Hips swaying from her high heels, she approached his hiding place.

There was no use trying to curl into himself now and hope that the shadows would protect him: she knew he was there.

"Hi, Harry." She greeted, somehow managing to not slur her words.

He just nodded, hoping to convey through silence that he didn't want company. She didn't take the hint, and actually had the nerve to sit next to him on the deck chair.

Funny, he hadn't noticed that it was big enough for two, but then, neither of them could be remotely described as heavy after what they'd been through. Food wasn't something you threw around when in the middle of a very low-budget war, after all.

"It's nice out here." She murmured, sipping her champagne.

He idly wondered how many of those she'd had.


Unexpectedly, she leaned her head against his shoulder, her hair-spray tickling his nose with its scent of coconut and pineapples. It smelled too fake to be pleasant and the under-smell of cosmetic chemicals made him wrinkle his nose. "This is nice too, right, Harry?"

Sometimes, you had to play dumb for your own safety. "I don't know what you mean."

With a jerk, she pulled away from him, her neck making a snapping noise. "What do you mean, you don't know?" her outraged screech echoed against his hyper-sensitized ears and he groaned, rubbing his temples.

"Ginny, if you want to fight, can we please do this tomorrow, long after I've recovered from whatever it is that the twins put in that punch?"

Her eyes softened in the golden gloom, and her clammy hand found its way into his. She stroked his fingers, settling down again beside him. He made an effort to move away slightly, but there was no where to go in their cramped chair. From the way she stiffened, she must have noticed, but didn't comment on it.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't mean to snap at you." She reached up and tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear, kissing his cheek and then, after a moment of hesitation where she held her breath, his jaw. Her mouth was sticky and clung unpleasantly to his skin.

He started. "Ginny, what are you doing? What about…what about Neville?"

Exasperated, she knocked back the rest of her champagne and set the glass on the ground. "Harry, I like the chase as much as any other girl, but for Merlin's sake, can you at least stop pretending that you don't want this on tonight of all nights?" Her small hand went back up to his hair, fiddling with the stubborn curls at the base of his neck. "I know that you need to relax as much as I do, so why don't we…help each other, and figure things out in the morning? Neville won't begrudge me one night with someone else."

He'd never felt sicker to his stomach, but he hid it with an expression of uncertainty so he wouldn't hurt her feelings too much. "Ginny, I don't think- well, I'd feel horribly guilty…"

She stood abruptly, crossing the line of distance between the shelter of the wall and the shadows it provided to the railing that ringed the ship, resting her forearms against it. Her shoulders gleamed, glossy in the golden light and tinged slightly with the red hue reflecting off of her silk dress, as they rose and fell with her sigh.

"Fine, we'll stop discussing this, since you're going to be so pig-headed about it."

"Ginny, I you know I didn't mean it like that."

She shuddered. "Just leave me alone for a little bit, Harry. I'll talk to you later- maybe I'll see you too." There was a hopeful note in her voice that he ignored. What she wanted from him was not something he was going to give her, even if she wasn't seeing Neville.

He sat still for a moment longer, waiting in case she was going to say anything else, before rising unsteadily and heading for the section allotted to the stairs. Descending them proved more dangerous than he'd thought, and he tripped twice, bruising his shins painfully before making it below deck.

If Ginny was going to sulk over him refusing to intrude upon her relationship with Neville, then so be it. One day she would learn not to be so childish and selfish.

The maze of hallways lined with numbered doors seemed to swirl around him with nightmarish intensity, but he moved with dogged determination, searching for his room number.

Five minutes of what felt like going in circles later, he saw it. Room number 109, right next to room number 110, which belonged to Ginny. On second thought, maybe going to his room wasn't the best idea.

Shrugging, he unlocked his room and stumbled inside, shutting the door behind him. It glanced off of the hinges, swinging back at him to nearly knock him over by smacking him in the back. Growling in pain, he slammed it closed and visited the W.C.

He exited a few minutes later, pulling his stiff dress shirt over his head and looking around at the room with a sneer of disgust. It was large for a ship cabin, with a bed that could conceivably fit two and a half people, a small closet with a stand next to it for his trunk, and a sofa that did not look nearly as uncomfortable as it was. The cabin was also incredibly stuffy from being uninhabited for so many hours.

The window opened silently when he cranked the pull, and the wind that came in was cold enough to make him hurry into his sleep clothes, although it did make quick work of removing the unpleasant stale smell that the air had taken on.

Over-large though it was, the bed seemed harmless enough and very welcoming in his current unsteady state of mind; stumbling towards it, he lay down, pillowing his head in his arms and staring up at the low, oppressive ceiling. If he hadn't opened the window, he would probably have a minor attack of claustrophobia.

Feeling drowsier by the minute, he let his hands come down and rolled onto his side, seeing the metal edges of his suitcase glint in the light of his electrical clock, courtesy of the cruise staff.

His eyes slid shut and he breathed deeply in and out, relaxing fully for the first time in years.


The wind was harsh and cold against her skin, threatening to bowl her over at any moment if she were to stop clenching her muscles in resistance to its forces. Her shoulders were covered with goose pimples and she was regretting not bringing her wrap out here with her. At the time, she'd been more concerned with looking attractive than being warm.

She choked on her tears. What did looking attractive matter, now? He didn't want her. She would have preferred it if he'd outright slapped her in the face rather than remained himself to the very end, kind and considerate of what others would feel if they did what she wanted so desperately. He'd considered everyone's feelings, except hers; what she felt or wanted didn't seem to matter very much to him.

Why couldn't he just be hers for once? Just for one night, she wanted the right to say 'mine' when she looked at him.

Ginny swiped at her face, trying to wipe away the annoying little-girl tears, knowing that her hand would have bits of black mascara and red smears from her lipstick on it now but not caring enough to pull out her handkerchief.

Biting her lip, she let her tears dry themselves out. There was no concept of time for her now- for all she knew, she could have been standing there, alone and cold, for a hundred years. Finally, when the last droplet of misery left her, she squared her shoulders.

There was always the chance that she could still wear him down, not to mention that one's morals are far easier to circumvent when both tired and tipsy. With her new plan in mind and tentatively smiling, she went downstairs without bothering to retrieve her wrap from the lounge.

Finding her room was hard, but she persisted and found it quickly enough. She paused in front of room 109, Harry's room, breathless and shaking from the urge to knock on his door.

She pulled herself away, reached down the front of her dress for where she'd tucked the key into her brassiere, and attempted to stick it into the lock. On her fifth exasperated try, she penetrated the lock and opened the door.

It slammed shut behind her, trapping her inside her confining room. She flipped on the lamp and went into the bathroom. For a moment she forgot how to make the lights work inside of it, but then she remembered the strange little 'switch'.

Flipping it on, she jumped. Her face looked more like a clown's than her own, and she grimaced as she pulled out some toilettes.

Once her face was safely made-up again and she'd let down her hair, arranging the artificial curls so that they would enticingly emphasize her neck and jaw-line, she dove into her psyche for her natural courage.

The telephone was harder to use than she'd thought it would be, but she managed to figure out which button would get her the staff and asked to be connected to room 109. While she waited, she met her own eyes in the mirror on the closet door, trying out a coy smile.

It rang once, twice…three times, and he still hadn't answered. She worried her lip and then quickly stopped when it smudged her lipstick. Had he fallen asleep?

He picked up. "Hello? Who is this?"

"It's me, its Ginny…can I come over? Please?" she winced, hearing the edge of desperation that she wanted to hide leak into her voice.

He sighed. "I'm not alone."

She stared at herself, unseeing and numb from head to toe. And then, not feeling the movement but seeing it reflected back at her, she disconnected the line, setting the device that had delivered the death blow to her years-long infatuation into the cradle.

Her dress whispered to her as she fell against the door and slid down the wall. Pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, she felt the sobs rise up for the second time that night.

It struck her with the swiftness of a serpent. There was a way to make this horrible feeling go away, this feeling of being unwanted and uncared for by the man she loved. There was even a way accessible to her that was nice and easy, and near by.

Crawling to her bed, she pulled herself up onto it and opened the drawer of the bed-side table. Inside it were some tablets, a thoughtful gift from Hermione, which suppressed sea-sickness. When Hermione gave them to her, she warned her to be careful to take only one every 24 hours or else suffer the consequences.

She took the metal foil packet with her into the bathroom and filled the glass waiting for her on the counter with water from the tap. Slowly, carefully, she removed all five of the remaining tablets from it, lining them neatly up on the counter.

They were large and bitter to swallow, but the water helped and it was over so soon.

The dizziness, this time not only from the champagne, set in and she swayed precariously, gripping the counter tightly with shaking hands.

There didn't seem to be enough air in her cabin anymore, and she realized that it was not where she wanted to die. Pulling up her skirts, she lifted her dress over her head and stuffed it clumsily under the sink. She stood there in nothing but her white slip and nodded approvingly at herself.

White was an appropriate color to wear when dead, she'd always thought.

Pulling off her shoes was harder though, and she decided to leave on. Exiting the bathroom, she groped at her door, feeling more unstable by the second, finally wrenching it open.

The hall was stuffy and stale as well.

Groaning from the sudden throbbing in her temples and pain in her stomach, she made her way down the hall, bypassing the stairs.

Pressing the button for the elevator, she wrapped her arms around herself and leaned against a gilt trash can, shivering. The elevator made a chiming sound when it arrived, and she was grateful to see that it was empty.

Soft music played as she rose the brief distance to the top, and it opened in a small lobby outfitted with two sofas identical to the ones she was sure were in every cabin. To her blurring vision, they looked closer to the color of vomit than dark green.

The door awaited her, and then the glorious wind, frigid as ice, hit her. She smiled broadly and laughed, swaying over to the railing once more.

She was only two feet away when she tripped, her shoe caught in a section of metal grating that she'd been unable to see. All she could see now was the black of the sky, and the black of the sea; all she felt was the pain working its way through her body and the wind that numbed it.

All in all, dying wasn't nearly as unpleasant as she'd been expecting, but she knew that she couldn't let it happen while sprawled on the floor like a drunken whore. Getting up was harder than falling, but she managed and made it to the railing.

Gripping anything, much less firmly enough to hoist her sluggish body up, became an Olympic struggle. She shimmied over the top somehow and onto the thick glass that served as an extra protection against fools like her who happened to get around the railing.

She flung herself off the edge and into the sea.


End chapter 1

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