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Author: hwimsey Story: The Eyes Have It Rating: Teens Status: Completed Reviews: 20 Words: 20,752
"You did what? You actually drank something the twins concocted? Have you lost your mind completely?" This was not the reaction Ginny wanted from her best friend, but it was only to be expected. It had been quite foolish, after all, to drink the Absent-ithe on faith alone. And now, she was paying the price: a memory wiped clean. Indeed most of Ginny's memory was a blur regarding that notorious Christmas Eve: snowball flirting, Auntie Muriel, and Harry's legs, constituted the basic highlights. Still, she kept battling to remember what she was supposed to forget once that luscious blue liquid passed her lips. Hermione, upon learning of the liquor's effects, became unglued, "If nothing else, it's unethical. Merlin knows what could have happened!" Disgusted, she buried her face in a book, then raised an eyebrow, and asked archly, "Lavender wasn't there, was she?" "Oh no, no," Ginny assured her, internally smirking at the image of Lav-Lav's face if she had been present to witness her brother'slips pressed firmly against Fleur's cheek. But Ginny's answer did nothing to assuage Herminone's temper; she actually appeared to be percolating. Ginny half expected her head to explode at any second. Oh why didn't those two just fess up to each other and end all of Hogwarts' collective misery. What Hermione saw in Ron, Ginny could only guess: Hermione always had been a bit unpredictable. Regardless, the girl was in need of some serious, serious snogging. Someone deserved happiness around here. "Well, that's it. There's no question about it. We have to find an antidote," exclaimed Hermione, and she aimed her wand, corralling a stack of books from across the library table. They soared into the air, landing in a teetering pile before her. "But it's not a poison." "I know that," she said, grabbing a hold of 1001 Cures for Love, "but it erases your memory." "I'm not sure it's permanent. And they did test it. Fred said something about quality control. Or George did." "It's still a violation, Ginny! What happens if it has some gruesome side effects? I seriously doubt the twins 'quality control' resembles the Ministry's. Can you imagine? They probably drank the stuff then stared at each other, hoping neither one contorted into some misshapen blob, or, worse yet, died. Quality control, ugh!" "But we didn't die!" Ginny's cries went unheeded: Hermione was forsworn to get to the bottom of this fiasco. Moving over to the window seat, the youngest Weasley eyed her brilliant friend, and then looked out at the gray January sky. Secretly, she was desperate to know what happened that night. Her lips still felt bruised. When she closed her eyes and ran her finger over them, the memory of . . . want . . . almost untold in its nature, overcame her, making her weak. She had never felt like this, and it was the second time in her life that the unknown held such power over her. *** Harry knew something wasn't right. His dreams were becoming more and more frequent, painted in a technicolor, overexposed haze: dreams in which he and Ginny were alone in a forest. Her eyes, her hair, everything was too vivid, almost unbearable to view without gazing through hooded eyes. She lay beneath him; her laughter was the sound flowers would make if they tried. Merlin, she was so warm, and close. Every time he kissed her, a wonderful feeling coursed through him, like his very blood had been replaced by light. And he would fall and fall and fall into it. Holding her down, his mouth opening to hers, wanting her; he would slowly trail his hand down the naked skin of her throat as he ground his hips into hers, the earth rich beneath his hands . . . "Harry! Wake up, it's damn embarrassing–get a room or something." The dim vision of the top of his canopy bed and the fuzzy outlines of bodies skimmed before his eyes. Blinking into consciousness, he heard Seamus holler, "Uh – have some respect for Longbottom's virgin eyes will ya." Harry slouched upright, surrounded by his dorm mates, holding their sides in laughter. Reddening clear to his toes, he grabbed his glasses only to realize he was clutching his pillow rather intimately, coupled with the fact that his pajama top was cast to the floor. "What'ya gonna name her Harry?" Seamus chimed in, "She doesn't have a neck roll sister or anything?" "Oh bugger off," cried Harry, reaching down for his top. "Better stay put there for a while there, mate," said Ron, "Standing up may not be the best idea. Might frighten the rest of the pillows." He pulled his own to his side protectively and joined the rest of the group who burst into hysterics and headed out to breakfast, "I'll save you a seat, Harry. Bring her along if she's hungry." Ron ducked, the pillow whipping over his head. Falling back on the bed in embarrassment, Harry covered his eyes with the back of his hand, praying that he hadn't said anything during his goose-feather in flagrante delicto. Ron would kill him–smother him more likely. This had to end. There had to be a way to get Ginny by herself, away from everyone. He didn't know what he'd do once he succeeded, but he was driven by some inherent belief that things would work, if only he could be alone with her for one minute (well, maybe several minutes . . . or several hours). She did lean back into him, didn't she? He wasn't totally repulsive. But then that nasty voice of reason piped up in his ear, "She's still going out with Dean, you idiot. If she wanted you, why wouldn't have kissed him?" Harry's heart plummeted in his chest; the memory of Dean kissing Ginny the moment she returned from break poisoned his mind. He remembered how Dean ran up to her and yanked her through the portrait hole. She had turned away, exiling the kiss to her ear, but still, he did kiss her, and they were dating. Sighing, he trudged off to the loo, rubbing his lips together. Hell, chapped lips on top of everything else. *** Weeks passed. The winter snows began to melt, leaving polka dot patches of green grass along the grounds. Spring finally arrived. May Day was upon them. Ginny secretly loved this holiday. Since childhood, she was fascinated by tales of the ancient rites of gathering flowers, weaving garlands and stealing into the night on May Eve to engage in lusty "greenwood" marriages. As a young girl, she would hide under her blanket reading old wizarding texts on how the fairy folk would kindle the large bonfires of May Eve, luring lovers toward the woods only to bewitch them. She had read one particular page over and over until it had become smeared and crinkled beneath her fingers: "And the young wizards and witches would riseth eagerly at the first light of dawn to goeth outward and gather the most magical of flowers and branches to payeth homage to their lovers. The young witches would plaiteth flowers, the hawthorn, marigold and rowan, into their golden hair. Wizard and witch alike would decorate their bodies in manners most desirous to calleth forth the return of vitality, of passion. Ancients marketh the emergence of the young wizard into manhood. Stirred by the energies at work in nature, he desireth his chosen one whom the fairies dost bedeck. They fall in love, lie among the grasses and blossoms, and uniteth." Well,that was enough to keep her up many a night, even before she had a clue that "uniteth" might mean an awful lot more than a clumsy grope behind the shed. But now, the thought of anyone giving her flowers, much less ravishing her deep in the woods, seemed so far fetched as to appear almost comical. So when word of a May Eve celebration reached the ears of the female contingent of Hogwarts, Ginny was astounded to find that she wasn't the only young witch who had memorized page 367 of Ravaging Rites to Remember. The buzz in the Great Hall was deafening. "It sounds like a bunch of electrocuted bats," Hermione shouted across to Ginny. "Electro what?" Hermione rolled her eyes, "Never mind." Moments later, the mail arrived; owls swooped overhead, hooting noisily, laden down with boxes, no doubt containing the elaborate masks required for the masquerade. "You're not seriously planning on going to this thing are you?" Hermione asked, raising a caustic eyebrow at Ginny whose unabashed reaction caused the elder Griffindor to hoot. "Why in the world would you want to gallivant at midnight with a bunch of randy masked teenage boys who want nothing more than a cheap snog and the luxury of not having to own up to it." Ginny didn't know where to start. "I mean, you wouldn't catch me dead weaving those ridiculous flowers into my hair. Do I look like a maiden fair?" Ginny eyed her friend for a moment, "No, you're looking more like Morgan Le Fay on a bad hair day, actually." Hermione scowled. "Look, it's going to be fun, really. Get that look off your face, right now. All right, this is what I'm going to do: I'll take care of the masks and the costumes; you don't have to plait your hair or anything. What do you say?" Silence. Okay, Ginny had no other choice: out came the trump card. She wasn't about to go to the party by herself. Hurrying across the table, she sidled next to Hermione, and put her arm about her shoulders and her lips to her ear, "You do know Ron broke up with Lavender last night, don't you?" Hermione's face remained implacable but Ginny could see the magenta line eeking its way up her neck. "He said he might be going. Alone." Moments passed before Hermione spoke, "I am not wearing one of those stupid green dresses." Ginny exhaled. Step one down. Two more to go. *** Ginny knew he had Herbology at two o'clock, so she camped out and waited. The greenhouse doors burst open; Ginny stood up from the tree where she had been leaning, and let the crowd jostle about her. He was laughing, which she took as a good sign. "Dean, Dean," she shouted, waving her hand. Dean excused himself from his friends and trotted over. "Hi, Ginny," he smiled down at her, "Good thing I ran into you, I was wondering if you'd like--" "Can we talk?" asked Ginny, inwardly cringing. Only five words into it and already the clichés were flying from her lips. Which one would it be? We need some space. Let's be friends. I like you but-- Yes, that was it; though she wasn't about to own up to it. Taking her seat under the boughs of the tree, Dean eagerly joined her. His arm slipped behind her, a move she didn't combat, feeling he would be removing it soon enough. Her heart tripped as she began; her hands knotted together. Dean merely brushed her hair over her shoulders while she hemmed and hawed, trying to find the right word. When his lips began to kiss her neck, she pulled back and stared at him, aggravated by his complete lack of understanding. Couldn't he see how she was suffering? "Dean,Idon'tthinkit'sagoodideaifwegooutanymore." There, she said it. A long held sigh escaped her lips. "What?" he asked, frowning. "You and me, Dean, I don't think it's working out." Dean look scandalized, indeed his face fell clear down to the grass below, "But Ginny, I thought--" "I know Dean, but it hasn't been good between us for a long time. You've got to see that." "I don't see anything," cried Dean, and stood up; Ginny's hand reached out and pulled him back down. She looked him in the eyes, "Dean, we're—us—we're just not meant--" she caught herself. Dean finished the sentence for her. "Meant to be, you mean." "Yes." They remained quiet for some time, sitting next to each other, watching the small white blossoms helicopter off a distant tree. "It's him, isn't it?" asked Dean, pulling at a blade of grass, "It's Potter." Ginny's mouth went dry: was it that obvious? Was she that transparent? She turned her head and bit her lip, suddenly more uncomfortable than she had imagined. "I don't know what you mean." "Yes you do. You know," he turned her face toward his; bravery shielding his breaking heart, "Just be honest. Tell me." Ginny stared into his brown eyes. Did he really want to know? The truth? Know that she had liked him fine, thank you very much. They'd had a few laughs and some genuinely enjoyable snog sessions, but it was over. She felt so guilty at that moment, guilty for using him, guilty for using him to stop the hurt or possibly even hurt another. What a hateful thing she was. What if she were a boy, doing this to a girl? She knew boys like this; they had a name, a name that was often accompanied with several expletives. But what could she say to him? How could she tell him that no matter whom she was with, it would never compare. That she was literally ruined, exiled like some modern day Guinevere, because she couldn't be with the boy she loved. But unlike her namesake, there was no knight pining away for her. She had created her own priory, holding out hope against hope. Embarrassing herself over Christmas, acting like they were together, flirting with him, leaning into him, hoping if she made believe, it would all become real. And now sitting here, facing this poor boy, who probably cared for her more than she deserved, how could she utter the words she had never spoken, even to herself— I am Harry's. Frowning at Dean, she shifted her gaze to the grass, and did the only thing that was left to her—she lied. "You always push me through the portrait hole, Dean, and I hate that." He stared at her dumbfounded, "What? The portrait hole? I was just trying to help." "I don't need your help Dean," she snapped, her emotions beginning to fray at the edges, "I don't need yours, or Michael's or any other boy who thinks they know what's best for me. I just want to be left alone." A tense silence hung between them. Ginny closed her eyes, and tried to trap the tears in place. "It is Potter, isn't it." She swallowed. "Dammit, I knew it." "No Dean, it's nothing like that--" "God, I've been an idiot. Everyone's been telling me: the way he looks at you, and all--" "No, it's nothing like that, I just--" "Spare me, Ginny," he held out his hand, "But do me the courtesy of being honest. If not with me than with yourself, eh?" With that he stalked off toward the castle, leaving Ginny to staunch her wounds. Sniffling, she realized unrequited love was a double-edged sword. And she'd just been slashed by both sides. From across the lawn, a tall black-haired boy stiffened as he watched the scene unfold. To him, as to any observer that afternoon, what transpired beneath that oak tree resembled exactly what it wasn't: a cozy lover's chat. O.K., Ginny sighed, on to step three: convincing Ron to go to the May Day masquerade. A near impossible task, if every there was one: Ron would rather be caught dead than dress up for a stupid dance. The Yule Ball had neutered him on the subject forever. Her mind told her she was doing this for altruistic reasons, to mend some broken hearts, but her own broken heart said a lot more. For if Ron went, Harry was sure to follow. And if Harry went . . . Much to Ginny's confusion, Harry was becoming more . . . attentive, over the last few weeks. He had taken to sitting by her at breakfast, walking her back from Quidditch, even going as far as to carry her broom. She rationally told herself that he was being friendly, but secretly she remembered the feeling of his fingers on her face, and during quiet moments in the common room at night, she thought she spied him looking at her, as though he too remembered. Oh, what was she thinking? That happened months ago. Maybe she had bruised her nose, and he was just making sure it wasn't broken. Every girl in Hogwarts lusted after Harry, probably because he treated them with the same consideration. Who wouldn't fall in love with him? Romilda Vane was practically leaving him detailed directions to the nearest broom closet with a money back guarantee. No, Harry was simply being Harry. She sighed, and gracefully slid from the window seat, pulling her jumper over her shoulders. The Common Room was empty, save Ron and Harry. They sat before the fire deep in discussion: Harry writing feverishly, Ron looking over a dog-eared parchment. The word Voldermort passed between them, and her blood froze for a second. She coughed softly to herself, both heads snapped up. "Hi," she whispered. "Hey, Ginny," said Ron abruptly, quickly folding the parchment, "Didn't see you there. What are you doing up this late?" Harry returned to his writing, his eyes fixed on his scroll. "Can I talk to you?" "Sure," answered Ron. "In private?" Harry's pen halted momentarily; his eyes glued to the page. "Yeah, yeah, sure, what is it?" Pulling him toward the corner of the common room, she sat him down on a couch. "Are you all right? Has that Thomas bloke been doing anything he shouldn't?" "No, no. Everything's fine," she lied, "This isn't about me. Well, it isn't about me directly. It's about Hermione." Ron's face flushed. "Listen, I'm not going to apologize. We've been through this a million times. So I dated another girl; there's no crime in that." "She's going to the May Eve dance. She's going by herself. The only reason she's going is because I told her you two broke up." Ginny exhaled. Honesty was the best policy, after all, right? She expected a torrent of shouting, a denial, or refusal at least. What she didn't expect was to see her brother look at her like she was a limited edition Quidditch broomstick. "She's actually going?" "Yep." "How the hell did. . . She's going because I'm. . ." the words flowed out of his half smile. "Say you'll go, please." Ron made no reply. "You sure she'll be there?" "Yes." Ginny's eyes widened, "So?" "Hey, Harry," yelled Ron, "Fancy going to this masquerade thingy tomorrow night?" Harry's eyes remained fixed on the table, "No," he said flatly, and the scratching recommenced. Ron cleared his throat, acting grown-up, "Well, I'll think about it." Ginny swallowed, feeling the tears rising in her throat. "Thanks," she then turned and ran up the stairs. Despair tripped her, and she grasped the banister, shaking. She had been a fool, a stupid love struck fool. He wouldn't even look at her. He didn't want to look at her! Here and gone. Here and gone. Always. It would never change. Never, never, never! She barely made it to her bed, before she buried her face into her pillow, so her roommates wouldn't hear her sobs. *** The bonfires raged into the sky as laughter and music erupted from below. A large clearing near the Forbidden Forest had been bewitched to resemble a small Camelot. Flags bearing the crests from the four houses waved in the torchlight, while hundreds of students, bedecked in colorful robes joined in the merriment. Girls' tresses bore every flower imaginable, from roses to a potted mimbulus mimbletonia that Luna Lovegood balanced perfectly over her head. Ginny gazed about, her spirits lightened a bit as she smiled at the female throngs hidden behind elaborate masks glistening in jewels and ribbons. The boys seemed a bit more sedate, sporting black harlequin masks; some wearing turbans, others pirate hats. Pushing amongst the crowd, she nearly stepped on a small quartet of house elves dressed as minstrels. "Miss Weasley," a small voice chirped from below, "Dobby is so glad you came out to the festivities, so very, very glad." Aware that house elves had the uncanny knack of knowing things they shouldn't, she jokingly replied, "Dobby, here I thought my costume wouldn't give me away!" It was true. To combat her heartache, Ginny had thrown herself into the preparations for the masquerade, spending hours trying to find the right pale green robe, and an even longer time creating her and Hermione's masks, finally creating a peacock feather masterpiece for herself and a gilded Amazonian number for Hermione. Ginny's presentation of the mask to her friend left Hermione speechless, for the gold, coupled with her dark blue robes, rendered the bookworm positively stunning. Nothing could compare to Ginny, though, who looked as if she had stepped from a time long past, where fairies and witches were indistinguishable. "Oh, Miss Weasley, you can't hide from Dobby. It's your hair, no one has hair such as yours, Miss Weasley, even in the night!" he strummed his lyre and smiled, wobbling away with his merry players. "Well, Miss Weasley, now that we're here, what do we do?" Ginny laughed and pulled her friend toward one of the many Maypoles: three large stakes set into the ground draped in greenery; colored ribbons suspended from the top, festooned with flowers and topped off with evergreen wreaths. Pairs of young wizards and witches (the former looking up with resigned expressions, the latter just giggling wildly) were standing alternately around the base of the pole, each holding the end of a ribbon. They wove in and around each other, boys going one way and girls going the other, eventually meeting at the base. Ginny spotted Demelza, who, upon reaching the base of the pole, stood face to face with Seamus Finnigan. He looked up in fascination, his ribbon matching hers. The crowd cheered and he yanked the ribbon free. Ginny could see her fellow chaser's face flame from yards away as Seamus cerminously drapped the ribbon about her shoulders and kissed her smack on the lips. Another cheer arose, and the maypole magically righted itself, producing a new flourish of ribbons. "Here grab one," cried Ginny over the merriment. Hermione begrudingly acquiesced and began to trudge about the maypole. "It helps if you smile," laughed Ginny. Moments later, Hermione, giving in to her own inner maiden, chuckled out loud, smirking from ear to ear. The ribbons wove together around the pole. Both girls fell into fits of laughter as they kept getting tangled at the end and had to start from scratch. "Ladies and gentlemen," a voice echoed from across the field, "Welcome, welcome," Professor Dumbledore's sonorous tone wafted through the night wind. Ginny's ribbon fluttered out of her hand, and she joined the crowd gathered before a small dias. The headmaster stood above them, bedecked in gold and purple robes, a Venetian style mask perched on the end of his long nose. "Tonight we join together to celebrate one of wizarding kind's longest held traditions. For centuries witches and wizards have gathered together and ignited great bonfires to herald the arrival of summer, hoping for a good harvest, prosperity, and well being. In times such as these, the news we often receive lies far from that contentment we so ardently seek." Ginny noticed a far group of Slytherins snickering, and she reached for her wand, only to realize in frustration that she had left it at the castle. "Let us take this night to enjoy that well being with our friends and all we hold dear. For life, like a flower," a rose magically appeared in his hand, "is as beautiful as it is transitory." With that he raised his wand into the air. A cavalcade of gold and silver fireworks erupted in the sky. Cheers of admiration greeted them. Ginny pressed through the crowd trying to locate Hermione. Ooohs and aaahs reverberated around her as the fireworks bloomed into iridescent flowers that floated down on the wind to the ground below. A shower of lilies rained down at her feet. Ginny kneeled in delight, scooping up an armful. Oh where had Hermione gone? She was missing all of this. Just then she looked up to see Hermione finishing her last loop on the Maypole. A tall, masked, redheaded boy in slightly worn ropes was being pushed by another wizard, the former's mouth twisted in tortured disgust. Ginny's jaw dropped as she watched the scene enfold. The boy's shoulders slumped in resignation as he trudged around, grasping the ribbon like it might give him pocks. Hermione, clueless, was oogling the flowers on the ground, laughing, and laughing. Around and around they went. "Here we go round the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush…" hummed Ginny, her eyes dancing. The boy stopped dead in his tracks, and crashed into Hermione. He lowered his face; she raised hers. "Ron?" she whispered. "Pop goes the weasel." Then in an act of chivalry, unbeknownst to Ginny, Ron pulled down his ribbon and loosed it around Hermione. If Ginny wasn't mistaken, she could have sworn she heard the brightest witch in her year actually sigh after her brother reluctantly pulled his lips from hers. "Yes," whispered Ginny as the two waltzed off, hand in hand. Well, what do you know? She had ended up alone after all. Ginny shook her head and chuckled to herself. She contemplated returning to the castle but decided against it. She was going to enjoy herself, even if this armful of lilies proved to be her only date. Scanning the crowd for a friendly face, the young wizard Ron had abandoned at the Maypole caught her eye. Dressed entirely in black, save the gold mask he wore, an elegant cloak swept about his shoulders. He was listening politely to beautiful fifth year witch from Ravenclaw babble on, his arm resting against the limb of a tree. Who was he? Not Harry. Harry never stood like that. It was a posture more befitting a Slytherin, suave, almost regal, yet there was a sensuousness to it, an almost predatory confidence. No, he definitely was not Harry. Plus, she reminded herself; Harry had no desire to be here tonight, to be here with her tonight. She was just about to walk toward the refreshments when someone shouted her name. She spun around but saw no one, bodies were mere outlines in the torchlight. Glancing back at the stranger, she froze. He stood, transfixed, staring at her, arm still resting against the tree, the witch still rambling on. Ginny swallowed. He nodded subtly. The wind whipped his cape, the lining flashed scarlet. Music and movement morphed in a bizarre dreamlike haze about them, where they remained the only fixed points, like stars across a sky. Heart beating in her throat, she stepped backwards, lilies falling to her feet. A ribbon fluttered into her empty hands. Slowly and deliberately, he began to walk towards the Maypole, eyes riveted upon her. He grasped a ribbon. She stepped backwards, he forwards. The music grew louder. Their gaze intense; he pursued her, she eluded him. The ribbons began to shorten, the dance becoming wild, the stranger moving faster, more determined, Ginny flowing in the darkness, her body fairy-like, unnaturally light, ethereal. The ribbons twisted and twisted, down and down and down. Finally Ginny stopped, her ribbon would move no more. She was trapped. Closing her eyes, she twisted the cloth in her hands, palms sweating. Shivering, she turned her head into the Maypole, captured. Suddenly the music stopped, the tide of movement washed against her. Blinking her eyes open, she looked about; outlines of bodies and masks spirited by. He had disappeared, vanished into the darkness. Breathing heavily, she dropped the ribbon from her hands. It wafted away, swept up into the night air. She stepped back from the Maypole, overcome with a strange sadness, echoed by the melancholy strains of the minstrels. A hand touched her. She gasped. He was standing behind her. Her body stiffened; his hand tightened around her arm. He whispered her name. His breath brushed against her hair. Something washed over her mind with his words; so passionate it caused her to stumble. No it couldn't be; it had to have been a dream. His lips, his breath had . . . No, no. Yet everything was telling her that it was true, their bodies had twined together like that, frantic and uncontrollable. No, .No. She ran. Pressing through the crowd, the masks passed strange and macabre in her dream-like vision; the sounds of fireworks and medieval strains twisted within her ears. The scent of flowers and earth mingled with the night air. Everything was spinning furiously, around and around; flowers fell from her hair. Someone yanked her hand and pulled her into a spiral dance. Staggering, she clasped a pair of hands, battling to remain upright, her heart pounding madly. Shouts exploded around her; her eyes whipped about. She was part of a ring of young witches who stood, backs to a circle, galloping wildly. Flowers and masks spun in an eerie blur: golds, turquoises, magentas, diamonds and pearls, glistened in the torchlight. A ring of young wizards faced them, shouldering each other as they raced about, shouting and laughing. The rings spun faster and faster, then slowed, masks morphing in and out of sight. There he stood. His mask, his eyes. Gold. Gold and green. She battled to look away. His eyes held hers. Frozen she stood there, feeling hunted, like a helpless creature, moments before it meets death. "No," she cried, and tore her hands away. Tripping and falling, she ran. Ran toward the forest. The branches whipped against her arms, stinging her. She felt him behind her, his feet breaking through the underbrush, in pursuit. Deeper into the forest she ran, farther than she had ever gone, farther than she knew was safe. Plastering herself against a tree, she panted heavily, gasping for air. She listened, her fingers digging into the bark. Nothing. She had lost him. Nothing. Closing her eyes, she exhaled and slumped back into the tree. A breathe of wind blew through the towering pines; the stars barely visible threw the deep green canopy. It was then that she heard it: a plaintive, empyreal sound. Vibrating in the air surrounding her, were a host of fairies, luminescent in the darkness, their wings beating like hummingbirds. Ginny's mouth formed a silent "Ooo" as she watched them dance in wispy circles, each movement conjuring a blossom. Then in graceful loops they interwove the chain and softly moved toward her. Her heart fluttered in her chest at the sight, exquisite beyond description. She knew the honor they had bestowed her, and she stepped toward them. Her movement caused them to stir in the wind; then, smiling in impish delight, they placed the boughs upon her. The sweetness and warmth of jasmine washed over her, and she raised her hand to feel the fairies' work. From across the woods he stepped between two trees. He stood there, unmoving. Still breathing hard, his mask still in place. The fairies spun about, delighted sighs came from them in an unknown tongue. They flew in gossamer patterns toward the young wizard, and spinning their craft, lay a garland across his shoulders. Overcome, Ginny stepped back into the darkness, then twisted, her robe caught on a briar. In several strides he was before her, his arms tight around her waist. She turned her head, her heart racing. His hand rose gently to her face and unmasked her. The peacock feathers fell to the ground. She closed her eyes, desire cascaded through her. Trembling, she raised her hand. Reaching up, she took a soft breath; her fingers brushed against his mask. He hissed. He wrenched her hand away, and held it behind her, captive, his other arm wrested her to him, forcing her eyes to meet his. He bent over her and gazed at her face. Ginny's breath caught. For what seemed like an eternity he stared at her. A silhouette in the inky blackness. Not moving. Not breathing. Then his lips found her brow. They rested there, in desire or reverence, Ginny couldn't tell. They trailed to her eyes, tenderly kissing each one, then finally, to her lips. Ginny gasped, undone. Moaning in unison, they fell to the forest floor, the ferns soft beneath them. Their kissing became more heated as they rolled over and over, stars and earth and trees blending. She felt the rich dirt on the back of her hands as he held her wrists above her head, his teeth grazing her neck. Then his lips found hers again and in a wild passion everything was torn away, flowers, robes, and his mask last of all. Light. It was light. She heard the call of birds. The ground was so soft beneath her. She reached for him, to feel his bare shoulders again, to touch his face. "Wake up, you said you'd help me." Ginny's mind swirled, spinning wildly. She groaned, and a second later, her eyes flew open. Hermione was sitting at the end of her bed, something gold in her hands. "If I'm going with you tonight, I don't want to look like a fool." "What?" croaked Ginny, her voice raw. "Are you going to help me or what?" Through blinking eyes, Ginny whipped her head about. Sunlight streamed in through the mullioned windows of the dormitory. Girls flitted about chattering, some squinting in mirrors, others heading down the stairs. Ginny looked between her friend and her mask, and gaped, wide-eyed. "But last night, it was last night." "What are you talking about? Is everyone going crazy around here? Honestly. First Harry, now you. I swear it has something to do with that godawful drink you all had over Christmas." "No, the masquerade, May Day, what day is it?" "It's April thirtieth. Are you sure you're all right?" Ginny fell back onto her pillows. Her mind racing, she caught her breath and asked in a small voice, "What about Harry?" "He looked pale as a sheet at breakfast. He kept asking what day it was. He wouldn't believe us. He kept muttering something about the Forbidden Forest, and looking at Ron like he might attack him at any minute. Ron thinks he's lost it. He said he was tossing and turning something wild last night in his sleep. I'm worried, myself; I honestly thought his dreams had stopped." Ginny, blanched, her blanket balled in her fists, "He didn't mention anything else, did he? I mean other than the forest and fireworks and stuff?" her voice quivering. Hermione frowned, and eyed her friend suspiciously, "Yessss. He asked where you were. I told him you were having a lie in; you looked all unkempt, like you'd had a run through the Forbidden forest yourself." "And?" "I don't know. He shot out of the Great Hall before I could say anymore. He looked like he was going to be sick." Ginny cringed. "Ginny?" Hermione's voice wavered, and she turned to face her trembling friend, "How do you know about the fireworks? I never told you Harry mentioned them." Everything contained herein belongs to J.K. Rowling. I just wish she'd let me have the interest on her checking account – could you imagine? Special thanks to the special Kelley for "writing" my wrongs, and to my fabulous reviewers who make it a joy to write. Notes: Oh, that Absent-ithe is tricky stuff. We'll find out more about its side effects in the next and final chapter. The masquerade is inspired by the Henri Rousseau painting, "Carnival Night." Cheers.
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