Author's Note: All right, so I've been on a serious fanfiction writing hiatus. I have an idea how to end this story but…I don't know if there's a time when I'll get there. This could be it…at least for the time being.

   In any case, I'm hoping to come back to this and "Cold Embrace"…I feel they haven't really been done justice, but I just don't know how to handle it anymore. If anyone is willing to beta-read or knows someone who would, it would be much appreciated.

   And in case I don't write another one of these for a long time, thanks for the consideration, all – and I enjoyed the ficcing ride.

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   The Gryffindor common room is (as it's rarely ever been) quiet.

   He's the only one there, his eyes fixated on the bright flames in the fireplace. Everyone else has long since gone to sleep; after an exciting, early morning full of Christmas presents and a long, festive ball spent dining and dancing, even Fred and George are finally spent. So is he, but he hasn't yet retired to the dormitory to sleep, and he won't be anytime soon.

   All he can think about is her.

   She looked so beautiful in her gown, the folds of it perfectly framing her petite, still developing body. Her petal lips were dabbed in gloss and her eyes set in sparkling gold. Her shoes were delicate and silk, creamy white slippers for graceful, tiny feet.

   The only part he hadn't liked was her hair.

   He was used to her long, unkempt hair streaming down, falling every which way around her face. But tonight, just for this night, she'd gathered it as neatly as possible – as neatly as he'd ever seen it, and he'd seen it every day for quite a long time now – and pulled it back in a most efficient way. A way that meant there were no unruly strands he longed to tuck behind her ear; no runaway hairs he longed to smooth. For tonight, she was perfect in every way – an angel.

   Tonight, he felt like he couldn't touch her if he tried to, and that scared him like nothing else ever had.

   He tried desperately to restrain himself – he couldn't stand her dancing with someone else. He ended up taking his aggression out on absolutely everyone but him. Then, in the end, when all was said and done – when he was gone – he turned on her.

   He remembered her eyes, shining with righteous anger. "And why shouldn't I be allowed to dance with who I want to, Ronald Weasley?"

   "Obviously, you don't have the presence of mind to choose! Look who you were there with –"

   She snorted. "Oh, because that Padma Patil is just such a prize."

   He scowled back at her. "You know why it ended up that way, and it wasn't by my choice."

   "Oh, wasn't it? That's right, you would have preferred to go with Fleur Delacour. Yeah, and I'm dating Draco Malfoy on the side."

   "What's that supposed to mean?"

   Her nostrils were flaring in rage, and by the violence of her motions and the weight of gravity from the night, some of her hair was coming loose from its bondage.

   "That means that I don't think you would have had it any other way."

   "Come on, now," he retorted. "You know I would have –"

   "You would have what? Tell me, Ron, who else did you want to go with? And don't you dare say Fleur Delacour, because both of us know that's a joke."

   She was right in front of him now, her falling hair forming a halo around her head. Suddenly, it didn't matter how angry she was, or who she'd gone to the ball with, or how much she'd just insulted him. Suddenly, all that mattered to Ronald Weasley was that she was close enough to touch, and he could touch her.

   She was upset. She was human.

   He could touch her.

   "Ginny," he said, his voice suddenly soft and soothing. "I wanted to – I wish I could have gone with you."

   The fire in her eyes dimmed as if she wanted to believe him, but the cynicism in her voice didn't fade one bit. "I doubt that. It's Hermione Granger, isn't it? It's Hermione."

   He looked at her in disbelief. She ignored his gaze and continued.

   "I bet you've fallen in love with her, haven't you? Her, and her cleverness, and loyalty, and her bravery." Ginny wasn't speaking words anymore; she was spitting them. "If you could see her like I do…"

   "See her like what?" he asked, confused.

   She dismissed him. "Aren't you going to admit it? Don't you owe me that much?"

   He had long since stopped understanding her words, and his hands moved to her shoulders. "Ginny…" he said softly, in a low voice meant only for her ears, and not just because of the quiet.

   "Don't touch me," she hissed, trying to pry him off. "I don't want you to lie to me –"

   "Ginny," he said again, imploringly, "look at me. Please just look at me."

   She met his searching eyes with her tear-filled ones. "Ron –"

   "I don't want anyone – anyone but you, Ginny."

   She looked up at him and he could tell by her eyes – she knew it was true.

   "What's between us, Gin – what I feel for you – it'll never change," he insisted, his voice choked with emotion. The simple, maddening reality tasted bitter on his tongue.

   "No," she whispered. "This is wrong…and…you'll hate yourself for it. For…"

   "For loving you?"

   She quailed under the intensity of his gaze. "For letting your feelings for me destroy your life."

   He shook her by the shoulders, forcing her attentive. "Ginny," he began firmly, "this isn't wrong. I love you. Nothing about you can destroy me. Nothing about you can make me hate, can make me hurt, can fault me. You are the only thing that saves me – you're the only thing that keeps me from hating, from hurting – can't you see that I love you? Can't you see that this is real, that this – that we can't just put this away?"

    Her every breath passed her lips like a conscious effort and when she looked at him again, tears were glistening in her eyes.

   "Can't you see it – Ron, don't you know that we have to?" Her voice was small and pathetic, so strained with the burden of the words that she was barely forming sounds.

   "I can't stop loving you," he said simply. She met his gaze.

   "I know," she replied. "But we have to pretend."

   "Why?" he asked, half petulant, half desperate.

   "Because we owe it to them."

   "They can sod off. All I care about is you."

   She gave him a look. "You know that's not true."

   His expression softened. "The only reason I care about anything is because of you. I can't let the world be a place that hurts you." He wrapped his arms around her as if to shelter her from a storm, and as he felt her shuddering body against him, he was filled with the most bittersweet rapture.

   To touch her like this would be worth his forever.

   "We owe it to each other," she said, her voice muffled in his shoulder. She had melted into him, like the once-sibling she'd been, greedy for solace – even now that it meant something else entirely.

   "I know," he had said, as she released him.

   "I understand," he had said, as she left him to ascend the tower stairs, her tear-streaked face reminding him that his angel had fallen – and that there was nothing for him to do to save her.

   He sits alone now, thinking of nothing but her, and not understanding why – why he knows he has to be without her, despite the fact that she is all that he wants, all he's ever really wanted. The tears that streak down his face and into his lap remind him that everyone can be touched, everyone –

    Even when it's wrong.

   He remembers the way she looked, framed in unkempt hair, firelight dancing in her glistening tears. He remembers what it's like to make an angel fall – to touch her. He remembers every time he's fallen in love with her, and remembers every time he realized it. He remembers her beauty. Her grace. Her love.

   Her kiss.

   He closes his eyes, picturing everything he's ever cared about – everything he knows about her – in his mind.

   He closes his eyes, and lets the tears fall where they may.

   He closes his eyes, and tries to forget her.