Ginny sat on her broom, high above the earth. It was raining, and she was wet–drenched, more like–but she did not notice the drops on her hair, her clothes, her skin. She just watched them as they fell from the heavens above.

It was mesmerising.

The drops seemed to fall with absolute slowness. She could see each individual one, watch it as it fell, and observe it as it struck her self, and vanished into nothing.

The sound of the rain around her left Ginny deaf to the world–not that the world had anything to say to her, anyway. And after a while Ginny wanted to close her eyes and let the sweet pitter-patter of the drops caress her and bind her with its spell.

It was much better than going back inside, that was for sure. Even though he wasn’t here.

Ginny let her head fall back, no longer consciously holding onto the broom–she knew she would not fall, that she would catch herself by reflex. And so she did close her eyes, and she let the raindrops land on her eyelids and on her tongue. They tasted good. Exquisite.

Ginny spread her arms, now (reflexively) holding herself on the broom with her legs alone. She let the rain fall on every part of her body that it could reach.

The feeling left her cleansed, reborn into purity. And though a thousand words could be used to describe this feeling, none were so very right as those that were the simplest:

It felt good.

“How’ve you been?” said Ginny, looking at the fire and not at his eyes, not at that fire, no, not that fire, the one she could never seem to forget, to leave behind her...no, never that fire. She could never look at that fire, or her eyes would burn. Her chest was burnt from it already, and her face had just recovered. No, that fire she could not look at. Never, never directly, at least.

“I dunno,” said Ginny, and Harry nodded–she knew the nod, recognised it, and knew in an instant that the fire could rest once again. He was making conversation, that was all, trying to make conversation. He had no one to talk to. He wanted to talk about things that didn’t have any meaning, any real meaning, so that he didn’t have to talk about what

did have meaning, what had real meaning. Or at least...no, that was it, right? It had to be.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived in a picture book. She was a beautiful little girl, with beautiful red hair–just like cherries!–and beautiful brown eyes–just like chocolate!– and a beautiful smile that could not be compared to anything at all.

Even her name was beautiful: Ginevra. Say it out loud a moment: Gin-ev-ra. It sounds so very pretty, does it not? It flows wonderfully right off the tip of your tongue. You can always tell if a person is going to have wonderful adventures by their name, and with a name like Ginevra, there was little doubt that the little girl would lead a very exciting life.

Before Ginevra could go on a single adventure, however, she was taken by an evil sorcerer known as the Riddlemaker. He locked her away in a Dark Tower and Ginevra was left alone all day long, with no one to talk to. Once in a while, the Riddlemaker would visit her, but of course visits by evil sorcerers were nothing to be happy about.

Every time the Riddlemaker came to Ginevra’s Chamber, he would sit down by her bed and speak to her in a soft voice that Ginevra liked despite herself. He would always tell her a riddle, every time, and he said that if she could answer his riddle she was free to go. She never could, though, and she hated herself for it.

One day, however, the Riddlemaker came into her Chamber and did not seem to tell her a riddle at all He spoke only a single sentence:

“Name me and you shall destroy me.”

And Ginevra became excited, for surely this was her chance to escape the Riddlemaker and return to her family–her loving parents and innumerable brothers.

“The Riddlemaker,” she pronounced happily, but he was not destroyed. He smirked his evil smirk and put a finger to his lips, indicating silence.

He then vanished.

The Riddlemaker never returned to Ginevra’s Chamber. He had left a hollow feeling in the room, a ringing in Ginevra’s ears that she wasn’t sure she could hear. He never ever came back, and Ginevra was lonelier than ever.

One day, however, a piece of curled parchment–torn out of a diary, it seemed–lay on her chest as she awoke. She picked it up excitedly and recognised the handwriting as her mother’s. It read:

Ginevra’s eyes filled with tears as she read the letter and she collapsed back onto her bed–but her bed was not there. She was on the stone floor of a lightless dungeon, and it was cold. She noticed that she was very thirsty, and very hungry. Before long, she had fallen unconscious, and she dreamt of fire. Fire was warm. Fire was comforting. Fire felt good.

And then she opened her eyes to the darkness–but it wasn’t darkness anymore. There was a bright golden glow in the dungeon, as if from a–

Fire.

She would never forget that feeling of relief when she saw the fire in the middle of her dungeon. She would never forget that fire. She smiled her beautiful, incomparable smile and sighed contentedly, closing her eyes–

When she opened them, he was there.

Instead of the dim glow of the fire, a blinding white light shone from his armour. He held his sword aloft, and looked into her eyes.

“It‘s all right,” he said. “Riddle’s finished.” He put an arm around her and began to walk with her towards the exit, towards the way out. “Your silence is broken.”

And then it was. And then he and Ginevra fell in love and were married and lived in a great castle with their twelve little boys and girls, and they all lived happily ever after.

The end.

The rain had put out the fire, and Ginny felt good.

Ginny flew now, flew as high as she could go. Straight upwards, towards the heavens. Higher than she’d ever gone before, ever cared to go.

She stopped when the rain did. She was above the clouds, now, and the rain was below her. For a moment she just hovered there, like a mosquito just in front of one’s face, waiting to plant down and drink.

And then she sped straight down, as fast as her broom would take her. Faster, faster, faster still until she saw the ground only a few feet in front of her and abruptly pulled up on her broomstick. Letting out a satisfied breath, she slowed her broom to a stop and rolled off of it, landing in the soft, squelchy mud.

“You have something on your lips,” said a voice, and Ginny looked up to see Luna Lovegood standing above her. “I think it’s mud.”

“I do?” said Ginny.

“No, I do,“ said Luna. “But yes. In fact, you’re covered in mud, from hair to ankle.”

“I am?” Ginny said, closing her eyes and making a mud angel.

“Yes,” said Luna. “Didn’t you notice?”

They were both silent for a moment, and in another moment, Luna laid down herself and made her own mud angel. It was fun, you see.

“This feels good,” said Luna, her dirty blonde hair truly very dirty.

“Yes,” said Ginny. “Yes it does.”

“Er...I was just asking if you wanted to go,” doused Harry, sounding embarrassed. “As in...are you going to go?”

“But now you mention it,” lit Harry, “would you like to go...with me, I mean? I mean...Ron and Hermione both already left–I dunno who they’re going with–but I...well...”

Once upon a time, there was a sad little Valentine, named Ginevra. She was a beautiful little girl, with beautiful red hair–just like raspberries!–and beautiful brown eyes–just like swirling pools of mud!– and a beautiful smile that could not be compared to anything at all.

Sadly, her beautiful smile was rarely seen these days. As you read, she was a very sad little Valentine. And that was for a simple reason–she wasn’t anyone’s Valentine.

Last year she had been a Valentine. And the year before that as well. But not this year, no.

This was Ginevra’s sixth year at a magical school called Hogwarts. This magical school was so very magical that it had its own magical village to come with it. This village was called Hogsmeade, and everyone at Hogwarts loved it.

However, an evil sorcerer called the Riddlemaker was hurting a lot of people, even Ginevra’s friends. And so, all of the magical people at the magical school had to stay at the magical school and not visit the magical village for Valentine’s Day.

This was very sad news, because many of the magical people were parts of magical couples, and these magical couples did not want to stay cooped up in a school for the most romantic day of the year, you see.

One day, however, a handsome prince walked up to Ginevra in the great Common Room of her magical school. He said:

“Fair lady–” and Ginevra blushed horribly because no one ever called her fair lady and she liked it.

“Fair lady, won’t you accompany me to a magical place? The great Village of Hogsmeade has been erected within the Come and Go Room of your magical school, and I have no one to accompany me. Will you not do so?”

“I would love to,” said Ginevra, and suddenly she was wearing a festive gown that sparkled and glowed and was simply beautiful–nearly as beautiful as the smile upon her face, which could not be compared to anything.

“The magic of this Come and Go Room shall be cut short at midnight, my lady,” said the prince, lifting her onto his steed and galloping her off across the seventh floor. “We have only one half day to enjoy, for it is now noon. Let us go!”

It was odd–it had felt so very good to be cleansed by the rain, but it felt just as good if not better to lay in the mud and become dirty all over again. And then she felt it.

The rain–now it did not cleanse her, it simply bounced right off of her, did not affect her in any way. The rain was just the reason her face was wet, not the reason she felt good.

The fire was alive again, burning brightly deep below the protective layer of mud upon Ginny’s skin. It consumed her heart and she stood without thinking, and began to walk. Luna, after sliding her arms through the comforting mud one more time, followed.

“Where are we going?” Luna said.

“I have to do something,” said Ginny, but she couldn’t tell what.

“What?” said Luna.

“I can’t tell.”

“Oh,” said Luna, and didn’t ask again.

Harry returned and they went to Zonko’s–neither of them really felt like being there, but when one goes to Hogsmeade–any version of it–they simply must visit Zonko’s. It was as if there was a spell that forced the students to enter the shop–and Ginny even found herself buying something she had no interest in at the moment: a portable fire that snuffed itself out whenever needed most.

Once upon a time there was a sad little Valentine that you already know about. She was not so sad today, however, and for a very simple reason:

She, the saddest little Valentine, had a Valentine–a Valentine of her very own.

The Prince had walked with her all day–it seemed, though it had only really been a few hours–going into different shops and such, and buying her whatever she liked. And then suddenly they walked by a large field that had somehow found its way into this magical Hogsmeade.

“Let us have a picnic!” said Ginevra, the little Valentine.

“Of course,” said her prince. “Anything for you, my dear.”

But as they entered the field by the little wooden gate, a wooden table appeared in the middle of the open space. It was shaped like a ‘T’ and at the thin end sat the Riddlemaker, grinning evilly.

“Have a seat,” said the Riddlemaker, and Ginevra and the prince found themselves in chairs at the wide end of the T.

“I am the ghost of your pasts,” said the Riddlemaker solemnly; “and I am here to haunt your futures.”

Ginevra and the prince held their hands clasped together, and Ginevra was afraid.

“You were not made for each other,” said the Riddlemaker simply. “You were not. And you are not. Goodbye.”

He then vanished.

“That was awfully strange,” said Ginevra, and she looked to the prince to see what he thought but lo! he was gone too.

“No!” said Ginevra, and she realised she was alone, and was to be alone for ever after.

The end.

Gi nny walked quickly, quickly, quickly towards the castle doors. She...did not know what she was doing, but she was quite clearly doing it anyway.

Luna struggled to keep up, but she didn’t really seem to struggle at all–she was having a hard time keeping up, more like, but you would not know it by looking at her face.

Ginny had just reached the front steps of the castle, her feet slogging through the mud, when a white owl–contrasting violently with the evening’s stormy sky–perched atop her shoulder.

“Hedwig?” Ginny said, terribly confused, while also not confused at all–of course Hedwig was here. Of course–but why?

A letter, soaked through with rain–the owl seemed to repel the drops, so as to maintain its flawless feathers–was in Hedwig’s beak, and Ginny took it, thanking the bird, who disappeared into the storm.

“What does it say?” said Luna, catching up with Ginny. “What did he say?”

“I don’t know,” said Ginny, unfurling the wet parchment. Random words seemed to have been blurred to illegibility, and it made the message difficult to read:

Ginny dropped the letter onto the stone of the front steps just as a raindrop fell onto Harry’s name, blurring it out. Ginny let the parchment fall to the stone and set off for the front door, determined.

“I’m sorry,” said Luna, barely making it into the entrance hall before the great door slammed shut from the wind.

“For what?” said Ginny, heading for the marble staircase, knowing that of course Luna was sorry because–

“I splashed you,” said Luna. “I’m sorry.” A beat. “What was the letter about?”

Ginny sort of half-laughed, and noticed that she had a few tears in her eyes. Or was it rain? She wiped it away, either way, and got even more mud on her face.

“Nothing,” said Ginny. “The letter meant nothing.”

“All right then,” said Luna. She looked over her shoulder. “I hope you don’t need me. I’ll be in the Great Hall–I love looking at the sky in rainstorms.”

“Sure,” said Ginny, and she dashed up the stairs, nearly slipping on the now-wet marble.

Once upon a time there was a little Valentine named Ginevra, and she was the saddest little Valentine in all the land. This was because her true love, a boy named Harry, which is a very valiant name, was locked away inside himself, locked away by an evil sorcerer named the Riddlemaker.

The Riddlemaker had put Harry into an enchanted sleep, and only ever could he be awakened if Ginevra were to find him, were to get to him, were to give him the kiss that marked their love as true.

But the Riddlemaker had hidden Harry, hidden him away not only inside himself, but inside a Fortress of Evil. This Fortress was the home to a Wicked Witch, who was the fairest witch in all of the world, and had performed the Riddlemaker’s enchantment–the one to make Harry dead to the world.

This Wicked Witch had kissed Harry while crying, and as everyone knows, when a wicked kiss is combined with tears, the kissed will be enchanted as Harry had been, exactly two years before.

But now Ginevra was going to free Harry, to break the enchantment cast upon him by the Wicked Witch and the Riddlemaker, if only she could find her way into the Fortress.

Ginevra had searched all the lands surrounding the Fortress for some sort of secret entrance, but none were to be found. Finally, aid came to her in the form of a beautiful owl, feathers as white as snow.

“Your love is in a troubled sleep,” cooed the owl, though Ginevra had never before been able to hear an owl coo. “You must rescue him now, before his nightmares overcome him–I shall help you.”

“Thank you, dear owl,” said Ginevra and she followed the owl as it led the way to a small village. In the village there was an open field, and in the open field sat a table in the shape of a T.

“Under there,” said the owl. “Through the trapdoor.”

And Ginevra saw a trapdoor by the wide end of the T, and jumped through it, not a care in the world but to reach her love. The owl followed, and the trapdoor closed itself behind them.

Ginevra found herself in a mountain of pink confetti, and she knew that this confetti was magical, and that if she did not leave it soon she would fall asleep in it, and never find her way out again.

She did so, she got out, and found herself somehow in a black dungeon, though surely there had been light a moment before, or else she could not have known the confetti was pink. The owl was gone.

The room was black, but her eyes got used to it–somehow that felt wrong. Eyes don’t adjust to total darkness; they can’t, because no light can enter the pupils. But she could see...it took her a long time to notice that light came from within her self. A fire burned inside her chest, and the glow lit the room, however dimly. It was enough to see. It was enough to see him.

“Harry,” Ginevra said, collapsing to the floor by her true love’s side. “Harry, please don’t be dead.”

She knew he wasn’t, of course. He was still breathing, however lightly, and his eyes moved fast, back and forth and back and forth, beneath his eyelids. He was lost in a nightmare.

Ginevra had heard somewhere that it wasn’t good to wake someone during a nightmare, but she thought this would be an exception, and kissed her love, true on the lips.

The end.

Ginny made her way to the Room of Requirement, tripping twice over her filthy robes on the way there. The door was open, of course, as it had been to the Gryffindors all day. All day? How late was it?

And Ginny looked at her watch–half-eleven. If she could not get him out of there in a half an hour, they both would vanish with Gryffindor’s Hogsmeade (at least that was how she reckoned it worked; perhaps she was thinking a bit overdramatically).

She ran as fast as she could down the High Street, storm clouds crackling ominously above her as she went. On and on and on she went, running until she found herself in front of that place, that horrible place with its horrible Valentine’s decorations and its horrible memories.

Madam Puddifoot’s.

Steeling herself, Ginny pushed the door open and went inside. There, sitting at one of the otherwise empty tables in the centre of the room, looking quite miserable as a cherub dumped pink confetti onto his head, was Harry.

Was he...crying?

“Harry,” said Ginny, and she sat down opposite him. He did not look at her, and she noticed that his eyes were closed.

“Harry,” she said again, and he sobbed shakily, and then wiped his eyes irritably, as if annoyed at himself for crying.

“Harry,” she said a third time, taking hold of his arm from across the table, the one he’d wiped his face with; “it’s OK to cry.”

He opened his eyes now, and looked at her, just as miserably as ever.

“I–” he began, but he shook his head, scolding himself for some reason or another. “Ginny, I blew it. I just...I ruined any chance I ever had. Every one–I–I couldn’t talk. It was like someone was...was there, clamping my mouth shut, and I couldn’t talk at all, and...I’ve always been able to talk to you. I hated myself, I do hate myself, and–”

“Harry, slow down,” said Ginny comfortingly. “Just...slow down.”

He shook his head, but slowed down anyway, perhaps without meaning to. “I couldn’t talk to you. I couldn’t...tell you how happy I’d felt when you said yes, how I’d wanted to ask you for so long, how...how nice you looked.” He hesitated, really looking at her now for the first time. “You–you don’t anymore,” he said. “What happened to you?”

“Oh!” said Ginny, looking down at her robes and laughing at herself a bit. “It’s uh...It’s raining,” she said, and Harry looked at her in such a way that she knew he knew that that was the understatement of the century, but didn’t really care.

“Right,” he said, moving as if to wipe his eye again but stopping when he was about to have to take his arm out of Ginny’s hand. Instead, she wiped his face for him with her free hand, and he leaned into the touch greatly.

Both were silent for a moment, but it was the good kind of silence, because Ginny could hear Harry’s breathing, or perhaps it was her own breathing–it didn’t really matter.

“Thank you,” said Harry finally; “for coming here. For saving me.”

And then he sobbed once again, involuntarily, and shook his head again, back and forth and back and forth. “Everything is upside-down,” said Harry, and Ginny didn’t know what he meant. He elaborated before she needed to ask him to.

“Two years ago,” he began. “Two years ago today...I was here. In this seat. And that was one of the worst days of my life–I don’t remember if I thought it was then, but I know it was now. That was one of the worst days. And look.” Sob. “Look at this.” He gestured to the two of them, back and forth and back and forth. “Look at what has changed. I’ve changed.” He shook his head again. “You haven’t. You’ve always been the same. You always will be.”

Ginny was not breathing. How could she? She was on fire, and she was sure that Harry must be too, now, or at least must feel the heat permeating from her skin. The fire that had grown and dwindled, back and forth and back and forth, all day long, had finally become a full-fledged inferno. No one could ever snuff out the flames, by Muggle means or even by magic. This fire should be allowed to consume the world, Ginny thought, and she remembered hearing about some plants, or something, that only grew after horrible fires had burnt fields and forests, and those plants could be even better than what had been there before. Why shouldn’t the world be better after it was burnt by this fire, this wonderful, terrible fire?

But Harry hadn’t finished.

“This is one of the best days, Ginny. The best day. The world–my world, I mean, my world–has turned on its head. I feel like I’ve been turned on my head. I can’t...I just....This can’t possibly be the same world from two years ago, the same shop, the same seat.” He laughed slightly. “Well, it’s not, is it? We’re in the Room of Requirement, and you know what happened here two years ago–”

“Harry?” Ginny said, and Harry looked up from his nearly-senseless rant–that made all the sense in the world to Ginny–he looked up and saw that Ginny was crying now, and his eyes widened in fear.

“No! Please, Ginny, don’t cry. I’m so sorry–I never should’ve–never should have...oh, God, Ginny, I’ll just leave now. You don’t have to talk to me again. I never should have said any of this to you–”

“Harry!” said Ginny again, as Harry was about to stand.

“What, Gin? What else did I do wro–”

Harry stopped in mid-word, and he did not know why, unless it was because he had been mesmerised by the look in Ginny’s eyes. For a long moment neither of them said a word–again–and now Ginny was sure that it was both of their breaths that she could hear, not hers and his, but both together.

She broke the silence:

“I love you, too, Harry.” And Harry sobbed one final time; it was a sob of disbelief, Ginny knew, though she had never in her life heard a sob of disbelief before.

Another long moment. Another silence. And again Ginny heard their breathing together.

“You can kiss me now, Harry,” she said, and he did. He didn’t remember reaching across the table, he didn’t remember anything, save Ginny.

Save Ginny indeed.

Once upon a time there was a little Valentine named Harry, and he was the saddest little Valentine in all the land. This was because he had been locked away from his true love, a beautiful girl named Ginevra. She had beautiful red hair–just like fire!–and beautiful brown eyes–just like tea!–and a beautiful smile that could not be compared to anything at all.

One day, Ginevra showed that she was the bravest little girl in all the land, though of course she wasn’t a very little girl at all–more like the bravest little young lady in all the land, because she still was very small, despite her age.

Anyway, one day Ginevra saved Harry from a horrible Fate, a Fate that–as she showed him–was not Harry’s Fate at all.

Harry’s true Fate lied with Ginevra herself, who rescued him from the evil sorcerer, the Riddlemaker, by burning him with the fire of her heart–or had it been the fire of his own heart that had defeated the sorcerer?

It did not matter, in the end. For in that end, Harry and Ginevra lived in a wonderful castle called Hogwarts, which was Harry’s true home, just as Ginevra was his true love. The two married and had twelve little girls and boys of their own, who all had names worthy of adventurers, like their parents’. All of them, however, through both adventure and calm, both true love and dream, lived happily ever after.

The end.