The morning rose, bright and shiny, and beads of sunlight scattered across the gold-green grounds of Hogwarts, making them look even warmer and more inviting than the common room fireside was, in bitter cold.

Summertime at Hogwarts – or, rather the end of it – was always very sweet. There were still plentiful clusters of gold-tinted flowers by the edge of the lake, and Ginny and I sat in the midst of them, talking as was our custom.

“How are you and Dean getting along?” I asked her, twirling a little, lime-coloured leaf around my finger. It was a dear thing, and I enjoyed its touch. It reminded me of greenery and beauty and lovely scents.

“Great,” Ginny replied enthusiastically. Her eyes were starry as she spoke and, from instinct, I knew she was enjoying her time with him.

I could not help feeling extremely glad for her: It had always hurt me to see Ginny pine after Harry, when he paid her no genuine attention in return. It had also hurt me to see her date Michael Corner, although I knew she had always gotten along very well with him until the day he had made the error of abusing Gryffindor house in general, and running off to comfort Cho. Still, even though he was good-looking, I had never been able to bring myself to genuinely adore Michael. He always seemed to sour every time a Gryffindor won house points, or a Quidditch match or something similar.

Jerk.

“What’s happening on your side?” Ginny asked me, shaking me out of my thoughts and jolting me back to Planet Earth. She was now lying on her back in the lake of yellow, yellow flowers, and their gold seemed lovely against the red of her hair. I looked at her, and several incidents rose into my mind.

Harry. Not getting to sit with me in our carriage. Joking with me. Ron. Complimenting me. Telling me I was pretty.

They seemed ordinary things, very ordinary things and, indeed, they were so. But something held me back, and I was glad Ginny was too immersed in soaking up the sunshine to see the moment of confusion across my countenance, the sudden creases on my forehead. I had always told Ginny everything – everything. I wanted to tell her all this, too, now, but a strange sort of hesitation gnawed at me from within, and I kept quiet.

“Not much,” I said, emerging from my train of thoughts. “You tell.”