Ginny looked up into Harry's face, took a deep breath, and said, "Happy seventeenth."
"Yeah. . . thanks."
She was looking at him steadily; he, however, found it difficult to look back at her; it was like gazing into a brilliant light.
"Nice view," he said feebly, pointing toward the window.
She ignored this. He could not blame her, "I couldn't think what to get you," she said.
"You didn't have to get me anything." She disregarded this too.
"I didn't know what would be useful. Nothing too big, because you wouldn't be able to take it with you."
He chanced a glance at her. She was not tearful; that was one of the many wonderful things about Ginny, she was rarely weepy. He had sometimes thought that having six brother must have toughened her up. She took a step closer to him.
"So then I thought, I'd like you to have something to remember me by, you know, if you meet some veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing."
"I think dating opportunities are going to be pretty thin on the ground, to be honest."
"There's the silver lining I've been looking for," she whispered, and then she was kissing him as she had never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was blissful oblivion better than firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling hair.

Joanne Kathleen Rowling

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