When an old friend I happened to see
I introduced him to my loved one
And while they were dancing
My friend stole my sweetheart from me.
Just let me start by saying that it was a pleasure and a privilege to have Ginny Weasley by my side to begin with. I knew from the day that we met that we weren’t supposed to be together in the end, but I could let that stop me, could I? I really did love her, and it would have been stupid to go down that easily.
We had been gone from school for many years now. She was one of the girls that flitted in and out of my life: breathing on my neck one moment and then leaving me cold the next. Each time I felt so close to achieving my goal that I could almost taste it, but every time I came up dry. Other men might have asked why I didn’t give it up; other men might not have tolerated such games. But I knew the reason I let her keep playing: I deserved it. After a while, a man learns that he can’t play games with a woman of her caliber.
After about three years, even I had begun to wonder why I hadn’t stopped showing up at her door, looking for some sort of affection from her, if only temporary. Sometimes I got it; sometimes I didn’t. She was funny that way. There was no question I loved the girl “ I just could never tell if she had any sort of interest in me. Sometimes it seemed like I was the only man in her world, and others her only desire was to find a means of escape. I could never figure her out, so she remained a mystery.
I sent her roses for a year once. Every day a dozen red roses, cut especially for her beauty would arrive on her doorstep. I never knew whether she kept them or not, but every time I saw a rose petal strewn carelessly somewhere on a sidewalk, I couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t from some bouquet I had foolhardily brought her.
In my mind, she became like a rose after many years. Beautiful and delicate, but I always had to watch out for the thorns. Every time I got near her I would prick my finger (almost purposefully) to watch the blood gather and roll down my palm. After a while it became a simple pleasure “ just to be wounded by her.
When I turned twenty years old, she was hardly eighteen. Only a child, but I knew that I would marry her if I could. As a boy, I remember my mother stopping low to teach me how to waltz. We would spend hours together in our living room, counting …
“One, two, three … four, five, six …” Mother would count, swinging me around the room. It was the only dance she knew, and she had competed with it in her younger days. Over and over again, “One, two, three … four, five, six …”
I stored away these thoughts at the back of my mind, and pried at Ginny’s conscience, trying to get her to go dancing with me. It was last hope to impress her.
At first, I thought all attempts were futile, for she always insisted that she couldn’t dance. Sometimes she changed it up a big and told me that she wouldn’t go dancing with a prat like me even if she had the chance. On occasions like these, I simply reminded her that she did have the chance, and if she had any sense at all, she would come. That always made her made. Occasionally, she was a bit less subtle. One particular episode stood out in my mind.
I had arrived early at her door, roses in hand. The second she opened the door, she began to yell at me.
“Dean, you idiot!” she shrieked. “Get it through your head! I will not go dancing with you!”
She slammed the door in my face. I suppose I deserved the outburst, but I hadn’t actually intended to ask her that night.
After encounters like these, I would leave my roses on her porch, hoping that she would see me again. She always did see me again, and so a small bubble of hope grew in me and I prayed that she might just love me after all these years. Even so, I never got that signal. I knew the reason why. She was never meant to be with me.
I pleaded with her for three years before she gave in, I think. I was twenty-five and she had finally given into me. Strong-willed as she was, she would never admit that she let me take her dancing, nor would she even admit it to me. All she said when she opened the door was, “Hermione already invited me. You’ll have to do as a partner.”
I was overjoyed when she held my hand. She looked at my feet as I counted the steps of the slow waltz that we were dancing together. “One, two, three … four, five, six …” I murmured in her ear, dreading and anticipating the moment that she would slap me. The slap never came. Eventually, she allowed me to draw her closer to myself; she allowed me to take her firmly at the waist, and, if I had been daring, she may have even let me kiss her under the starlight.
I could tell by her body language that, though she allowed me to do all this, she was still not happy. She knew as well as I did that we were not meant to be, but she had ceased to care. She had lost the only one she truly loved long ago. She bore a sad expression, but she allowed me to dance with her.
Toward the end of the night, I noticed that her eyes had traveled over to a corner of the field. A man stood there, his bright eyes shrouded by a mop of dark hair. A look of wonder lit up her face, as she stared blankly at him.
I smiled weakly and took her hand, leading her slowly over to the corner where he stood. I knew the man well “ after all, I had shared a dormitory with him for seven years of my life.
“Ginny,” I said, “you might remember Harry Potter.”
She said nothing, though judging by the look on her face she remembered him well. Instead the stranger stirred. “We’ve met,” he said cordially, looking up. When he liked eyes with Ginny, I heard him murmur something. “I knew her when we were younger.”
The three of us stood there for a moment, amazed, I think, by one another’s presence. Now when I look back, I think that this moment had very little to do with me. The wild and inconsistent girl I had once known was tamed immediately by his presence.
The man cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I would be deeply honored,” he said, extending his arm, “if you would grant me this dance.”
Ginny didn’t even look at me before latching onto his arm and clinging to it like a puppy looking for its home. I smiled. Looking back now, it’s doubtful that I will ever see her again, for we were not meant to be. Oh, I wish even now that she might have taken me as I was. I never cried for the loss of her, for I never truly had her in my arms. To understand, a man has to have seen them there, dancing in the moonlight. I lost her that day, but I made her the happiest woman in the world. Even then, she was beautiful, unique like each rose I had sent her all those years ago. She was like a rose -- beautiful and priceless. Her eyes were shining, and a smile was playing on her lips as they danced under the moonlight to the Tennessee Waltz.
Now I know just how much I have lost
Yes, I lost my little darlin’ the night they were playin’
The beautiful Tennessee Waltz
Now I am old, and I have had children of my own to bounce on my knees. When I was younger I had hoped that her children, one day, might be mine. I know now as well as I knew then that she would pass away from me, but I cannot help but hope that she’ll come back to me one day. She was mesmerizing, and I can still feel her words and her laugh pulsing through my body like the haunting rhythm of the dance she left me by. Sometimes in the evenings when the children are asleep, I take my wife up in my arms and pretend that Ginny is here again. Oh, the girl had such a hold on me! I can still feel her dancing next to me, the beating of her heart, as we danced to the Tennessee Waltz.
The beautiful Tennessee Waltz.
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Song by Norah Jones; Story suggested by the lovely Maggie, my dear friend. Look at the button below, and REVIEW!