Author's Note: This is the first fic I'm uploading in about four months I think. It's been such a long time. I've been trying and trying and trying to write, but the muse wouldn't come; maybe I've been too busy, I don't know. Anyway, I'm glad I've finally written something. I miss writing. There'll probably be more Ginny vignettes coming up. As you might guess after reading the fic, I've been reading Plath. :)

Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter nor Sylvia Plath's poems.

Heartbreak

By like a falling star

Outside, the rain is falling in perfectly diagonal sheets. It is the sort of weather Ginny usually loves; the incessant beating of raindrops against the roof, the windows, the ground, creates a sound like silence.

Today she cannot appreciate its beauty. The sky is open, Nature is grieving for her. The weather is perfect, and she sits in heartbreak. For a moment, an acute sadness wraps around her like a blanket, or a noose to be more precise; a strangling sense of defeat, and she can't breathe. She tries to think, but fails; it is as if all the strength has left her, has abandoned her in her time of most need. She feels dizzy, though she can't be certain. She thinks maybe the dizziness is an illusion, like everything else. Sometimes she's led to believe that he feels the way she does, sometimes she's certain he doesn't. This is one of those times. Almost instinctively (though why this should be instinctive, she doesn't know, as she has never done so before) she reaches underneath her bed and pulls out a battered old trunk filled with all sorts of knick-knacks given to her by various people. Her fingers deftly push aside the sundry letters, small toys, bits of memories leftover from her childhood, finally meeting the red striped cover of a small hardcover book- Plath. Her Aunt Kimberly, Mum's youngest sister (really young enough to be Ginny's older sister), had handed it down to her, the next girl in an extended family comprising mostly males. It is the only book of poetry Ginny owns, and she handles it with a cautious curiosity, as if it is sacred, or as if it might eat her alive. She has always been an avid reader, but poetry she has never strayed into. She opens the book to a random page (after all, poems don't have to be read in sequential order), Morning Song. The first word of the poem is 'love', and the tears begin to fall. She slams the book shut and halfheartedly murmurs a plea for help. No one comes. She decides to try again. She strokes the cover of the book, as if to apologise for slamming it close earlier, and opens it to another random page. "I made a fire; being tired..."

She drowns in the words.