What has become of me?
My parents christened me Ginevra Weasley when I was born in August 1981. I'm the youngest in a family of nine, with six older brothers, a loving mother and a father. Dad works a desk job at the Ministry; mom's a housewife, which is no wonder as there were once seven of us to look after. Dealing with blown-up toilets and biting door handles doesn't earn much, and supporting a huge family like ours does get tough at times. Believe me, I aint the first to go parading around in secondhand clothing hoarded from some local flea market.
I love my family, I really do, but sometimes it just gets lonely; especially when September first rolls around. I remember being a little girl, clinging onto my mother's dress, as we waved at the departing, steam-spewing Hogwarts Express.
I remember feeling anxious as I stood in the Great Hall for the very first time. I stood there in my musty secondhand robes; my red and freckled complexion was lost in the sea of eager, beaming first years waiting to be sorted. I didn't dare to glance around to search for my brothers as I knew their eyes were probably fixed on my trembling form.
The minute I stepped inside Hogwarts, I knew I was branded: a Weasley, a muggle-lover, a blood traitor… the list goes on. Of course most regarded me with indifference as I passed through the halls, but I wasn't oblivious to the whispers and sneers that seemed to follow me like a plague. I found comfort in the blank pages of a diary I didn't know I had acquired. The sweet words of the one named Tom turned out to be nothing but lies, however.
Life went on. Years later I found myself falling for the boy who had been my first crush; ever since I first saw him on the platform at King's Cross Station. In the beginning I didn't know what it was that I felt when he didn't ask me to the Yule Ball, or when he shared his first kiss with a girl who had once turned him down. My mind was consumed by envy and hurt. In the end we both ended up heartbroken.
I couldn't believe the words he said to me by the lakeside one summer afternoon; I was still immersed in the blissful memory of a kiss we had shared in the common room. I know he strived to save me from grief but his words were only agonizing stabs for my shattered heart. I wanted to scream at him, to offer my help. I wanted to tell him that he didn't have to do this… that he was no god.
I brush my fingers through my bushy auburn hair. Out of the corner of my eye I follow my mother as she immerses herself in the seemingly pointless task of polishing the silverware for a third time today. My own eyes fly up to the clock stuck onto the wall, to its nine hands, each one of which is labeled with a different name. I fiddle aimlessly with my fingers. I am drowning in the overflowing pool of anxiousness that is my mind. I ask myself how it came down to this. The answer leers at me clearly.
Because I'm no god… only human