She was a pretty little sixth year. Many people had told her so. Especially recently due to the people pouring in and out of her home. Family. Family friends. Old friends. Friends that were about to graduate.

Ginny didn't feel pretty. The hair that she had once prided was frayed and frizzed. Some of it was lying on the hardwood around her bed. Pain was a good release for her. Her face was hollow, her skin pale. Eyes empty.

Ginny didn't feel very pretty at all.

She felt betrayed, but she wasn't sure who she felt betrayed by. She could hear people downstairs. People moving around in the kitchen, pots and pans, chairs scraping on the hardwood, hushed conversations, sobs. None of them could be blamed.

The only two who could've been blamed were dead. One a murderer. One a hero. Too much of a hero, if you asked her. She'd rather he'd been locked away behind school walls with the rest, protected by the final blessings of Dumbledore.

That wasn't Harry though. Harry had to play the hero. It was his nature, or rather his blood. She knew that, but she couldn't help but hate him for it.

Ginny couldn't help but hate the hero more than the murderer, because he was the only one she wanted to hear about her beauty from. Now, she'd never have that chance.