He Never Came
Ginevra Weasley-Potter was changed. Anyone would be, after such an ordeal. A war, laid down upon her shoulders with such a heavy weight at the age of twelve. It receded, sure, but surely returned, denying her the love she had sought since she met the world's hero.
She got that love, that symbolic love translated into something real, as the weight on her shoulders finally lifted, as well as the world's fear of a nameless man, namely Voldemort.
That love was gone, gone forever.
Harry Potter, the world's champion, the second savior, the chosen one, committed suicide at the age of twenty. He never once killed, never once cast the killing curse, but he took on the world's burdens, as many as he could fit on his slim shoulders, and it broke them beyond repair. He coped as well as he could for nearly three years, as Ginevra would haul him to his feet, and he would sloppily plaster a smile on his face before treading through the constant mass of the press posted at his house: Rita Skeeter. It became too much, and Ginny could see it building, or emptying, she didn't know which. Then he put the ghost out, and locked it out. He was dead by his own wand, killed by his own hand.
The woman who once had so much fire in her eyes, matched by the fire in her hair, now was a wilted flower. She would walk along Diagon Alley, watching the children rave over the newest broom, their brand new wand, even the self-correcting quill that actually terribly ruined your papers' tidiness. She would sit at a table at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, alone and order a chocolate single scoop, and a pumpkin-caramel sundae for Harry, waiting for him to arrive. But he never came, not once.