Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all its characters belong to Jo Rowling. Don't sue, I'm poor.
Author's Note: Yes, I realize that this is basically a pointless little ramble, but I was always kind of curious about how Ginny would react to Ron's winning the Quidditch Cup. It got tiring after awhile listening to him brag when, frankly, its pretty clear he has no spectacular talent. Whatever. Remember, I wrote this at like one in the morning. Enjoy!
The Keeper
His red hair, sweaty and mussed from the ravages of the wind, shone in the brilliantly yellow sunlight, and the smile on his face was alarming for all its enthusiasm. Fingering the chipped wood of his broom, he sighed comically and scanned the expanse of the field amidst the crowd. His eyes fell her way for a second. He smiled again, that shy special smile he saved just for her, and she returned the acknowledgment with a laugh and a quick turn of her wrist to show that she had seen, and understood, the small gesture of notice he afforded her.
She was proud of him.
He had worked so hard, so long, to be able to clutch that trophy with the knowledge that he had done it on his own. Winning the Quidditch Cup. Knowing that, for a moment, he was considered a man of value. Yes, she was proud of him, that fact stood firm. He had provided her with the truest example of determination she had ever encountered in her life, in those past few months at school. He didn't eat, didn't sleep, didn't speak until he had perfected every move or save that could spell a win for the team. He had dragged himself up from the dredges of self-pity to prove that he, too, was a Weasley that was Worth Something. Pride wasn't a factor in the matter- she would be mad if she couldn't take part in that blinding rush of joy that accompanied the end of the match.
But she felt little stabs of disappointment prick the edges of her happiness, small needles of doubt attacking her bursting heart. As she watched her brother being carried away in a frenzied mass of red and gold, she wondered why he cared so much about such superficiality at all. She felt...hopelessly sad, all of a sudden, for him. Is this what he based his entire self-worth on, then? A game? Her stomach settled uncomfortably in a region near her belly button, and her head started to ache on either side of her temple. He was happy, because he had managed to win without Harry. The fact that he so badly wanted to outshine his best friend- his brother, practically- made her feel briefly nauseated. She knew her brother had a tendency to be jealous, that was true, but it was a strange quality that all the Weasleys had in small doses (herself included), so there was nothing unusual in that. It was more the fact that his jealousy had a sort of...desperation to it.
He was desperate for attention, she supposed. Or was he just desperate to please?
She remembered the first time she had been proud of him. She had been pitifully young, then, barely five years old, and she had ridden her first broom. She was no natural, and to assume that she had been excited at the prospect of learning would be laughable. No, she had lost a bet with her brother George, and in return she was forced to become the twins' flying pupil for a day. She didn't remember all that much of it, just brief recollections of feelings-mostly of mind-numbing fear. It was hardly a silly fear, seeing as she was likely fifty feet in the air. She remembered stealing a potato from the kitchens, that day, to see what would happen if she chucked it from her broom that high up in the air. The potato fell to the ground with a loud, sickening smack, and when she reached to feel the remains it felt vaguely like paste. She tried to imagine herself as paste. She remembered crying shortly afterwards.
Anyways, it had been on the day of the potato incident when Ron approached her. He heard her crying from his room, and managed to break away from his comic books long enough to see what was the matter. He glanced at her tear-blotched face , squealed in disgust upon catching sight of her snotty nose, and grabbed her hand. He had positioned himself on the broom awkwardly, but was obviously more used to broomsticks than Ginny herself was. She had been expecting to bear witness to his showing off, so it surprised her when he patted the gnarled wood behind him in silent invitation. It was the first time she had ever ridden on a broom with someone, before. The whole ordeal was a bit less scary, with someone else alongside her, and it gave her a sense of security and comfort that was sorely lacking when she was alone. George mostly let her into the air to fend for herself and shouted garbled instructions from the ground in an effort to compensate.
She slowly drifted out of her haze of a memory, bringing herself back to her perch on the hill behind the playing field. The post-game hubbub had subdued, for the most part, though she supposed that was because half the students were in the dorms celebrating. The Quidditch pitch was mostly empty, save for a few students on the Ravenclaw team standing about, clearly waiting until dinner to return to their common rooms. She thought it was an intelligent thing to do. They probably wouldn't be receiving such a warm welcome at the moment, not after such a wretchedly humiliating loss. A couple of second-rater Beaters, no Harry Potter, and still Gryffindor had won. As she waited out the minutes, allowing the breeze to tease her hair and face, she thought she caught sight of Draco Malfoy in the stands. His white-blond head stood out as drastically as the moonlight against the darkened night sky, and he seemed to be setting fire to an abandoned Gryffindor flag left in the dust. She didn't even know he was here. Or why he was here, really. His team hadn't even played. She waited patiently until the blond head retreated in a huff towards the castle, and discreetly walked over to assess the damage. Upon further inspection, she came to find that the ragged mess of red and gold was not, actually, a flag at all. She could make out, through the charred black fabric, the outline of an 'R.' It was her brother's Christmas sweater.
She couldn't work up the energy to be angry at Malfoy. The little pisser probably had enough problems of his own, and far be it from her to willingly include herself in them. Besides, his disappointment as to the outcome of the match was probably punishment enough in itself. Her mind returned to the blackened remains of the sweater. She wondered, vaguely, what she would say to her brother if he asked about the garment. She had never lied to him before. After a few scattered moments of contemplation, she decided to ignore the matter completely until he directly asked her about it. He would get another one at Christmas, anyway, and it wasn't as if he liked maroon in the first place. She doubted that he would be much concerned about the matter right now, seeing as he was basking in the glow of his newly found success. She saw Lavender Brown pawing him earlier on, in the crowd, with Parvati Patil close on her heels. He would be more excited by the possibility of female attention than he would with Ginny's harping on about a sweater, that was for sure. She would let him choose his own company tonight. Tonight wasn't a time for family. It was a time for Ron. For Ron to enjoy...
What, exactly? Newfound confidence? A sense of worth? She didn't really know. It briefly entered her head that she, too, had helped in the team effort. She was the one, after all, who had clasped the fluttering silver Snitch that day. Her skill had ended the game! Her, her, her. She noticed her thoughts taking a decidedly self-centered turn, which was never a good sign, but she didn't have the energy to dredge up any false humility. She could indulge in her petty jealousies for a few minutes; yes, she allowed herself that small comfort. She had been essential for the win, and yet no one had noticed her individually in any way- she was but an asset of a unit. A unit that didn't even exist at the moment, since most everyone was convinced the victory was Ron's. Sighing, she glanced up at a lighted window Gryffindor tower, and her eyes caught sight of a batch of red hair amidst a laughing crowd. He was in an animated sort of mood, his hands jumping excitedly as he rehashed this save, that play. He almost hit Dean Thomas in the head. Fred and George were there, too, hamming it up with the rest of them. Parties were always important to the twins-it afforded a chance for a little self-advertisement benefitting their burgeoning joke industry. They were never the type to refuse such an obvious money-making opportunity. Her attention went back to Ron again, who had just accosted a weary-faced Harry at the portrait opening. Harry must really have been tired, she thought, for not a moment later she saw a ruffle of black hair bobbing its way toward the fifth-year sleeping quarters. Back in the common room, in the thick of the action, Ron had burnt his hand in the aftermath of Exploding Snap, throwing his head back in mirth as Lavender dutifully attended to his scorched fingers. She watched him for a few minutes, from her solitary hillside under the stars. He looked happy.
And that was as it should be.
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