Keeping true to every other detail in the story, let's assume Ginny is in Harry, Ron, and Hermione's year and is a year older than she actually is. Starts in Half-Blood Prince and carries over into Deathly Hallows. Rated "M" for language and hexuality—do you get it? Hexuality? Do you see? Ah, well.

I claim no ownership of any part of Harry Potter.

November, sixth year. Ginny.

The thing was, you see, he's never seemed evil; not to me.

He is austere in those robes that sweep behind him, his black, hanging hair surprising against the stark pale skin.

But I feel as though I see him clearly.

Truthfully, I find his cutting honesty to be refreshing. The majority of these adults—people we're meant to look up to, take after—just stumble through their days, saving face and biding time with their families and jobs.

This is why I've felt this respect for him, lately, this strange curiosity about him. I haven't ever really cared what my professors' private lives are like up until. . .

It's not only his blunt, observant honesty. Not just that. He sets himself apart from the other adults only by being himself; he prefers his solitude and I've found, lately, that I do too. I've begun to prefer being alone to being amongst friends. I don't even know that I can call them friends anymore, for I'm singular in my thoughts and feelings amongst my age group. Even Hermione hasn't been able to help me with this.

"Ginny, I don't mean to sound strange, but—" Hermione had fumbled apologetically when I tonelessly expressed this emptiness of spirit to her, "—are you maybe—a little depressed?"

In that second I knew she couldn't be of help to me in this matter. Clever as she was, though, she must have seen my face fall in disappointment. She added quickly, "There's nothing wrong with it, Ginny, nothing unnatural. It happens to the best of us. I've felt upset before, too. But you mustn't let hopelessness get you down."

But she was wrong. It's not so much depression as seeing things for how they are.

Oh, I am lucky, I know that much. I am pure-blooded in times when so many aren't. It's funny how you'd think being pure-blooded would come along with wealth and power, but being born with those things is the same as being born beautiful—some people are, some people aren't. You have it or you do not, and rarely do you become them if you are.

At any rate, this is sixth year, and this is what it's like. It's come around November, now, and after I've spent all this summer reading philosophy up in my room when I haven't been spending time with Harry, Ron, and Hermione—Flamel, Aristotle, Agrippa—I've come back to school as though with new eyes.

Or a new girl.

But that's it, then, isn't it? I'm not a girl anymore, am I? I was born in the mid-spring, and here it is fall. When I turn seventeen in a few months, I'm a woman. Odd to think. And I still have seventh year after that.

But anyway, life here is definitely different than at home. I can't see why I used to long to go home when I was younger.

The silence is uncanny here. When I'm out on the grounds by myself, rain or sunshine, it stretches for these long periods, punctuated only by sounds from nature around me.

I can't help but think of silence at home—a rare ten or fifteen minutes of quiet before a bang would issue forth from the twins' room, or Ron's radio would crackle to life, or the hens would cackle, or mum would need a hand with dinner, or any kind of noise makeable by six other inhabitants of the house. Thankfully Bill and Charlie have been gone for years; I can't imagine how much more cramped and unthinkable it would be with two more people living there too.

Yes, I've been more aware of the fact that lately, I've come to like my share of quiet and especially come to favor solitude.

And now I see that among no one else I have found—even Hermione loves spending time with Harry and Ron over books—he does, too.

And this is the revelation I'm having here in the shade of a tree by the lake, a distance away from where some Ravenclaw girls are frolicking. It's November. The breeze blows colder, threatening of what's in store this winter. The lake ripples. People are happy.

And I'm unraveling.

More planned.
Review if you want it to go more quickly ;)