Disclaimer: I do not own Ginny, Harry, Dumbledore, or any other character created by someone else. I do not own the songs quoted in bold, in this order:
"Champagne Supernova" by Oasis
"The Long and Winding Road" by The Beatles
"Iris" by The Goo Goo Dolls
"Desperado" by The Eagles
"Hickory Wind" by Gram Parsons
Thoughts in a Record Shop
Doesn't anyone understand? My life isn't in order, so why should I pretend that it's so? I don't have to be Little Miss Happy-Go-Lucky all the time. You know, that familiar smart-mouthed, lovable Ginny that everyone can't help but smile at when she shows up. Give a girl a break once in a while. Give me some breathing space.
The only proper refuge these days is usually in Muggle London. Hey, I'm not complaining. I'm not a Pureblood snob, I'm not even uneasy around Muggles. It's a place I can disappear to. I especially love Muggle music, so I can at least feel like I somewhat fit in. There's a tiny record shop just down the street from The Leaky Cauldron, where I can drown my sorrows however I wish. I've been there so many times, all the employees know my name and know that it's time to kick someone out of the listening booth as soon as I cross the threshold. A comforting clutter of vinyl is always there for me in the back room, and maybe the occasional cassette or CD provides some solace.
How many special people change, how many lives are living strange?
Things are weirder these days. Everyone's walking on eggshells lately... I don't blame them at all. Bloody hell, Dumbledore's gone. It's still so strange to think of, a concept I just can't wrap my mind around, and it's been two months after the fact. We've got one more month before term starts again, and no one knows what to do anymore. How are we supposed to face life?
I'm not trying to over-analyze, Merlin knows. But it's drained a lot from my life. Whatever Dumbledore may have been to others, madman or eccentric or genius, he was the friendly uncle to me. You know, the man who is always there at holidays, sitting to the side and chatting everyone up. But when he talks to you, all of sudden it's just the two of you in your own little universe. You're all that matters, and it's a warm feeling unlike any I've ever known.
The new Minister doesn't understand that feeling. He's so damned disrespectful of Dumbledore's memory... he hasn't changed at all since the funeral. He's still badgering all of us to "boost the morale" of the wizarding world, try and convince everyone that there's a glimmer of hope left. But that would be fooling everyone and selling a lie.
Or maybe we're too busy revering the dead to appreciate the task at hand.
The long and winding road that leads to your door...
Harry won't let me talk to him anymore. He's become this sort of brick wall, unmoving, unwilling, stoic and brave. It's what drives me utterly crazy about him --- crazy-annoyed and crazy-loving. He didn't want to believe me when I said I'd follow him to the ends of the Earth to fight Voldemort.
No, it was more of the tortured hero act, the same part he's played since Dumbledore died. The Harry I knew and loved disappeared in a fraction of a second. Maybe it was just the Harry I knew before, because I still love him. Even through all of his foolish heroism and contemplative stares.
When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am...
But he doesn't get it, he doesn't understand at all. I wouldn't say it at all if I didn't believe it, if I didn't mean it. I fully intend to follow through with my promise, I really do.
I swear, his angsty, pained looks of deep thought are enough to drive me up the wall. You'd think for once he's become more receptive to human love, or any kind of human emotion that didn't deal in darkness and gloom. Every time I reach out, he pulls himself back just a little bit further. It's an impossible task, to drag him back to reality, but I've worked my arse off anyway.
But I still love him.
Oh, how I still love him.
Oh, you're a hard one, but I know that you've got your reasons...
And then there's me. Where am I? What am I? Who is Ginny Weasley?
Once, Ginny Weasley was a loving daughter. The only other estrogen-carrying Homo sapien at The Burrow, in a family full of Y-chromosomed lugs. The one who was willing to sit still and let her mother put ridiculous bows in her hair. The one who dressed in sickeningly saccharine party dresses just for the sake of giving her mother some girlish indulgences. The little girl who grew up to play outside with her brothers but still came indoors to help out in the kitchen.
Once, Ginny Weasley was a tolerant sister. I played the tomboy for any of my older brothers. I'd climb trees, just to amass a wealth of scrapes. I'd gamely fly my broomstick in the makeshift Quidditch games we'd play, just to fall off time after time. I'd happily be the scapegoat for all of our schemes, just to be a fitting playmate.
Once, Ginny Weasley was a best friend. She doled out useless advice and gratefully accepted the useful kind. She laughed. She cried. She mourned as only a friend could in times of despair and need. She provided a bit of female companionship when it was necessary. She listened to every secret, every desire, every grievance, as only a friend could.
And for a short while, Ginny Weasley was once a lover. But only for a short while.
It's too bad that Ginny Weasley's been lost to this confusing mass of gray matter that puts on the guise of a tough little witch. You know, the one who can stand up to anyone and anything without breaking a sweat or a nail?
But Ginny Weasley simply cries within now, and she doesn't wish to return anytime soon.
It's a hard way to find out that trouble is real...
End