She was beautiful to him.
Was it her hair? The way it shone like a ruby no matter the lighting…the way she tied it back in a ponytail some days? Was it her skin—soft and pale and freckled, like a map with various points on it for him to explore? Was it her shape, delicate and fragile and thin, although really she was strong and infinite and wonderful?
And yet Harry Potter had left her. He had done it in a chivalrous manner, of course, claiming that You-Know-Who—no, Voldemort (how he forced himself to even think the name)—would know of their connection, putting her in danger. But Neville didn't think that that made any sense. He was sure that Voldemort already knew who Harry loved.
Loved… The word appalled him—made him sick to his stomach. Harry couldn't possibly love Ginny Weasley. Harry couldn't know half of the things that Neville knew about her. Harry had never danced with her or fumbled with her or stuttered in front of her. But Neville had done all of those things…made a fool out of himself in front of a brilliant young woman. And he did it all because he loved her.
He found her on the train ride back to King's Cross. She was sitting in an empty compartment, reading a book. Neville smiled in at her. "Mind if I join you?" he asked.
"Feel free to," Ginny said. He sat opposite of her, and the two were quiet.
Time seemed to suspend as the silent seconds trickled past. Finally, Neville opened his mouth, but Ginny spoke before he could. "There's nothing you can do," she told him in a quiet whisper, not looking up from her book.
And he realized that she was right.
He could never do anything for her.
He wasn't her hero. She wasn't his to save.
He sighed, smiled, stood up, and left the compartment, all the while thinking that perhaps Ginny Weasley didn't even need to be saved in the first place.
She was always going to be the hero of his story. And that was why she was beautiful to him.