This needs a backstory, I guess.
After the war, Ginny has changed. She becomes cynical and she pushes Harry away.
He ends up falling in love with Hermione.
And this is Ginny's breakdown.

Her desolation was painted into every crevice of her skin. Hollowed, scarred, oily, bruised and pale- her complexion was far from flawless. And yet that only made her more intriguing.
She was no supermodel, no beauty to most- her face was a little too round and her figure would always be far from perfect. Her eyes were always vacant, but that was her biggest deception. She was a mistress of deceit, hiding her feelings, hiding her charm; she was horribly incomplete, and gorgeously so. She was the kind of ugly that holds some sort of raw beauty in it's appalling vulnerability. She was too flawed, too hurt, too cynical to trust anybody and so she appeared emotionless.
Oh, indeed. Her façade of normalcy was the only reason she was beautiful.

She was ridiculously in love and the world would likely never know it, because of her pride. She was empty, and heartless, and still so wrapped up in her past- it seemed to haunt her and caress her and protect her all at once. Her memories were all that she had, despite that boy with his kind eyes and melting smile. She couldn't love him, no, she would never. Because he would never be tricked by salacious eyes or promises of adoration: and she was terrified of it becoming something real.
He made her happy and she did not know how to endure it.

So she settled for sighing and lusting from afar; because he didn't love her and she was incapable of loving him. It was lovesickness, and it was a subtle kind of misery. Subtle, because as the days had passed it had gone from an all-consuming sense of gloom to a dull ache somewhere in her chest cavity. The thudding of her heart was all that told her she was still alive and she felt physically sick every time he uttered her name.
Because literally speaking, she was.

The pleasant initial feeling of numbness had long expired and had turned into something infinitely more painful. It was excruciatingly ironic that the only person who could save her was the one she was pushing away; he had become the subject of her adulation and the victim of her remorse.

He, now, he was something else. He was the kind of good-looking that made you want to fall into his arms, he was the kind of attractive that made him seem approachable. It seemed that his eyes would just beg her to love him, and she wholeheartedly concurred- she probably already did. She knew everything about him and she devoured any new information as if he were her oxygen.

He hated having his picture taken but he never looked anything short of amazing if someone managed to capture him. He would dance as if he were on drugs, yet become self-conscious as soon as the music had stopped. He hid under his hair and pretended to be invisible, he got nervous easily, he was a terrible liar. He had this habit of flicking his hair out of his eyes and whenever someone made him smile he'd make this tiny noise in the back of his throat to show his appreciation.
He may not have noticed it, but she certainly did.

He was wonderful, beautiful, charming, and she wanted him, and only him, forever and a day. Her ardour was inconspicuous and her glances were furtive and she was more terrified of achieving her heart's desire than she was of any other thing. Yet still she refrained from telling him, she let him continue to believe that her affection lay in the direction of some unknown suitor.

Unfortunately, time is a fickle mistress.
It wasn't meant to be.

He fell in love; alas, it was not with our heroine. He fell in love with the princess, the girl who was worthy of him, and they rode off into the sunset. He was euphoric, he was enraptured by her dazzling smile and he vowed to follow her to the ends of the earth- or at least, her bedroom, because isn't that where the magic happens anyway?

And she was left in darkness, struggling to recapture the sweet taste of fairytale that she had almost held in her grip.
She was forgotten.
Because what was the use in being remembered? He had finally cracked her, finally shattered her- she finally felt something.
It felt like falling from the precipice into a temporary oblivion- crossing the line between faking it and falling apart.
And for all of the rumours, all of the clichés and the hype, she finally knew the truth. It had been written all over her face since the very beginning.

There is no beauty in a breakdown.