Hogwarts was a school like no other. A place of magic and ghosts, of history and beliefs. Unfortunately all of these tied together during the recent battle. The halls were filled with ghosts of eleven and twelve year olds, the stones were still tainted with the stain of young blood and the air still carried the cries of many.

For one such family this grief was immeasurable. They'd lost a part of themselves in this crumbling castle. Fred Weasley lay pale and cold, his eyes still open and the ghost of a laugh still haunting his features. Harry Potter may have defeated the Dark Lord, but a terrible price came with it. He watched from the side as the clan of red haired people converged into a sobbing mess. He once considered himself apart of the family but how could he now? After all he's done. It was his fault Fred was dead.

As if sensing his thoughts, the fiery matriarch looked up, her tearey eyes locking onto his. She left her little group and stormed towards him. He almost feared that she'd yell at him. Instead she did something much worse, she forgave him. She pulled him close to her bosom and smothered him in a fierce hug. "You're our family too Harry. Don't ever forget that." Still sniffling, she led him back to the family where they mourned the loss of one of their own.

Years had come and gone. Harry was still apart of the family, however small it may be now. Over the years Mrs Weasley had gradually lost her sons. George was second to Fred, wasting away into nothing until Ron went to check on the shop and found him dead. He'd gone in his sleep, the stress and emptiness of his twin's connection leaving him an empty and vulnerable shell. They grieved. Mourned. Feasted and cried. His grave was erected next to Fred's, the inscription a simple managed, following Fred's mischief.

Charlie in an accident with a particularly vicious Hungarian Horntail and Bill caught in a nasty curse. Fleur was devestated. She was left as a single mother of two, the unborn son never getting to know his father. Again they feasted and mourned, the Weasley graveyard steadily growing bigger. Mrs Weasley feared for her children, all their clock hands hung on one chain. All that remained were three. Percy, Ron, and Ginny.

Ron was next. He contracted a severe case of dragon pox and no matter how hard Hermione tried, she was unable to find the cure. Oh there may have been one before, but the battle of Hogwarts was only one of many and research papers were burned and destroyed. They'd had to rebuild everything from scratch. Ron passed away by choking on his own phlegm, his children and wife by his side.

Harry threw himself into work, despite his wife's worries. He took the dangerous cases and travelled far and wide, always picking a fight with something or other. Eventually he picked on the wrong giant's den. He was trampled to death and his body dumped in the ministry. His death was avenged by the slaughtering of the tribe. Another war broke out.

Ginny remained strong and healthy, something she cursed. Her quidditch days were behind her and her children had all grown up. Her father fought valiantly, but was felled by the blow of a knotted club. Hermione soon joined the family, caught in the cross fire of a vicious hate crime. Finally the war ended. The Wizards won, but barely.

She sent her children to America. They lost contact during the war and now she didn't know where they were. It almost destroyed her. In the end she found herself the last Weasley. Fleur had changed her name and moved back to France. To be a Weasley was to be in constant danger. But now Ginny stood alone. The grey skies matching the cold rain. She lay the flowers on her mother's grave.

She stood alone in the quiet graveyard. Surrounded by her family. But alone. She closed her eyes against the gentle breeze. "We won."

But had they really? She hadn't won. Not really. Not as she stood, the last of her bloodline. Not as the wind teased her flaming red hair, the last of its unique colour. Not as she stood as the last of the seven Weasley children, not as she stood as the only granddaughter of the families of Prewett and Weasley. No. She hadn't won. She'd lost. She was alone.

Alone until she joined them.

She walked away. She wouldn't take her life, not when so many others had given theirs. She'd just sit and wait. Wait until death came for her. That's how her children found her. Grey hair and wizened eyes, sunken skin and liver spotted hands. She sat waiting and waiting until Harry came and took her hand, lifting her from her chair and welcoming her home.

She joined them. Her stone nestled between her husband's and her youngest brother's.

Ginerva Weasley - the last one standing.

A memoir of the Weasleys.