Here I sit now, just two months after Charlie's death. I remember the funeral so vividly. It was warm and dark clouds rumbled in the distance. A storm was coming. I shivered in my black dress.

"Are you cold, Ginny?" my brother Ronald asked me. I did not answer him. I hadn't talked once for the last two days since Charlie's death. Not a single peep. At first it was out of anger, because they took me away from my brother. But now, I didn't want to. I was too tired to talk to them. Too tired to work up the energy to speak. I sat beside my family. All of my distant cousins and relatives were here. My grandmother was weeping. A casket was open in the middle. They wanted us to see his body before they set it on fire. They called it cremating. Really, they were just burning it. Funny, for Charlie always played with Dragons, and every time one of them burned him, he would just laugh it off. I smiled thinking of him, and then my heart filled with pain. I heard the priest saying words and praying. My mother was weeping. My father had tears leaking down his face, though he tried to keep them back. The Order was there. Many of the professors. So many people were there. Charlie loved people. He loved to socialize with people. He always had friends, with all different kinds of people. All different races, personalities, ages, and social standings. He could comfort a person and make them feel safe. Make them feel understood.

The priest had stopped talking. It was silent. We were supposed to go up to the casket now. Supposed say a prayer or give a gift. Supposed to say goodbye. I wasn't ready to say goodbye. My family went up there. My mother first, weeping, her nose running. She choked on the sobs as she said farewell. And then my father. All of my brothers. They were waiting for me now. I couldn't handle it. But my feet started to move anyway. Against my will I felt myself rise up and slowly walk towards the casket. The wind blew against my dress and hair. I used to love the wind, loved how it would comb my hair and make it soft. Loved how it could sometimes be strong enough to pick me up. Loved how it would blow my skirts around, like in the Muggle movies. Now, I took no comfort in that. The wind could kill. Tornados and hurricanes and storms. It was storming that night.

I shook the thoughts from my head. Tried to anyway. Tried to shake the memory, the sight, the smell, and the warmth of his blood. The sound of his voice, a voice I would no longer hear. Along with my own. If he no longer spoke, neither would I. I made that promise to myself right then and there.

I had arrived to the casket, but not yet looked in. I breathed in shaky breaths and let them out, trying with all my might not to cry. I would not cry. I would not speak. I would not let my sadness show. For the life of me, I wouldn't do it. He died for the life of me. Was it even worth it?

I closed my eyes and opened them, preparing myself to look over. I felt as if I was about to leap over a cliff. I looked down. And took in a shaky breath. He was pale, so pale. Even with his tan, he was pale. His lips were blue. Someone had cleaned the blood off of him and put him in a nice suit. He hated suits. He shouldn't be wearing a suit. Didn't they know that? He should have been wearing his favorite t-shirt. The one with the giant green dragon on it. And some of his burned shorts. He should have been wearing a pair of those jean shorts with burned, fraying spots on them. His hair was back in a ponytail. He didn't mind it that way, to keep it out of the way, but he had told me himself, he liked it to be loose and open. To be free. He liked it when the wind raked his hair as well. My fingers itched, and I couldn't stop myself. I reached down and pulled the hair bow out of his hair. It wasn't even his hair bow. With my fingers I did the best I could to comb the strands loose from under his head. All of his piercings were gone. They had taken them out. Luckily, I had found one of them. Right in front of the bathroom where he died was where I found it.

I took the little earring out of my pocket. It was a dragon, of course. The first one he had ever gotten, and his favorite. I put it in his right ear, where he always kept it. I wanted so badly to see his blue eyes again. Blue like mine. I reached down and lifted his eyelids up. His eyes were dull, lifeless. Nothing was in them. They weren't his, they had to be fake. No smile. No sadness. No emotion. None. They were like glass. I let them go, and shut the eyes again. I felt myself smiling, my lips trembling to hold the tears back. But one fell. Just one, on his lips. His cold blue lips.

I brushed my hair to one side of my neck, like I had done that night when he put the necklace on me. I lowered my head and touched my lips to my brothers. Lifting my head up, I realized everyone was staring at me. I had been here for a long time, a very long time. It was time to go.

I ran out of the funeral area in our back yard. I ran into the house. I thought I would cry, but the tears didn't come. I was grateful for that.

I left the funeral early. I didn't care, though. I couldn't stay there. I'm sure one of them followed me, but I didn't care about that either. I just wanted to be alone. I was alone. I ran past the spot where I had held him. Someone had cleaned off the blood. I ran to my room, the very top one, in the very tallest tower. He had insisted I live in this one, because I was the princess. My brother had left me.

I locked the door and threw myself on the bed. I found no comfort in the big bed and soft blankets. In the purple room with white curtains. I looked down at the pendant around my neck. I didn't take it off as I washed his blood from me, reluctantly. Nor when I slept. I would never take the necklace off for the rest of my life, I silently vowed to myself. Just as I would never let them see me cry. Just as I would never speak.

And I still haven't taken it off. As I sit on the train watching the world go by I finger the dragon that the little fairy is holding. It stays under my clothes when I'm around people, and I only take it out when I'm alone. This necklace is my friend and comfort and secret. I am alone now on the train. I found my own compartment against my Ron's wishes. He and Hermione and Harry have tried desperately to get me to talk to them. I have not said a word since his death. My mother was worried. At first she just thought it was temporary. But after two weeks, when I would not speak, she took me to a mediwitch. One that specialized in psychiatry. The woman and many others tried with all their might to get me to talk, but I have stayed silent as stone. They will not make me speak. My mother is worried for me. Along with all of the Order and my family. I hate to make her worry, how much it pains me to do so, but I have promised myself not to talk. I will keep this promise.

My family has worked out a way of basic conversation with me. They will ask a yes or no question, receiving a nod, shake, or shrug. Usually it's a shrug, but they still persist. And they will talk to me, even when I don't respond.

My compartment feels cold. Though, everything feels cold now. Even though it is only September 1st, even though the leaves are just beginning to turn, I find myself wearing a cloak all the time. I try to warm myself, but I always feel cold. Outside it is clear and sunny. Inside of me though, it feels as dreary and stormy as it was that night. I think back to that night. I remember, after waking up on the couch, them all standing around me. I had been out for a few hours from the sedative spell, they told me. They had charmed me and snuck my brother away, out from under my nose. They had cleaned the blood off of the spot. My family and a few professors stood over me, their faces worried. They told me to take a shower, to clean myself up. I did. I didn't cry as I washed the blood off of my body. When I returned to the living room the dawn was just arriving. The storm had passed, along with my brother, but still I shuddered, looking at the sky. I looked at the book in the living room. It was open on the story of Cinderella, though Charlie had never gotten to finish reading it to me.

I feel the train slowing to a stop. Outside it is dark and I glance at my watch, which reads eight pm. I step off of the train and walk towards the carriages. But, they are different this year. This year, ugly, black horses pull them. I've heard about these creatures, thestrals, that only those whom have watched someone die can see. Harry described them as ugly, bony creatures with red eyes, but I actually find them quite beautiful, in an eerie, gothic sort of way. But, as I walk towards the carriages, I find myself glaring at them, as if it is their fault that my brother is dead.

I realize I do not want to ride the carriages to the castle. To be stuck in a small, confined black carriage that looks so much like the hearse that carried my brother away as I watched from my bedroom window sounds worse to me than walking through the cold, harsh wind under threatening rain clouds. I amble towards the castle on foot, not caring about the distance. It's about an hour walk, especially in the dark, but I still find it better than the stuffy, overcrowded carriages, despite the eyes staring at me as people pass. When I reach the castle the sorting ceremony has already begun. I look in through the window at the first years lined up, shifting nervously. They look so young, so innocent. They won't be for long. A war is coming. Soon, no child will be innocently naive of this cruel world. I remember my sorting, just four years ago today. I remember waiting in anticipation to walk up to the stool. I remember sitting on it, the cloth hat reading into my mind. I don't know how I got into Gryffindor. No bravery I had in me, none in my body at all. So, how did I get in there? I remember the hat reading my thoughts, my memories of a happy child that had never experienced the cruelness of the world. Who only thought of the amazing Harry Potter, getting good grades, and being loved by her family. The girl who had never had to be brave in the face of danger. And when she was, what did she do? She ran, and left her brother to fight for her. She hid in a bathroom while her brother died. And then she cried over it.

I feel the hatred for myself bubbling up. I will forgive the Death Eaters, I will forgive Tom, I will forgive my parents for not being there, and then for taking my brother away from me. But I will never forgive myself for running when I should have fought. I turn away from the sorting ceremony and make my way towards my bedroom, all thoughts of food, all thoughts of anything but self-loathing, forgotten, as they have been for the past two months.