She has to keep reminding herself that she's a good friend. That she always knew it would happen, and besides, they were her friends. She should be happy for them. And she is. Don't get her wrong; she's glad that they've found someone to make them happy. But in her heart, she has to admit that she always thought that it would be she who ended up with him, not her best friend. Not perhaps the one female she's become truly close to.

It's not like it matters, anyway. He'll be with someone else soon enough, and that someone else won't be her. It shouldn't cut at her heart like this. Only… only, it's so unfair! She always thought that before he would become truly serious with someone, she would have her chance. Because in the dark hours of the night, the voice within her that she can never completely silence sings like a canary. And though she tries not to listen, she knows that it is right – she wanted more than anything to have her one shot with him, to feel those lips pressed against hers if only to know that they weren't supposed to be. She needed that closure, that finality. And while she accepted before that it would be awhile before she ever got it, she now has to accept that the answer may never come. Even though she had no problem with the casual flirting that went on between them when he had his old girlfriend, she knows that she could never betray her best friend, even though she feels like that's just what's been done to her.

Of course it's not a betrayal for them to be together, and if she's honest with herself (even though she hates to be), she knows it. She knows that they can't help how they feel, and while she wants to shake them, to cry and scream and tell them, tell him, that they cannot do this to her, she finds herself talking excitedly with her best friend, telling her how excited she is for her, that she can't wait until he gets up the courage to finally ask her out.

And he will. She knows, because she herself has asked him about his intentions, and he's made them painfully clear. It's eating away at her now, even though she'd never, ever admit it. Every time the three of them are together, whether their other friends are around or not, she wants to scream. It hurts to smile, and she's surprised (and just a little hurt) that they can't see the pain in her eyes. Or maybe they just don't want to admit it.

Another admission? She still can't believe it. She cannot fully process the fact that he is choosing to be with someone new, and that it isn't her. She understands why. She understands the risks it would involve, the sacrifice on both parts. She isn't even entirely sure that she wants to be with him – she had wanted it more than anything in the past, but that has dulled to an aching throb whenever she sits quietly to contemplate her life without him. Now, she just wonders how long it would be before they made each other miserable, how long it would take for them to admit that while they hardly worked as friends, they could never work as anything more.

It's maddening to think on for too long. They fight constantly, and it surprises people to learn that they are actually quite close. No, they aren't friends, if they're honest. They may hang around with the same people and talk, laugh, joke, tell secrets, but they aren't friends. Friends don't smile like that at each other, don't lean against each other so naturally that it seems as though their bodies flow into each other, rather than around. Friends don't touch so easily, nor so much. No one could ever accuse them of being just friends, but they're both quick to deny that there's anything more to it. They are not friends, not lovers, but if one were to see them during one of their dry spells, one of the times when they are not talking, they could easily see that they could never, ever be enemies. Miserable doesn't begin to describe what's etched in their faces during those long weeks that they avoid each other; even their friends don't smile as frequently or laugh with any ease. The tension kills everything around them.

She hasn't cried yet, and she tells herself that she isn't going to. Crying, to her, would be admitting defeat, even admitting that this is really happening. Eventually she knows she'll get used to it, because they are the two people in the world that she is closest to, and she has no one else to be with during the day. She is slightly ashamed to realize that if she had any other alternatives in the friendship category, she'd take them and run; but the fact of the matter is that she's spent most of her time accumulating friends around him, and eventually her, and those that she truly likes to spend time with are also close with the soon-to-be-couple. School is almost out, true, but for those last few weeks, she has no intentions of being alone. As pathetic as it is, she knows that she would rather smile and nod, put on a happy face and make snide and rather uncalled for comments in her head than wander around as a loner.

What really hurts is the fact that her best friend would do this to her. She remembered crying for hours after her confession, after it was told that she, too, had a crush on him. And even though she wanted nothing more than to scream, to throw things and demand that she keep her filthy (tramp) hands off of him, she sucked it up. She told her friend that while she was not sure she would be okay with the situation at first, she would get over it. Even then, she knew that her friend would have the greater chance of winning his affections, and while she wanted nothing more than to sabotage or ruin those chances, she did nothing. Not because she was being a good friend, but because she honestly never thought that things would get so out of control.

She's kicking herself for not speaking up. What could be done, though? It isn't as though he's completely unaware of her feelings towards him, but the fact of the matter is, he doesn't want her. That single thought resonating through her mind does more damage to her heart than her best friend's grinning face – it hurts almost as much as the mental image of them together, kissing, holding hands, smiling. It may be selfish, but it still somehow doesn't seem right. Years she's waited for her chance, for the opportunity to just get this silly little urge to run her fingers through his hair, to taste his lips on hers, to feel his arms on her waist pulling her closer, to just get it out of her system already!

All that little - all her best friend has to do is smile, and laugh, and touch his arm, and she's in.

She doesn't want to hate her. She truly doesn't; most of the time, she enjoys her company, thinks she's a wonderful person. She just wishes that she'd go be a wonderful person somewhere that he wasn't. She wishes that the two had never met.

Oh hell. Let's be honest – she wishes that her best friend would die. Not forever; maybe die is the wrong word. Temporarily comatose, there we go. Maybe even just that she would suddenly decide that she doesn't have any feelings for him whatsoever. That would be ideal. Then he would get over her, and she would have her chance again.

Ginny Weasley feels like the most selfish person in the world right now, as she finally imagines Harry Potter and Hermione Granger together once too often, and unleashes her torrent of tears into her pillow. But no matter how many times she tries to chastise herself, the situation still seems wrong, unfair, because Hermione hasn't waited for years. Years of her life wasted, and neither of them can see just how deep they've driven the knife.

And what's worse, she isn't sure either of them would care.