Ginny


Ginny paused hovering in the middle of the practice quidditch pitch that had been behind her house for as long as she could remember. The grass had always been a bit longer than regulation and the goals were little more than rings they had found in a trash heap. There were no lines on the ground, nor were there any places for people to sit apart from ramshackle chairs that had no backs. It was mediocre, at best, but Ginny had always found she loved it more than the professionally pitches she had played on.

It was their pitch. She liked how shabby it was. It was just like everything else. It was her family, and she loved that.

The wind bit at her face, cutting across so roughly it made her wince. Her eyes burned as she took in the pitch. They watered violently as she took note of the permanently burned spot in the grass from when Bill had tried to get Charlie to stop teasing her so much. They stung as she looked at the bile of rocks she had artfully pulled together in the hopes of making it look like a stadium for her older brothers. It hadn't, but that had smiled at her four year old effort any way. She blinked back the moisture the wind was causing as she noticed the banners she and her mum had knitted one year as a gift to Ron when they found out he made the house team.

Her broom dipped a little bit involuntarily when she saw the sign that Fred and George had erected.

"There's too many of us Weasley's to ever be considered measly!"

It wasn't very clever, she had to admit, but it still made her insides lighten up considerably. She caught herself smiling until she truly thought about what she was looking at.

The sides of the sign had crinkled up, the colors had faded, and the seams were fraying in every single place she could see. It was flapping in the wind, making little sounds as it snapped back and forth. It looked so sad, sitting there in low lighting of early evening. She imagined time did that sort of thing. It was inevitable.

The wind blistered her eyes even more, making the moisture spill out over her cheeks.

Her palms ran dry as she gripped the handle of her broom. It wasn't the nicest one she owned, nor was it the fastest, or the flashiest. She liked it more than any of the others she owned, however. It was Fred's old broom and that made it better than anything she could ever buy, make, or steal. She had been flying on it since the twins had donated it, rather generously when she had expressed an interest in learning to fly and play quidditch.

She dipped a little further, her eyes watering worse than before.

She was a bit ashamed by how wobbly her broom was. Her hands shook violently as she looked at the sign. She could just see the twins painting it. Their mother had made them do it themselves, the muggle way. The paint had ended up on the ceiling, Ginny remembered vividly.

She glanced down at her hands, taking note of the nail marks in the broom Fred had left behind.

They were little crescent shapes that littered the handle. She knew it was a bad habit of his.

A bad habit he had she corrected herself with a shake of her head.

Ginny knew it was a bad idea to come out here alone. The thoughts were always the worst when she was alone. Everything she saw reminded her of Fred. Everything she encountered reminded her, made her think, and made her feel things that stomach turn to ice.

Ginny cried out loud when he broom dipped even further, sending her tumbling to the ground in a pitiful heap. Her hair was covered in grass and she pulled herself into a ball in one of the taller patches of grass. The tall strands tickled her skin, prickled her nose and poked her cheeks. The watering in her eyes, which she was able to identify properly as pain filled tears, covered her face.

She just felt so sad. It filled her up almost constantly.

Harry understood. He felt the same way she imagined, but she couldn't seem to find it in herself to talk to him about it. She didn't want him to feel like she was blaming him; like she was burdening him. She resigned herself to keep her pain to herself. It seemed easier that way.

Of course, nothing was easy about losing Fred.

Ginny considered herself to be a very intelligent person. She felt stupid right then. She had felt stupid since Fred had died. She felt stupid that she hadn't been able to do something about it. She felt stupid for not being able to save him. She felt stupid for how little control she had over herself.

She felt her sadness filling her up as she lay in the grass clutching her brother's broom to her chest.

Ginny knew no matter what she said, thought, or did she couldn't bring him back.

Stupidly, she tried to bargain for it anyway. She would give anything to bring him back. She would have traded places with him, she imagined. He seemed to offer so much more. He made people happy. She imagined more people missed him. She cried even harder into the grass. She thought she would surely die from the sadness at some point. It seemed never ending. She cried more than anyone else in her family. Ginny had always been emotional, she could admit, but she knew this display took it to a whole new level.

Everything made her sad.

If Fred was there, she wouldn't be sad. She would be happy. Happier.

She curled into herself, resigning to the fact that she knew she would be crying for the rest of the night and the foreseeable future.