Litany
Ginny's never been religious, but she's always been a believer.
She's believed the words you're special, little Ginny, whether spoken in her father's gruff voice, her mum's gentle murmur, or scratched across parchment in death-black ink.
She's believed in a tiny, black-haired, bright-eyed saviour since she was old enough to understand the words to her mum's bedtime stories.
She's believed in good and evil, right and wrong, wickedness and purity, and she knows which side she wants to work for, from now on.
Ginny's never been religious, but she's trying, because now that she's fourteen and the world has changed, she knows that sometimes saviours need a little help.
She's borrowed a stack of books from Madam Pince, some crumbling about the edges and written in an English so old she can barely follow it. The ancient words speak of great things, of absolute good, of triumph over wrong, of faith. They speak of fantastic things, things that must stretch Muggle imagination, yet are not so far from the here-and-now of Ginny's world: cherubim and seraphim, archangels and beasts.
It's confusing, a little, but Ginny doesn't want Hermione to explain it all, Hermione who scoffs at tea-leaves and rolls her eyes at crystal balls. So she reads on her own, lips moving silently as she memorises the well-worn words and phrases.
...as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be…
The words are wonderful, and she loves the way they roll off her tongue at night, in the deep dark behind her bed curtains. Words written by a saviour's friends, thousands of years ago. I believe, I believe, I believe.
They're not Latin, but they're wonderful; they're like a spell she doesn't have to cast herself, an incantation she can speak into the void, to be picked up and fulfilled by a power greater than her own.
It frightens her, a little, to open herself up, to put all her strength and all her soul out there again. But it excites her as well – the chance to repay a debt, the chance to help save her saviour.
But she knows it's what she must do (the books were most clear upon this point), otherwise her supplication will not be heard, her affirmation will not carry weight. And besides, this is completely different, this is good. It's tried and tested, it's been done for millennia.
So Ginny throws her soul wide, even those odd dark corners she's been hiding from herself for years, and focuses on the one thing she wants. Late one night when her head pounds with effort, the answer comes, and it feels like magic.
Her response is, simply, "I'll do anything."
She doesn't even notice that it comes out in more of a hiss than a whisper.
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A/N: The first quote is from the Gloria Patri; the second references the Apostle's Creed. I realise it's now considered a myth that the Apostles themselves actually wrote the creed, but Ginny's sources might not be so accurate. :)
Thanks to Stacy for betaing.