Here's chapter two ü  =) hope you enjoy it at least!

Please review, people! I feel so pathetic… no reviews! =(

On to the story!!!

A few days later...

Ginny sighed tiredly, and decided it was a good kind of tired she felt. The kind of tired when you know you've done something to the fullest of your extent and worked hard to achieve your goal.

She looked at what she wrote. A mess of scribbles, a lot of crossings-out, and more punctuation marks than what was necessary got the job done of expressing herself. She was satisfied; she'd been at it for an hour and a half at least.

However, for the past four nights, when she'd stayed up, writing her thoughts away, that feeling was always present. That feeling that she was still eleven-year-old Ginny Weasley, scared to death about Hogwarts and unwittingly letting the Dark Lord use her young mind. She was still Ron's younger sister, the one whom Harry had to save. It was a hard thing to escape from, your past, she mused. She shivered whenever she felt that Tom's witty answers would appear on the smooth yellowish paper of her diary, assuring her, luring her, devouring her.

She closed her eyes, for a while, maybe to reassure herself that she was safe in the Burrow, and not at Hogwarts, setting a basilisk on her fellow students, then opened them again to read what she had written.

Dear Diary,

Today's been quite a good one for me!

 When I woke up this morning, I was so excited to get out of bed for absolutely no reason. Jumping out of bed I stubbed my toe, and hopping around with one foot in the air, I kicked my desk and tripped over a chair. Well, after THAT beginning, I was quite ready to start over, but don't get me wrong. My mood was still unbelievably great! All the kings' horse and all the kings' men couldn't fix my brain after it shattered due to what I saw in the kitchen.

Because in that kitchen, were many birthday candles were blown, many wounds were healed, many scoldings forever kept in the walls, was my brother. And not just any brother. In the kitchen, at six in the morning was Ron.

Ron! You know him, the insufferable git who can't think tactfully sometimes around Hermione, and the git who's always breathing down my neck. Well, he's also that prat who never wakes up early in summer. When I say never this time, I am dead serious. Incorrigible, I am! This must be pretty important...

His usual time's around, eleven or half-past? He looked really harassed, by the way, so I asked him what the matter was that forced him to be here, up at such an ungodly hour such as this.

He wouldn't look at me, even, the nerve of him! Just kept muttering and muttering about something I couldn't quite put my finger on.  Some stuff along the lines if:

"...Vikky better not... He... He better... What does she see in...? Prat, the moron!"

He seemed really troubled, and I was getting a little bit uneasy. "Ron... Ron. RON!"

Finally, he noticed me. "Wha-?"

"Ron, what's wrong?"

He started stuttering, something he only does when he's really riled up. "V-vikky... Hermione... Bulgaria... Bastard!"

Okay! I didn't want Mum to go on about language in front of a lady; but I have to say so myself, my language and choice of words can be quite as colorful as those of all my brothers; yes, even Percy's been known to curse one time or two (Like that time when an extra drop of Madam Rhodora's Silver- Cleaning Potion dropped on his Head Boy badge)!

 "Shut up, you git!" I hissed, covering his mouth. I motioned outside and said in a stern voice, with The Look, "Talk."

So he did. Turns out, diary, he still isn't over Hermione, and last year's Yule Ball. I'd be a pathological liar if I said I was surprised that he hadn't gotten over it. My brother can be really stubborn and he can hold grudges like a kitten will not let go of its mother!

He'd finally gathered enough "Gryffindorian chivalry and bravery" to write her a letter regarding the Bulgarian Seeker. I was surprised he didn't explode from the effort of merely getting Viktor's name on the parchment.

Ron gave me a draft of his letter and I looked at him incredulously. That was when I knew how much he felt for Hermione. My brother, the sloppiest and messiest person ever to have survived the wrath of Mum, was saving drafts? Now this was love! And he was the most daft, most tactless, most stupid person ever! He just can't bring himself to admit that he's fallen for his best friend. Fallen hard!

It read, well, let me just stick the draft:

Hermione,

How are you? Summer's great for me so far, I've been doing quite a lot. A lot of cleaning, that is. We're going to you-know-where next week, and Mum's really bossy about moving our trunks. Percy's still mad at us, and I don't think he's coming to reconcile soon. Dad's all right, despite what happened Christmas. Harry sounds fine, have you been owling him?

All right, I just wanted to know, how's Vikky? *At this part, I groaned. Bad, bad move, Ron! The letter was sounding great!* Is he still simpering to his Herm-oh-whatsit? Oh, right! I might be disturbing something! Have fun with Vikky...

Ron

I stared at him hopelessly, and tried- I tried, diary, I really tried- to understand why in the hell the gods up there ever thought of creating such a daft prick like my brother.

"And her reply?" I said, icily. I knew I said it coldly, since he flinched, a remarkable talent I have over all my brothers, yes, even that other prick, Percy.

He handed me a sheet of stationary, lilac-scented, I knew as I got a whiff. Trust Hermione to use something like this to handle Ron.

This one read, oh yeah, I memorized it:

Ron, *I felt the ice seeping through my veins already at the stiffness at how the letter sounded*

I am, and never have been, nor will be Viktor's girlfriend. We are friends, nothing more, nothing less. You have some issues to sort out, Ron, and I would really appreciate it if you fix your problems with Viktor before you have a go at me.

On to greener pastures... I have been owling Harry, and there's something suspicious about his letters. They seem a little... forced, don't you think? Maybe he was in a sour mood; we'll just have to wait to find out.

Good luck with those quandaries,

Hermione

He shrugged, a destitute look settling in his features, and I shook my head. "Ron, you do know your letter was fine-"

And there he went again, interrupting me in that manner I really don't like.

"Exactly! Exactly my point! And she gets mad?"

"Ron! You didn't let me finish! Your letter was fine until your outlandish jive got the better of you and you mentioned Viktor. You know that you tread on thin ground around Hermione when you mention him, because you can't control your iniquitous jealousy!"

He turned as red as a beetroot. Even the tips of his ears were beginning to redden. And he sputtered furiously, "Jealous- me? Ha! Of- of... Krum? No bloody... Me? As if!"

Knowing it was a no-win situation for the both of us, I just airily replied (and this was a great decision, as it turned out), "Know what, Ronnie? Herm's right! Go sort out your predicaments and come see me after you do-- I'd gladly help you win her heart."

I think he almost got a heart attack as I left him, with a piece of bread in my hand.

I re-emerged from my room about two hours later, feeling as if I'd just fought a very tough battle and lost, which I as good as did, considering I had to do a very foul essay on Restorative Draughts for that greasy git, Snape.

Walking to the kitchen, I was intent on eating breakfast, when suddenly...

"C'mon, George! You can do better than that!"

"I'm trying, you git! It's not as easy as it looks!"

"Well, coaching you's not much of a job if you won't listen!"

"Whoever asked you- argh! I died, AGAIN! Bloody hell..."

There was a pause, and a sound of someone grabbing something.

Then-

"I'll do it, you kneazle!"

"Fine! See if you won't die in level seven when there are sixteen viruses! I wonder how they could fit all those bloody blinking... er... things in that small screen!"

I'd had enough and stormed in. "What are you doing?"

They had guilty looks on their faces; they knew they were under my mercy, and, pity for them, sometimes I had none.

Fred opened his mouth, "Now, Gin-gin, don't tell Mum-

George followed, " -or she'll yell at us- "

" - and our ears are still ringing- "

" - from her solid yelling yesterday- "

Together, " - so don't tell Mum!"

I chuckled. "I wasn't going to. Besides, I don't even know what you're doing, hence my question."

They sighed in relief together and George said, "Oh this? We nicked it from Dad's box of unnecessary Muggle items. It's the most fun thing ever!"

"What is it?"

They looked at each other, then beamed at me as if they'd just found a solution to world hunger, "Dr. Mario!"

I believed right then and there that my brothers had some screws loose. I just shook my head in dumb wonderment at their happy childishness and went on.

The rest of the day was spent cleaning and doing laundry. Mum was bustling around, preparing the Burrow for our departure. Somehow, I knew, that despite having to leave this house for many times, and for many different reasons, I'd always come home.

Then, while I was sorting out Ron's things from mine (my bra had been entangled with his boxers) we had a visitor. He was hardly someone you could call a visitor, for he only stayed for like what? Five bloody minutes? He and Mum were talking in low voices, but I heard snippets of their hushed conversations...

"... Getting beaten up..."

"... Albus knows, then again, there's that thing..."

"... Pick him up tomorrow..."

Then, in a flurry of deep green robes, the stranger was gone. I tried to badge it out of Mum, but she wouldn't tell me a single thing. I knew that Ron and Percy and Bill got their stubbornness from Mum, so I just went to my room to think.

Kept up in my room of green wallpaper, and blue sheets, and gray carpeting, I'm here writing to you now.

Thinking for me is dreaming about Harry... Was he all right? How was he holding up with those Muggles? I already miss those soulful green orbs, his messy black tufts... Was this a childish whim of mine? To get him to fall in love with me? All of Gryffindor knows of my obsession with Harry Potter.

They say at sixteen, everything's true love. Well, I'm fifteen and I've loved this boy ever since I was eight! He's never going to notice me as someone independent, someone who is more than just his best friend's little sister, someone more than that pathetic heap of red hair and robes in that oh so cold dungeon...

Enough of my rambling... The winds howling outside the house is making it sway, and I want to savor the feeling of being one with the world.

Good night,

Ginny

________________________________________________________________________

It was 4:27 in the morning when seven cloaked magical beings descended in the fireplace of eight Privet Drive. All was quiet as glittering pairs of eyes focused on them. Outside the house, there wasn't a hint that anything strange was going on. The situation was the same in number four Privet Drive. No one knew something inexplicably harsh and cruel was ongoing inside...

His groan of help was oblivious to the open-aired world. The stale air had the unmistakable smell of blood, the walls held in their deep cores the silent groans the teenaged boy only aloud to come out when he was gone, the floor littered with torn paper, feathers, chains, whips, books, with blood.

The last vestiges of his memory returned full-force as he tried to drink some water from the plastic cup that Aunt Petunia had set a day or two ago; he couldn't remember. He didn't know how long he'd been in the smallest room in number four Privet Drive. He was short of the knowledge of how long he'd been out after Uncle Vernon, he shuddered to think of that beast, would punch him to the sweet welcoming arms of nothingness. He also had, without a doubt, no idea as of how long he'd be conscious, seeing as his watch stopped working long ago.

His head throbbed painfully; his fingers twitched nervously in anticipation of his uncle. The one thing he didn't want was to be caught off-guard. Harry found out that if he concentrated really hard on not feeling anything, he hurt less.

The limbo part's the best, Harry decided grimly, of this abusing thing. It's not really that bad.

He winced, jarring a particularly sore spot on his arm. Maybe I should rethink that phrase. It's THAT bad.

 As far as he knew, his injuries were a broken right arm, a crushed lower left leg, and several deep cuts near his hair, a twisted right ankle and a sprained left wrist. Not to mention his dislocated right shoulder. It hurt to think about anything, to focus on one pain too long.

Out of these past three weeks, Harry gritted his teeth; he'd learned not to give his violent uncle the sickening satisfaction of showing he was in pain, in any way whatsoever. If he did let out so much as a slight hitch in breathing, it motivated his uncle to hit him all the more.

He remembered the night when he was thinking if he'd ever see Ron, Hermione, or any of the people he held close to his heart again, when Uncle Vernon had stomped up the stairs-- his heart beat faster, more erratically; his ears knew those thudding footsteps well-- and a bulky shadow appeared. He remembered the panicked feeling when he saw the rough silhouettes of handcuffs and a whip.

That night had separated the men from the boys. Barely sixteen, and already, he'd gone through more than people twice his age, emotionally and spiritually. It was hardly something to be proud of. He'd felt pain worse than anything ever before. A thousand wands pointed, a thousand voices uttering one single curse...

Crucio.

It felt like it.

The small bouts of sleep he managed to get when Uncle Vernon was at work were no help, either. The people in his dreams haunted him during his wakefulness. The accusing stares, the dead voices that all said the same thing...

"You killed me."

One could take so much only and still stay sane.

He closed his eyes, that way, he wouldn't have to blink. Yes, it hurt to do the slightest thing, even to breath. He was close to death, he felt it.

Imagine, he scoffed at himself, the great Harry Potter, hero to us all, dying at the hands of a common, ordinary Muggle. What a weakling.

He was tired, is all. Tired of so many things.

Tired of the unwanted fame he unwillingly received.

Of never having the family he wanted.

Of having everything happen to him.

Of having to face this torture every damn day.

Tired of breathing, of being abused, of having to endure Voldemort. 

Tired of loving, hurting, feeling.

He was tired, is all. Tired of so many things.

But most of all, tired to live.

Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears
Weary of utterance, seeing all is said;
Soon, racked by hopes and fears,
The all-pondering, all-contriving head,
Weary with all things, wearies of the years;
And our sad spirits turn toward the dead;
And the tired child, the body, longs for bed.

- by someone I forgot =)

________________________________________________________________________