Author's Note: Just a quick one shot. Sad, a trifle depressing, but a counter-balance to my overly fluffy bigger stories. I rather like this one, though it's blatantly my view on the world, twisted and distorted quite a bit so that it's not really my take, but Ginny's. This is from her point of view, when she's about twenty or so, maybe older. It doesn't really specify. I know I should be working on DL, but I've no juice for that story, and no way I can add anything good to it at eleven at night. Work on it later, this was just a random need to get out of system thing. But, here it is. Please read, enjoy, and actually, if you don't mind, review. I know I'm getting awfully big-headed, but I'd love to know what you think. Thanks.

Disclaimer: I swear, mum, I don't know how that got there...it's not mine. Right, only the plot is mine. The rest of the story and characters as we know them from J.K. Rowlings and the snake in my sock drawer is not mine.

Of Princes and Princesses

I want to tell you a story. I always was good at those; Mum said I had that natural talent for making tales seems bright and cheerful. I was always the one to put my nieces and nephews to sleep with stories of princes and princesses and knights in shining armor who defeated fearsome dragons, terrifying ogres, and malevolent sorcerers. My brothers tried, but they ended up making the kids cry.

But this is not a bright and cheerful story. There are no princes, princesses, knights, dragons, ogres, sorcerers, or anything of the sort, because I am no longer a child, and neither are you. In this story, there is a girl. She is no princess, though she used to be…to some, at least. And there is a boy, who only thought he was a Prince. Or perhaps a king…he always was arrogant…

Every story has to have a beginning, though…and this story begins several years ago, in a place called Hogwarts, in the girl's sixth year.

She didn't really know the boy too well…only from what she'd heard from her brothers, none of which was good. He was in his seventh year, in the house most opposite hers in every way.

He was unlike her in almost every way as well. He had pale, lifeless blonde hair, while hers was pulsating with red heat and life. She was gay and naïve, while he was reserved from the horrors of his childhood. She believed thoroughly in everything, he believed solely in nothing. She didn't understand him…which was most likely why she thought she could love him.

Maybe she could have loved him. She did, that was certain. She loved him with all the power that she possessed, and for who she was -that innocent little princess- that was a lot of power…a lot of love.

They met in the library, both looking for the same book. The boy was tired and alone, and the girl was sad…she was also alone, though she was surrounded by so many people. The boy had no one…but it usually didn't bother him. The girl had everyone…but she wanted someone. Someone like the boy, though she didn't know it at first.

She needed someone to love. She was just that type. She needed to love someone, be with someone, live off of someone. She needed to be free, but at the same time connected to someone and like almost every little girl, (or really, young woman), she saw love in that someone and took it without question.

And she saw love in the boy. I'm not really sure what he saw in her, but he didn't push her away. No, he talked to her and listened to her. He laughed and smiled and joked with her. And she caught a glimpse of someone she could love.

After that, I couldn't let him go. I-she saw love…she had to have it. She spent more and more time with him, she just couldn't get enough. And after a while, she began to notice something. He wasn't loving her back.

Oh, they talked, and kissed, and held. But he didn't love her. Why didn't he love her? In trying to find out why he didn't love her, she spent even more time with him.

She was no longer an excellent student; she blew off studying to be with him. She no longer laughed and smiled freely; she was too busy worrying about him, whatever it was about him that needed to be worried about. She didn't play or skip anymore; after being with him, it just looked stupid. She didn't go out and dance in the rain anymore; she was always with him, though her brother and friends really didn't like it.

And then, the inevitable. He left her. They'd been together for a year, and he left her. Tired of her, he said. He'd never been in love, he couldn't be. He just wasn't that type.

I cried for days and days. He was my first real love…Harry didn't count, I just liked him. But Draco…I thought he loved me. He'd said he did, didn't he? I loved him so much.

So now you know…I'm the little girl. Only I'm not so little anymore. I take care of my own little ones…they're not really mine, they're Bill's, but I love them the same. I'm not a little girl anymore. I've grown up, but not because of the years. I grew up several years ago, in a place called Hogwarts, in my seventh year, a year after I fell in love.

I fell in love with Draco Malfoy.

The only problem was, he wasn't there to catch me. One year of falling, and I hit the ground with a jolting dash into reality. Yes, that's when I grew up. Love does that to you. It makes you grow up…see things as they really are.

I know that you can't have love…I don't know of anyone who can, or anyone that will, though I have hope...

So here we come to a problem. I've always been so good at telling stories. Mum says I have a knack for these things…happily ever afters, fairytales, Prince Charmings…all rolled up from the beginning and mixed into one satisfying ending.

The problem is, there is no ending, This is my story, and though Prince Charming flew off to play professional Quidditch and marry his long-time girlfriend from Slytherin, my life still goes on. My story isn't over yet.

My story won't end with true love triumphing over all. My story won't end with a knight in shining armor coming to my rescue. My story ends with me.

My story ends with playing around and skipping down the lane. My story ends with dancing in the rain and waltzing through the snow. My story ends with no story book happy endings.

But I am playing and skipping and dancing and living. That, to me, is a happy ending, though many find it terribly sad. Love doesn't mean anything to me anymore. And for that, I'm glad. I can finally live my life, an end my story happily ever after.

And that's something I'll never tell my nieces and nephews. My princes and princesses.

My loves.