Well, my last update of this story was about a year and a half ago. Um… yeah. Sorry for the delay?

Recently I read it over again and just felt it would be wrong not to finish.

I don't know if any of my old readers will remember this fic or read the final two chapters (aside from the few people I have told), but that's okay. Basically it just needed to get finished… even if no one reads it, and even if it took a year and a half. This chapter is written in present tense, not journal style, from Ginny's POV. It is rather angsty / dramatic. The last chapter will go back to the journal.

Enjoy! And leave a review, if you like.

-squibbles

November 8.

I'm standing in the Great Hall. I'm not entirely sure how I got here, considering my intention was to fake sick so I wouldn't have to play in the match. Seems unavoidable at this point, now that people have spotted me. I approach the Gryffindor table and sit stiffly beside Ron, who is wolfing down slices of ham with crunchy buttered toast. He used to get so nervous before games that he couldn't eat a thing. Things have changed, I suppose.

I nibble at a muffin to keep people from asking questions. I will not look up. I will not look at Draco. The last thing I need right now is to start crying or something ridiculous like that.

… I look up.

He's draped all over Pansy. Figures. I drop my gaze to the partially eaten muffin, not wanting to see any more. Minutes pass.

Ron nudges me. "Time to get ready," he says as he stands. I follow suit and begin trailing after him, but he doubles back for a final piece of ham. I roll my eyes. Such a pig, he can be. I continue out the Great Hall doors by myself, breathing shallowly. This is it. I'm going to have to play. Any moment now, I'll—

"You're dead, Weasel."

I slow to a stop, but I don't turn around, not sure what to do. Deep breaths. I must put on a straight face, and then set it in stone, before I turn.

"You deaf, Weasel?"

I swivel around carefully but keep my eyes on the floor, feeling helpless.

Draco leans in. "You don't stand a chance against me, Ginny dearest. I suggest you just forfeit now, save yourself the humiliation."

There's a fire in my chest, burning strong with anger and hurt. I try to speak, but merely inhale and stop myself. What's the matter with me? When did I become this weak?

He leans in farther. "See you on the pitch, Weasel." With that, he shoves roughly by, causing me to stumble backward a few steps. Tears form in my eyes, but I fight them hard, blinking and biting my lower lip. Big girls don't cry. It's time to do my job for Gryffindor. For now I must be strong and do the best I can for my team.

Dark clouds loom in a grey sky as I start toward the changing rooms. My walk feels long and lonely, but I make it there all right. Jack is already in uniform, pulling on a pair of socks. I smile at him. I've always liked his eagerness. He'll never been as brilliant as Fred and George were, but I admire that he is simply grateful to be on the team.

Everyone else files in. As we change into our robes, Ron begins his pep-talk. He bad-mouths Slytherin, tells us how much better we are, tells us how we're faster and smarter. "This match is ours for the winning!" he announces, which receives an enthusiastic cheer from the team. When the noise dies down, Ron looks straight at me, while still addressing the rest of the group.

"Don't worry about the Snitch, lads. Our Seeker's a Weasley. She's got it covered. Everyone, just concentrate on what you have to do to get us points. We can win this game… we just have to be strong. We have to fight, and refuse to be afraid."

The room falls silent. Ron is still staring at me. Seamus and Jack, standing beside each other, nod thoughtfully. Andy wears a determined expression, his hands wringing around the shaft of his broom. Katie and Demelza lean against the lockers, looking as focused as ever. And I stand shakily, facing my brother, praying to Merlin that I can pull myself together.

"Let's give Slytherin exactly what they deserve."

Seamus cheers, then everyone else joins him, thrusting brooms and fists into the air. We shuffle from the changing room. The others are chatting excitedly while I linger at the back of the line, trying to attain my usual concentration.

Come on, now. It's just a match. You did fine practicing the other day. Just catch the Snitch. Just find the Snitch, catch the Snitch.

Draco, Draco, Draco…

You can do this. You are strong.

Draco, Draco…

Cheers from the Quidditch arena snap me out of my trance. I quickly mount my broom and trail behind the others out onto the pitch. We sweep past the Gryffindor section. The faces and voices blur, but I know my friends are there for me. The least I can do is push my hardest to win, if not for myself, then for them. For Harry and the rest of the team.

We complete our circle around the stands (receiving a thundering "BOO" from the Slytherins) and take our places on the pitch. The Slytherin team, who entered first, is already in position. The dark clouds still swirl overhead. It's going to be a wet and miserable match, I can tell. Madam Hooch is about to throw the Quaffle. I can't believe how fast the game snuck up on me—seems like thirty seconds ago I was in the Great Hall at breakfast.

And suddenly, there is movement all around. I glide upward, above the commotion. Katie has the Quaffle. She dives around Daphne Greengrass, then passes to Seamus, who goes for goal.

Saved by the Slytherin Keeper. I sigh, wishing I was pursuing that big red ball instead of a tiny gold one. I look out into the gloomy morning. Draco hovers nearby, his head swiveling up and down, side to side.

The fire inside flares up, and I close my eyes, trying not to think about all that has happened. It is then that thunder rolls across the sky, followed by cold drops of rain. They are almost soothing. I open my eyes to see Draco pointing his wand toward his eyes. Must be casting a visibility charm—one that I certainly don't know. Anxiety grips me.

The Slytherins cheer. I hear Ron curse as he hurls the Quaffle, which had obviously passed through one of our hoops, to Demelza. "It's all right, Weasley," she yells over the pounding rain before racing up the pitch. The score is 0-10.

I glance around for the Snitch. I watch Draco for a few seconds. He catches me. With a rude hand gesture, he floats farther away from me, apparently not worried about me seeing the Snitch first. I don't think I will either, so I trail after him reluctantly.

The match and the rain rage on. It's getting very cold. Slytherin scores again. Ron curses again. I attempt to reassure him, but he doesn't hear me over the storm, which is getting worse by the second. I can barely see five metres in front of me, let alone where Draco is.

But I don't need him.

I can do this. I can find the Snitch on my own.

I float higher and begin to circle the pitch. Thunder sounds once again. I prowl around, unhurried, squinting against the downpour, keeping low on my broom. I hear periodic cheers from the crowd, but I no longer bother to distinguish which sections are celebrating. I am searching for the Snitch. My task is to catch it. I have to focus, no more dilly-dallying, got to find the—

There it is! There it is!

Impulsively, I shoot off at top speed. Bolting through the rain, the winged ball is an arm's length away. I reach out. It changes direction suddenly. My hands tight on my broom, I throw myself to the left, steering toward the Snitch's new path. I can still see it. I'm gaining on it! I'm gaining on it! It's so close—

WHAM!

I am slammed in the side and veer off course, barrel-rolling twice, one of my hands slipping from my broom's slick shaft. I grip it frantically again, hauling myself upright. What was that? A Bludger?

No. A person.

I see a blonde ponytail and green robes disappear into the rain.

Clenching my teeth, I push after Draco, willing my broom to move faster than his.

The fire inside is burning hotter.

Before long, I spot the green robes again. I lie flat against my broomstick. The wind whipping by my ears gets louder and louder as I gain speed.

I am at Draco's side. I keep alert, ready to dodge another shove. My arm stretches out so far that my shoulder is pained.

Draco pulls away slightly, then comes careening back toward me. Prepared, I sink lower, avoiding his shove in the nick of time. His momentum sends him off into the rainy abyss.

It is just me and the Snitch.

I lunge.

I close my hand.

Do… do I have it? Did I catch it?

The Snitch's wings, projecting from either side of my fist, flap hysterically for a few moments before falling limp.

I've done it.

Emotion rushes from my heart to my eyes, where hot tears begin to fall, mixing with the cold rain. I feel faint. I need to get my feet on solid ground.

Someone grabs my arm. I don't need to think twice about who it is.

"Get your filthy hands off me!" I scream. I feel as if I am watching myself from afar, unable to control my words or my tears. "I hate you! I hate you!"

Draco lets go. I feel dizzy and practically plummet to the ground, slipping off my broom when I reach the grass. I find myself on all fours. The world is spinning around me. I just need to get out of here. I just need to run. But people are crowding me now. Gryffindors. Madam Hooch is at my side. I shove the Snitch into her hand. I rise to my feet and force my way through the mob, ignoring them all, still crying, still only watching myself, feeling like a spectator.

And then I run.

It is strange, the way people often find their deepest stores of energy when their bodies seem so drained. I have found my energy. I don't know what exactly it is comprised of. Anger, perhaps. Humiliation. Feeling used, worthless. Strangely enough, these emotions are fantastic (though unhealthy) catalysts for physical exertion. I sprint until I'm out of the arena, until I'm moving across the grounds, until I reach the lake.

Breathless, I double over, burying my face in my hands. So much for 'big girls don't cry.' I sob loudly, wondering how I could possibly be so sad after winning the most important Quidditch match I have ever played.

It doesn't feel like I have won. I feel no satisfaction.

I fall to my knees, and the world goes dark.