A/N: I'm a little behind on updates. I'll probably stay a little behind for a while, I'm running out of ideas (hint hint: please review with suggestions). This is an idea I came up with after writing the last two chapters, and is written in Ginny's pov. Happy reading and please review!!!!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. How depressing.

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I'll cry. I won't cry in front of people, or when there are people in close proximity. I feel that crying is a very private thing, for me anyway. Maybe it's because I don't like people to know that I'm vulnerable. Maybe it's because I know that nobody else knows what I'm going through. I hate it when someone will come over to you, all sympathetic, like they understand, and ask you how you are. Because they don't understand. They don't understand even a fraction of what I'm going through. So I only cry alone, and I leave myself to stew in my own emotions and tears.

Ron is the only person I'll let see me cry. Not Hermione, not Mum, not Dad, not Bill, not Charlie, not Fred or George, only Ron. Because he, at least, knows something of what I'm going through. And sometimes, when I really can't hold myself together, I'll go find him, and he'll hold me and comfort me and just let me cry, and sometimes he'll cry too. I think that he can't cry alone. I think that sometimes I remind him of everything we lost that day. But I hate to see him cry. I hate to think that I make him cry. He's my big brother, he's supposed to protect me; he's not supposed to cry. So sometimes, if it's nighttime, or if it's quiet, and we're crying together, I'll take his hand and put it over my heart. And he'll trace my scar and we'll listen to my heart beat, and somehow, that always makes everything better.

My scar. I don't usually think of it like that. I usually think of it as his scar. But I guess it's mine now, though I don't think I'll ever be able to get used to that. I haven't told many people about it. Ron knows, and so does Hermione, but that's it. My mother doesn't even know. But I feel that it's a private thing, almost like crying. And I know that if I told people about it, I'd just get more of those understanding looks that aren't understanding at all. Because you can't understand if you weren't there when it happened, if you weren't there to watch him fall, if you weren't there to experience the fear. But I was there, and I saw it all and I heard it all and I felt it all. And I was so scared I thought I would simply collapse from the strain of it all. But he, Harry, my Harry, my hero, he knew what to do. He always knew what to do. He always had that instinct that knew exactly how to protect me. Maybe that was the same instinct that taught him how to appreciate the value of a life, and go to any lengths to save one. And he saved me. Just like the hero saves the damsel in distress. He saved me. He sacrificed himself for me. Jumped in front of me, just like that, and he was gone. I didn't even get to say goodbye.

That was the last time I cried in front of other people, when he died. I just cried and cried and cried, the flow only increasing with the taunts of Lord Voldemort. Because as he taunted me, I felt the gaping hole in my chest grow larger and larger, his malevolent jubilation at killing my Harry, my hero, was fueling my anger and sadness. I felt as if there was no way I would ever be able to stop crying.

Lord Voldemort kept taunting as I screamed and sobbed with anguish. And he laughed at me. And I couldn't believe it. I couldn't fathom that somebody could achieve pleasure from killing. So I kept crying. I felt like I cried in front of Lord Voldemort for hours and hours, possibly days. I cried for anything and everything I could think of, for Harry, for Voldemort's heartless soul, for my family, for my brothers, for Ron, for Hermione, for those lost in the war, for those still fighting, for myself…

But Lord Voldemort never put a stop to it. He just let me cry. And Ron told me later, much later, when I decided I wanted to talk about what happened, that Voldemort seemed as if he hadn't known what was happening, as if he had never seen somebody cry as persistently, or as if he had never seen anybody cry at all, as if he was entranced by my tears.

But after what seemed like forever, Lord Voldemort must have decided that I was just crying for the sake of crying and taking away from his glory of his triumph over Harry Potter. And that was when he decided to kill me.

I only remember a split second of it in slow motion. The flashing of red eyes as I watched Lord Voldemort raise his wand, the same wand that had just taken the life of someone that I thought was invincible. And he pointed it right at my heart. The image of Voldemort's long fingered hand clenched around the wand, inches from my chest. I could audibly hear my heart hammering, knowing full well that in a few seconds the vicious beating would stop forever. He said that anyone that Harry Potter felt was worth saving was not fit to live. And in that moment I felt contaminated, contaminated with undeserving life, given to me by someone much more superior than I consider myself to be. So he killed me, or rather, he tried. He had already killed part of me with Harry. But even in death, Harry Potter thwarted him. He sacrificed himself for me, and his love for me and mine for him caused Lord Voldemort's curse to backfire, just as it did Halloween night seventeen years ago…

Sometimes I feel as if I'll never forgive myself for that. The fact that Harry Potter, the famous Harry Potter, the hero, gave his life to poor, little Ginny Weasley who has nothing special to offer. But maybe I did have something special to offer. We shared something special, and together we defeated Lord Voldemort. But I can't cry forever. I'll move on, I know I will. But Harry will always be with me, in my heartbeat, and in the lightning bolt scar now etched, not across his forehead, but over my heart.

ooo

I'm wrapped in Ron's strong embrace. I'm finished crying, but he's holding me, making sure that he won't lose me. We're both listening to my heart beat. Just listening. Because it's not just my heart any longer. It's a reassuring sound really, my heart. It reminds us that Harry didn't give his life for nothing; he gave it for me, for the defeat of Voldemort, for the safety of the world. But sometimes, as the ones that knew him best, it's easy for us to forget that. Ron buries his head in my shoulder and I feel a tear on my skin. I reach for his hand, and I guide it upwards, and together we feel the steady pulse. And we fell asleep like that, with our hands together, tracing my – no, his scar.