Bedtime Stories.

'No, you're not allowed.'

'Why not?'

'Cause you're a girl, stupid. Girls have to like The Fountain of Fair Fortune, they aren't allowed to like the Hairy Heart, 'cause that's a boy's story.'

Molly paused behind the doorway in the kitchen, anxious about this latest development from Ron, who had been fairly obnoxious about gender differences since the day he suddenly discovered that he was a boy and therefore different to his younger sibling. Molly wasn't worried that Ron felt that way, oh no. It was a rite of passage and showed he was growing up, bless him. All the other boys had been through this as well. No, what Molly was worried about was Ginny's reaction. At just-gone five, the little girl already had a will of iron, and Molly was concerned about how well the more sensitive Ron would cope when Ginny let loose on him.

'That is so ... so unfair! I can like what I want and you can't stop me!' Ginny's fists were balled and she was leaning forward aggressively. Ron was unperturbed.

'You're a girl!' he said stubbornly, 'and girls just can't like the Warlock.' His voice held all the certainty of a six year old, and he turned away from Ginny.

As he tried to leave the room, Ginny ran at him. She pulled her fist back and tried to punch Ron in the back. She missed and her momentum sent her flying past him. With a cocky grin, Ron carried on out of the room followed by Ginny's screams.

'They can! They CAN! Girls CAN! I'm going to like it if I want to!'

In the kitchen, Molly let out the breath she had been holding. It hadn't gone as badly as she had feared. Ron was still intact, and Ginny seemed to be coping the way she always did: by ignoring the boys' ideas and going her own way. Then she heard it. The sob. With the instinct of a mother, she flung herself around the door and tried to take Ginny in her arms. The small girl pushed her away and wiped a tear off her cheek with an angry swipe.

'I'm not doing it anymore.'

'Not doing what, love?' asked Molly, still trying to gather her daughter into her arms.

'Not being a girl, anymore.' Ginny retreated away from her mother and perched herself on a fat footstool in the corner of the room, and Molly felt a stab of dismay that she refused to allow her to give comfort. Still, at least Ginny wanted to talk, which she guessed was a step up from running from the room in a huff as usual. Molly sat down at an unthreatening distance.

'Why not, love?'

To be honest, Molly had been expecting this. Try as she might, she had been unable to keep her hopes and wishes for this precious girl out of the way she had dealt with the child. Ginny lived every day with the weight of being the youngest child in a large family, and with being 'the girl.' They couldn't help it, they coddled her. She was the last baby, the last one they could cuddle and care for and nurture. And ... and, she was the girl.

A fair amount of pink and frills had entered the house with Ginny's birth, and Molly had sworn it was just her way of 'getting it out of her system' while Ginny was young, too young to be able to have a say. Problem was, Molly had never really got it out of her system, and Ginny was almost always pushed into girly activities through Molly's expectations. Molly had, time and again, told herself to stop it, to let Ginny grow into her own person, but time and time again she had allowed herself the luxury of waiting 'just a little longer' before she gave up. But it seemed that, finally, the time had come for her to let go.

'Girls can't do anything fun, they have to stay inside and cook and be boring.'

'Ginny!' Molly was shocked out of her thoughts by Ginny's pronouncement. 'Where on earth did you get that idea? Girls don't have to do any of those things.'

'But you do them, Mum. You're a girl.' Ginny's eyes were bright with curiosity as she contemplated her mother.

'Yes, but ...' Molly tried to explain, suddenly anxious to ensure that Ginny didn't get the wrong impression from her own actions.

'And the boys play widdits. I want to play widdits, and why can't girls do that?'

Molly was floundering. Where had the girl got these ideas from? Surely she and Arthur hadn't done this? A twinge of guilt flooded through her as she realised that she really had coasted on this one, forgetting that Ginny was a different creature to her boys, and not just a surrogate on which to project her desperate desire for a daughter.

'Sweetheart, of course girls can play quidditch. Whoever said they couldn't?'

'Fred and George, and Ron.'

With a grimace that promised that some of her boys were going to hear from the rough side of her temper, Molly leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, 'boys just want you to think that, Ginny. They know we girls can beat them, you see.'

Ginny's mouth twitched upwards for a minuscule moment before returning to the scowl she had adopted at the start of the conversation.

'Doesn't matter. I still want to be a boy; boys have way more fun.'

Sighing internally, Molly took another tack. 'Honey, I heard Ron talking to you about stories. Is that what this is about? ... Do you want to talk about it?'

Ginny's eyes, which had previously bored into Molly's with a disconcerting strength, dropped to the floor and she twisted her hands together. Molly watched her, allowing her the space and time to say what she wanted to say.

'Mum, why do girls have to like the Fountain story? The Warlock story is more fun. There's more blood.' Ginny's voice was puzzled, and there was a hint of belligerence in the tilt of her chin as she said it.

Her mouth twisting again at the idea of her little girl being so bloodthirsty, Molly tackled this one. 'Well, sweetheart, you do know that the girl in the Warlock is pretty boring? She doesn't even have a name.'

'No she isn't. She's pretty and the Warlock loves her. And she dies, and there's blood. It's cool.' Ginny was flooded with enthusiasm as she enumerated all the reasons why the gory tale appealed to her.

Molly sighed and tried to explain why the story wasn't as romantic as Ginny saw it in her black and white mind. 'She tries to be nice and help someone, but he kills her. He doesn't love her, he hides from love.'

Ginny's face lit up as she discussed her ideas, dwelling in the romantic dream her mind had conjured up. 'But I want someone to love me like he does. It says in the story, he chooses her out of all the others because she's the best.'

Molly sighed as she looked at her daughter. It was hard to explain to such a young child that the story wasn't as it appeared on the surface. She tried a new tack. 'Yes, it does say that. But he doesn't love her, he only likes what other people think of her. He likes what she looks like to others, not her true self.' She smiled at Ginny, and said, 'If you want a story about real love then the Fountain is a good one.'

Ginny snorted, and said with the absolute conviction only a small child can muster, 'The Fountain? It's not about love, Mum. It's about stupid people who can't see the fountain isn't real.'

'No, Ginny,' Molly said, shocked that Ginny had taken such a twisted message from what had appeared to be an innocent childhood story. 'It's about finding your own happy ending inside yourself. Amata finds love, when she looks in the right place. And the others all learn to help themselves, too.'

Ginny was looking thoughtful. 'Well, I still like the warlock. Blood is way cooler than herbs and water.'

Molly chuckled, and said, 'OK, Ginny. And it's perfectly fine for girls to like blood.'

'And widdits?'

'Yes, and quidditch.'

'Mum?'

'Yes, dear?'

'Why do girls always do the cooking and the cleaning?' There was that disconcerting and direct stare again. With so many older brothers Ginny was precocious in many ways, and her questions were always challenging. Molly smiled at her; at least Ginny kept her on her toes at times like this.

'We don't, dear.'

'You do.' Ginny was relentless, wanting to get to the bottom of what it meant to be a girl.

'I know, but I chose to do that, love. I enjoy it. I get to look after all my children, and I love it, but if you don't want to do it, you don't have to. You can be a quidditch star, or an auror, or anything else you want to be.'

'But you make me help you clean up.'

Molly let out a deep, throaty laugh. 'My girl, you are not getting out of cleaning your room that easily. And the boys have to do all that too, you know that.'

'I guess. But ... I still don't like being the girl. Why can't I be a boy?'

'I don't know, love. I guess the world just has something big in store for you. Why else would you be the first Weasley girl in ages?'

Ginny smiled at her mother as they both moved off to other activities, but underneath she was worried. Even as a five year old, Ginny could feel the pressure heaping onto her head, even though she didn't really understand it yet. And here it was again, a sense of having to 'be something' because of what she was: the girl. Every week she was reminded of who she was: the first girl in generations. The Beedle the Bard stories were all very well, but they didn't really help you grow up to be 'yourself' when everyone expected that you would be 'someone.' Couldn't she just be Ginny Weasley, without having to be the special girl who had to live up to a hundred different expectations? And who was Ginny Weasley anyway? Everyone had a different idea; even Ginny herself had no idea which one she was.

Fifteen minutes later, Ginny had forgotten she had even had the conversation with her mother. She was too busy pretending to play quidditch at the bottom of the garden where the boys couldn't see her. The problem of just who got to decide who Ginny Weasley is, however, never really went away.