I feel like people don’t talk enough about Ginny being possessed by/emotionally manipulated by/best friends with Tom Riddle for a full year, at a very formative time in a little girl’s life.
Ginny, being the youngest and the only girl in a family of seven children.
Ginny, having something wondrous and magical of her very own that was never a hand-me-down, that she never had to share.
Ginny, being listened to, having her girlish middle-school drama cared about by someone who had all the patience in the world for her.
Ginny, being told she’s a princess, even though she’s poor, even though her family’s not in books anywhere. Ginny being told the hair she’s made fun of for looks like touchable sunlight to someone.
Ginny tucking the journal under her pillow at night, with her fingers softly on the leather, sleeping soundly in a faraway place because she has a friend.
Ginny knowing someone who knows everything to say to make her trust him.
Ginny growing weaker, getting tired no matter how much sleep she gets, her fingers feeling cold no matter how heavy her faded winter cloak. Her journal reassuring her, reminding her to eat, telling her he cares.
Ginny looking Voldemort right in the eyes, knowing she had let that creature in, knowing she had cared, and seeing the laughter in his awful red eyes because he knows too.
Ginny watching all her friends forget what happened, and letting them.
Ginny feeling something in Harry that other people talk about but no one else quite feels but him. Ginny feeling the connection, the mirror image.
Ginny frowning in the dark, curled up in her marriage bed, because the arms are how she’d thought they’d be but on the edge of sleep she remembers who she used to wish they belonged to.