After

when the music fades and all is stripped away
-Heart of Worship, Matt Redman

The candles flickered fitfully, and Ginny sighed softly to herself as she paused beside one. The flickering light played off her hair and face, giving her a halo and making her hair glow, revealing her face, tired, pale, and wan. The elaborate bun she had fixed her hair into had fallen apart, wisps of hair escaping and all the time she had put into it wasted. Her foundation was nearly gone, and red splotches in her cheeks from the heat of the room had still not entirely faded. Her lipstick was smeared, from lord-knows-who, and her dress, meant to hang elegantly off the shoulders, hung limp at her shoulders, the hem dirty from numerous who-knows-who stepping on it.

She blew out the last candle, and the only light of the room came from the tall windows, forming nearly one wall of the ballroom, enough to hide her mussed-up hair, ragged dress, and lost-case makeup, and she sighed and sagged with relief. She bent down to pull off the elaborate, pretty strappy leather sandals with four inch heels and tied them together loosely, hobbling across the dance floor, wincing at every step.

What a night. She had come, wanting to be the belle of the ball, and she almost laughed at that concept now. Harry was gone, hours ago; she hadn't seen him leave but Cho was gone too, so she could only guess what had happened. Hermione and Ron had left hours ago; probably in their rooms. Everyone was gone, probably in their rooms lying next to someone they halfway liked, except for her, Ginny Weasley.

She bit her lip, staring at the ballroom around her. "Incendio," she murmured, and held up her wand at the lamp that sat on the floor where she had lain it. It flickered into life and she held it up tiredly, surveying the damage. Confetti was everywhere, empty champagne bottles under the tables, a dozen balloons on the high ceilings that would have to be pulled down, all the streamers hanging as limply as she felt. She stared at the floor into a half-empty champagne bottle, watching the liquid reflect the light, and suddenly it seemed terribly heavy.

It wasn't fair. It was New Year's Eve, and everyone else was upstairs with someone they loved, and to Hell with the decorations and cleaning-ups; for them. It was the New Year, and tomorrow was the day for resolutions, for the cleaning up and the picking up and the beginnings of the new life and new year. No one worried about anything tonight, not consequences or messes or anything at all. No one except Ginny--little red-haired Virginia, standing alone in the middle of the dance floor in her carefully chosen cream dress hanging limp, silver-rhinestone strap sandals draped carelessly over her arm, her hair flying wild, with blisters on her heel and soles.

Blisters on more than her feet, more than her ankles and feet hurting, and it was more than her lipstick that was messed up. She had blisters on her soul, blisters from being rubbed the wrong way for too long, blisters from childhod that never quiet went away in their minds even though she had grown up. She would always be little Ginny to them, the little five-year old who played quietly with her dolls, who had childish crushes, never a beautiful, sophisticated Virginia, who she had always longed to be.

She was still staring at the champagne bottle, and she sighed and sat down heavily, her skirts spread out in front of her as she reached for it, pulling the cork, and she downed it in one gulp, the bubbles tickling her throat as they went down, right up to her head, making her head spin and bubble. She put a hand up to her head and set the bottle down gingerly, not sure if she could, but after a few moments the sensation went away. No. the thought was firm admist her sea of loneliness. I won't get drunk now.

But why not? a part of her mind nagged. It's the last night of the year. Why are you always such a good girl? No one cares about anything tonight, Virginia, it taunted cruelly, no one but you.

But things matter, she answered it, tiredly, and she barely realized she was fighting back. Everything matters. Tonight and tomorrow night and Friday night and every night, every night of my life no matter what holiday it is.

The lamplight made the bottle sparkle in the light, and she turned it over, watching the few remaining drops swirl lazily inside it with a kind of beautiful magic, and slowly she turned it over and poured them out over her fingers, watching the sparkling drops fall through the air and hit her fingers. She kissed her finger gingerly, and she could taste the champagne.

So here she was. Sitting on the floor in the middle of a ballroom, all the candles blown out, surrounded by confetti, in her beautiful-cream balldress, shoes dropped beside her, drinking the leftovers of champagne and watching her life fly outside the tall windows, looking up into the stars only to see blackness; her future. And suddenly nothing made sense; not the party or New Year's or the stars or the sky or the dress or the shoes or the champagne. She pulled her knees up and rested her forehead on them, and she started shaking, and she didn't know if she was laughing or crying.

"Happy New Year's," she told the empty room, and a sob caught in her throat.