Chasing Dragons

I am resolved to do this. If only for myself.

Sitting at the banks of the Great Lake, I hold in my hand a piece of tattered parchment, a fresh piece of parchment, and a writing set; a small, brass pot full of sludgy inky, a battered quill, and a small pen knife I found amoung my father's things.

It's time to end this.

Like most people, I hesitate to throw away things from my past. Objects that seem silly to most people sometimes mean the world to others, right? But I need to do this. It's time to let some things go.

I'm fourteen now, almost fifteen. Two nights ago, I was fighting the good fight at the Department of Mysteries. Sirius died, and we all mourn for him. Harry mourns the loss of a link to the past. Ron mourns a friend. Hermione mourns a good, if rash, man.

I mourn for everything he never had a chance to do. I wasn't particularly attached of Sirius. Don't get me wrong, I loved him, and he was a good man. I just never got the chance to really know him. He did inspire me, though. He inspired me to never let go of the part of me that was good.

I often feel tainted, darkened by some inner shadow. Hermione always points out that logically, I shouldn't; nothing that happened was my fault. I hadn't committed any crime, save being lonely, and she reassured me that she's guilty of that too. I believe her, but that doesn't stop how I feel sometimes. The dirt of Tom Marvolo Riddle is permeated throughout me. Guilt does strange things to people.

Since then, I feel as if I need to prove to people that I'm strong enough to hold my own. I lost my innocence, and I've been on a mission to prove myself worthy. To prove that I'm a Gryffindor, that I'm strong and brave. I sealed that when I followed Harry, Hermione, and Ron to the Battle.

So why do I feel like I've accomplished nothing? I still feel like Ginevra Molly Weasley, nobody in particular. Oh, I don't have Ron's need to be as well-known as Harry, nor am I power hungry like Perfectly Priggish Percy. But I want to be Ginevra Weasley, Soldier. I want to be the perfect Gryffindor.

I thought perhaps that if I was fearless, then I would prove it. I thought that if I proved my might, I could become this woman of strength and virtue. That little scared Ginny, so possessive of a ratty journal, would simply disappear. And more importantly, that Ginny Weasley, little girl who delighted in catching butterflies, would vanish. Who wants to be small and fragile?

But then I started to think. I recalled the DA Practices, when we were trying to create Patronus'. I summoned up every memory I had at Hogwarts. Nothing ever came up. But then one memory popped into my head, and I was able to create some semblance of a Patronus. I think it looked like... well, it looked like a warthog, but never mind that.

It was a memory of Ron and myself, when we were very little, before Percy went to Hogwarts. We were running around like mad, screaming in the slightly insane way that children do when they're fully immersed in their own dream world. I was a princess, Ron was a prince, and we were fighting off dragons who were trying to kidnap me. I remember feeling proud, because Ron didn't make me sulk in our imaginary tower. He let me fight with him, and was fully convinced that if he was 'killed', I could handle the dragons alone and avenge his death.

It confused me a bit, at the time. Why would something so trivial mean so much to me? But after the battle, after seeing Sirius fall, I think I began to understand a bit.

Sirius never tried to be something that he wasn't. He was simply Sirius, and that made him all the more special. It's kind of how Hermione and Luna operate; they simply are who they are, and their inner strengths shine all the more brightly. Ron, on the other hand, sometimes tries too hard, and that overshadows his better qualities. He's funny, he's actually pretty sharp about some subjects, and he's wicked on the Chess Board. If Voldemort and Ron were to battle on the fate of the world on a Chess board, Voldemort would leave with his tail between his legs.

Hang on a tick. I just said his name.

Perhaps... perhaps I am a little brave. The thought satisfies me greatly.

I think about the other people in my life. It's strange; when you take a step back from them and look at them objectively, the things you can see in your life. My father, at first glance, is very mild-mannered and polite. But when he fights, passion blazes from him like a fire that's just had petrol dumped on it. He can be both. Hermione can be both logical and emotional; Luna can be both intelligent and dreamy. Maybe it's not as unheard of as I thought it was.

Bravery is a strange thing. When you are being brave, people think you fearless, strong beyond words. But I remember now, what some person, whose names escapes me, once told me.

True bravery is not about being fearless. True bravery is being scared, but doing something anyways. So it's alright if I get scared, if I want to cry. I'm no braver now than I was when I was a child fighting dragons. Maybe it means more that I am a bit fragile, and small, but still want to fight. It's okay if some part of me still revels in the fantasies of chasing dragons. It's okay if I still want to be little Ginny Weasley.

I'm still me, after all. That's the most important thing, isn't it?

So now I am here, on the banks of the Great Lake. Since I've decided to perhaps still keep the part of me that's a little girl, who giggles shrilly and dances in the rain, I'd best be getting rid of the things that made me want to be something that I'm not, right?

It makes sense to me, anyways.

I fish a box of matches out of my pocket. I could, of course, always use magic to create a fire, but what I'm about to do calls for a little symbolism. And something else.

The parchment that I hold, the ratty piece, is a remnant of Riddle's diary. He made me want to be a grownup so bad; he took my innocence from me. I'm going to reclaim it. That's why I brought matches; some small part of me knows that if he knew that I was destroying the last part of his legacy with Muggle matches, he'd be properly pissed. I take the knife and stab the paper, for good measure.

Goodbye, Mr Riddle. I wish I could say it's been fun. I light the match, and watch as the page burns away. Some small part of my soul lifts.

Dipping my quill into my ink pot - the same quill and ink pot that I used to write in Riddle's journal - I write one word on the fresh piece of parchment. Goodbye.

Strike the match. Watch it burn. A small smile cracks on my face.

I make a small fire out of scattered twigs and leaves, and ceremoniously dump the quill and ink pot into the fire. Mum will probably kill me when she finds out I destroyed my ink pot, but right now, I couldn't care less. Ginny Weasley, right now, is on a mission.

It's time to chase some dragons. And perhaps a butterfly as well.

I am Ginny Weasley, and I have returned to my innocence.

It feels nice.