Love

***

When Ginny was younger, she would sit in front of the mirror and her mother would brush her hair, a hundred strokes on each side, slow, careful strokes, and she would whisper stories to her only daughter, her pride and joy. The stories she told were always about a beautiful redheaded princess named Virginia and her mysterious and alluring prince who saved her from monsters and villains and then swept her away into a happily ever after.

When Ginny was eleven, she went to Hogwarts, and there was no one there who would brush her hair and tell her stories. So she sat in front of the mirror and brushed her own hair, a hundred strokes on each side, until it shone like copper, and she told herself stories, mouthing the words so the other girls wouldn't hear. Only this time her mysterious alluring prince had a face and a name and a lightning bolt scar slashing across his forehead. And she dreamed of him and wrote his name over and over on her textbooks and wished she could be his.

When Ginny was twelve, she found a diary, a little black book, and in that book was her prince. She was surprised, just a little, to realize that Harry Potter wasn't her prince, and never had been. She still brushed her hair every night, a hundred strokes on the left and then on the right, but this time, someone else told her stories, stories about power and darkness and an end of all innocence. This time, her prince came for her, out of the pages of a diary, and he kissed her rough and hard and hit her and she let him, because that's how he said a prince should be. A prince should control his princess. He threw her against a wall and she slumped to the ground, her head throbbing, and she let him, because he said that she loved him, and she believed him. He beat her and screamed at her and called her the most horrible names, and she let him, because surely this was love? If she wanted his tender apologetic kisses, she first had to let him love her like this, love her with bruises and cuts and scrapes, because it was what he wanted. And he always got what he wanted.

There had been questions, of course, about the marks he left on her; some of her professors had took her aside and asked her in quiet voices whether anyone was hurting her, and she would shake her head emphatically, no, no! Because if she told they would make him stop, and he would be angry. And she didn't want him to be angry. If he was angry he wouldn't love her anymore, and she needed him to love her like this. If he threw things at her and shook her until she went limp and saw black, it was all right, because it meant that he loved her enough to make sure she knew when she had made a mistake.

And then one night he had kissed her with enough force to bruise, and then he had begun fumbling with her shirt buttons, and she had pushed away his hand without thinking and asked him to please not go so fast. And he was enraged. His hands tightened around her neck and she tried to hold the blackness at bay but she couldn't, and it took her, and when she woke up again, Dumbledore, who was kind but did not understand, told her gently that she was safe now, that Harry Potter had killed him, and that she didn't have to be afraid again. And when Dumbledore had left, she hadn't cried, because Tom didn't like her to cry out. She had only stared blankly ahead at nothing, gently touching the finger shaped bruises that marred the pale skin of her throat, wishing she was dead.

When Ginny was thirteen, she stopped brushing her hair in the mirror and telling herself stories. Several boys tried to kiss her throughout the year, but she always pushed them away. Their kisses tasted of chocolate, but she wanted blood and bruises, because that was what love was. Love wasn't roses and moonlit strolls are gentle kisses. Love was being pushed down and kicked in the ribs again and again and again. And no one understood that. No one understood that except for him.

When Ginny was fourteen, Harry Potter told her that she was beautiful and asked her to be his. She told him no and she walked away, and she loved the look on his face, as if he couldn't believe she had turned him down. And every night that year she stood in the bathroom with a silver razorblade cutting deep into her skin, watching the blood trickle down her wrist and imagining it was Tom cutting into her, and she remembered what love felt like.

When Ginny was fifteen, she found Draco Malfoy, standing alone in an abandoned classroom, and she let him kiss her for a while, and then she drew away. But he only tugged her closer and savagely kissed her again, and when she struggled he held her wrists in an iron grip and with a delirious happiness she let him leave his marks on her, and she thought that maybe she had found someone else who understood love. And she put away her razorblade and she let Draco Malfoy slam her against the wall again and again, and she was satisfied, because she had found someone to take her prince's place.

When Ginny was sixteen, she found out that she was carrying Draco's child, and they laughed and smiled for a while and talked about weddings and baby names and they were happy. Then one night after Slytherin lost a Quidditch match to Gryffindor, Draco stormed in, full of rage and looking for someone to spend it on, and he pushed Ginny down a flight of stairs. And Ginny wept when she lost the baby, and that was the end of all the laughing and smiling and happiness. The days grew darker and harder to live through, and the nights were long and lonely, and she let Draco beat her all he wanted, because, as she told herself in a small and desperate voice, this was what love was. Because, she whispered with tears in her eyes, she needed to be loved.

When Ginny was seventeen, she stopped talking and she stopped thinking and she wasted away into a small pale shadow, and when Draco asked her to marry him, she said yes, and she took his name and his love and the pain that came with it. And he dressed her up in pretty things and gave her charms to hide the bruises and took her to fancy balls and she looked at all the lovely things around her with deadened eyes. And she couldn't feel anything anymore--not when he hit her or when he kissed her or even when he just looked at her. And she faded away.

When Ginny was eighteen, she went into the bathroom and she took out her old razorblade and gave herself a slash on each damned wrist, and with the last of her strength she brushed her hair, a hundred strokes on each side, and as she died she told herself a story of a girl who had taken too much love, and the prince who had failed to save her.