Breaking The Spell

On most occasions, the Gryffindor common room was void of students on warm, dry Saturday afternoons. Today, however, it was a blur of people and sounds, and outside, it was neither warm nor dry. Friday morning, the rain had started to fall in small droplets, but by late afternoon, the rain had begun to pour down in torrents. The students who had had the unfortunate luck of being outdoors had returned to the castle drenched and chilled to the bone with severely annoyed looks on their faces. The flood of water hadn't halted since, and as if the heavens had parted, the downpour showed no sign of stopping. Due to the dismal weather, members of each house were confined to their respective common rooms to wait out the storm.

The day had started dully and uneventfully, most students disappointed to be spending their Saturday indoors. After returning from lunch, however, most of the Gryffindors were quite wound up, finding loud, obnoxious activities to pass the time: even the prefects had given up trying to control the pandemonium that had broken out around the room.

In a corner, massaging her temples and throbbing head, sat Ginny Weasley. Poor, pathetic, little Ginny Weasley, the third year that few people were very interested in talking to. Yes, that was her. Matching the thunderclaps produced by the storm, her mood had been slowly declining all day, and now she was suffering an excruciating headache. At least I'm not the only one who feels like crying, she thought as she looked out the window at the weeping clouds, barely able to see straight for the pain and tears pricking the back of her eyelids. It felt as if the whole of her head had been split in two, and if she wasn't careful, her brain might just explode. Suffice it to say, the noise was driving her absolutely mad. She supposed it would have been quite easy for her to escape the noise by simply leaving the room, but in a way, it was a sort of self-inflicted torture. She deserved to endure pain and be uncomfortable--it was retribution for all of the mistakes she believed she'd already made in her young life.

Ginny closed her eyes, took a deep, ragged breath, and tried with all her might to shut out the horrid din. But after a few moments, she knew that there was no hope, so slowly, she peeled her eyelids back and began to scan the room to look for a distraction, even if only a small one--anything to take her mind from the pain. Her gaze fell distractedly over each person, though by now, she was searching for one in particular. The one boy who could take away all of her pain with a glance in her direction (however infrequently that might occur). To have him would be a dream come true.

Ginny sighed. If only dreams came true.

Instead, Ginny saw her friend, Hermione Granger, who was hovering over a desk, referencing from a large, intimidating (at least to Ginny) text book, then furiously scribbling notes from it onto a piece of parchment and dipping her quill into the smooth, black ink enthusiastically. She had a slightly maniacal look about her and bore the expression of a woman possessed. Hermione's eyes flicked up for a moment and landed on Ginny. The corners of her mouth twitched upwards in a brief, but friendly smile, then her attention was immediately directed back to the massive book in front of her. That girl always had been quite ambitious about her schoolwork. Near Hermione sat Neville Longbottom, who appeared to be practicing one of his spells for class. But being a year his junior, Ginny didn't recognize the charm. Though unfamiliar as it was, she could conclude from the frustrated expression on Neville's face that he wasn't having much success with the spell. His eyes were narrowed and his wand gripped firmly in his hand, however nothing but adverse effects seemed to be coming from his efforts.

Glancing away from Neville, Ginny's eyes roamed around the room once again, more determined than before. Flashbulbs from Colin Creevey's camera were going off a short distance away and her hope grew; she knew she'd find him somewhere nearby. Flashbulbs followed him wherever he went.

And there he was.

Harry Potter was on the far side of the room, completely ignoring Colin, and playing wizard chess with Ginny's brother, Ron, both of their brows furrowed in concentration. Harry was running his hands through his perpetually messy brown hair and his vivid green eyes were peering through the lenses of his glasses, examining the chessboard. A smile played at Ginny's lips as she watched him; she couldn't help but notice how cute he looked when deep in thought. How was it that the mere sight of Harry made her headache lessen considerably?

"Oy, George! Pass it here!" Fred Weasley called to his brother, dashing across the room and waving his hands wildly in the air. They had apparently gotten their hands on a Muggle football, and were now throwing and kicking it around the room with a few of their housemates.

With a stab of annoyance, Ginny rolled her eyes at her brothers and silently cursed them for contributing to the horrible throbbing sensation in her temples. Squinting, she wondered if they were ever going to grow up. Somehow, she already knew the answer--her brothers Bill and Charlie were both well into adulthood and they had yet to begin acting mature or civilized. Boys, she thought, feeling exasperated, they were nutters, the lot of them.

Except, well, Harry, of course. He'd saved her life, after all. And she couldn't very well spend the rest of her life with her soul mate if he was a nutter; that just wouldn't work. Harry certainly wasn't daft, but perhaps he was a bit slow on the uptake, for he had yet to notice that he and Ginny were absolutely perfect for each other. He was the tragic hero and she was the lovely damsel in distress--what better scenario could one possibly hope for? Ginny sighed dramatically, still watching him. He'd already saved her life, everyone knew that. Hero: check. He was even a tragic hero. After all, he'd had such a horrible life so far. Ginny knew she was the only girl in the world capable of helping him heal his emotional wounds. And besides, she thought that being possessed by the epitome of evil and being trapped in the Chamber of Secrets certainly fulfilled all of the requirements needed to obtain the title of Damsel in Distress. Another check. He'd swept her off her feet and out of the Chamber--the only thing missing was the romantic kiss to seal the deal. Perhaps he'd just missed that part of the job description.

She would just have to wait patiently until he saw the light--and he would, she was sure of it. In time, he'd come to realize how gorgeous and talented and brilliant she really was--then he'd kick himself for being blind to it for so long. He'd sweep her off her feet properly, then. And everything would be perfect. It'd be just like that Muggle movie, The Princess Bride--maybe they could even ride away on white horses. Okay, that might be a stretch, but a girl's allowed to dream. Ginny had everything planned out, all she had to do now was wait. But she really did wish he'd hurry up and get on with it.

Before any of this could actually happen, however, Harry needed to realize she existed. Making eye contact would probably be a good first step.

Look at me, she pleaded silently, willing him with her eyes to lift his head, as if her life depended on this very moment. It was a terribly helpless feeling. Look up, Harry. Just lift up your head and tell me I'm not crazy for trying to use telepathy and mind control, she begged, and suddenly found herself on the verge of tears. What the hell was wrong with her? Mind control, Ginny? Get real. But damn it, why didn't he like her? She wasn't terribly bad looking; he couldn't possibly be that picky, could he? She'd given him plenty of signals, but he still chose to ignore them. She seemed to think she'd been quite plain about the whole thing--so why wouldn't he pay any attention to her? Please, Harry, this is really important.

She knew she must have looked a bit odd to those around her, with such a determined, yet sad expression lighting her face, but she didn't care. Certainly, she thought, Harry could feel her penetrating stare upon him. She was practically boring into his soul, for God's sake. Yet he continued to keep his head bowed, staring down at the chessboard. He was completely engrossed in his game and it was perfectly clear that he wasn't giving any thought to her. Look. At. Me. The voice in her head was growing rough and impatient. Ginny came dangerously close to shouting her thoughts across the room at Harry; she could feel her anger mounting. She had to physically stop herself from calling out to him and forcibly choked down the words that were relentlessly bubbling up in her throat. I'm going insane, she thought.

Ginny's head pounded, the pain steadily increasing with every passing second. This could no longer be classified as a headache--it was a full-blown migraine. Perhaps severe head pain preceded the final stages of madness, she reflected wildly. Her eyes welled with hot tears, and it occurred to her that there was a pain in her heart far worse than the one in her head. Her heart was pounding furiously in her chest, and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe. But Ginny knew that she'd been slowly suffocating for the past four years.

The realization hit her like an icy blast of wind. Why was she torturing herself like this? She was always telling herself that she deserved the pain and that without Harry's love, she was worthless. But why? It was horrible, the way she felt day in and day out, hanging on to the hope that today would be the day--Harry would notice her today. Ginny didn't deserve to be treated like she was invisible, and those beliefs--the ones her mum had always tried to convince her of, that she was special and commanded respect--were finally starting to sink in. If he was going to ignore her, then that was his problem--not Ginny's. Harry didn't deserve her love if he wasn't going to return it, and she had been foolish to dole it out so willingly. He needed to earn it. God, why had it taken her so long to figure this out?

Her crush on him was crippling. Once a girl who was quick to jump into conversations and offer her opinion, Ginny was at a loss for words in the presence of Harry Potter. What had started as a girlish crush had morphed into a severe obsession. When had she crossed the line? She'd let herself become so far gone that he was the only thing she could think of--Harry, and nothing else. She wasn't even sure if she could pull herself out of the deep, dark hole she'd buried herself in. She'd spent four years fantasizing about her and Harry's first kiss, their wedding day, and what they were going to name their three children (two girls and a boy), that she'd forgotten to live her life. Her life. That was more important than any stupid boy. She felt as if a bright fluorescent light bulb had gone off in her head--and the glare was blinding. A heavy, stifling wave of despondency and worthlessness fell over Ginny, as if someone had taken a blanket and let if fall slowly over her head. She hated herself.

She hated him. He was the one who'd caused this, after all! This was his fault. Why'd he have to go and be all heroic and so bloody irresistible, anyway? Ginny looked over at Harry again, this time not with doting affection, but with irritated disdain, letting out a small snort of disgust. She could feel the anger and frustration she'd experienced for the past four years finally coming to a head, and she had the sudden urge to hit something. Hard. God, look at that disgusting hair of his--it was so stringy and unkempt. Hadn't he ever heard of a comb? Plus those glasses. If he wasn't going to wear contacts, couldn't he at least have gotten frames that weren't so hideously ugly? And he was so skinny and weak looking, like he didn't belong in his body. Ginny couldn't believe she'd ever found any of those things attractive--cute, even. She watched as Harry idly itched his nose. God, even the way he scratched his nose annoyed her!

It was as if she were viewing a completely different person. The Harry she'd been staring at longingly only half an hour ago was now totally undistinguishable, like he'd vanished. How could a mere thirty minutes make such a dramatic difference? Ginny wondered if perhaps it was just her aching, pulsating head talking and making her irrational, but as soon as she looked at the New Harry, her eyes narrowed and she was overwhelmed by a feeling of deep dislike. She'd wasted four years on him? And in all that time, he hadn't returned her feelings not once. He'd just observed her with cold indifference. What a git.

Suddenly, without warning, Ginny felt a sharp pain sear through the entire upper half of her body--her neck and shoulders tightened instantly. Ginger hair slapped her face as she whipped her head around to find the source of such horrible agony. It seemed George Weasley's elbow had encountered the back of her head in his attempts to catch the Muggle football heedlessly thrown to him by Lee Jordan, right in Ginny's direction.

She shot from her seat so quickly it caused her head to spin, but she defiantly fought the urge to faint. Though her vision was blurring in and out, she could clearly see the look of fear and surprise on her brother's face as she turned to confront him. She was clutching her wand so tightly, she feared she might snap it. Ginny knew she must have been shooting daggers at him with her eyes--never had she inflicted such a reaction among any of her brothers. George was probably envisioning a particularly bad version of the Bat Bogey Hex coming his way. She found a sort of sick satisfaction in it.

"What the hell, George?" she finally spat, angrily.

"Jeez, I'm sorry, Gin," George said, looking slightly alarmed as his eyes darted nervously to her wand. He held up his hands as if surrendering to her. "I didn't mean to, honest."

"I've got the worst migraine I've ever had in my life," Ginny screamed furiously, emphasizing each word to make sure George knew exactly how she felt. She vaguely noticed that she was drawing the attention of several people nearby, "and you clock me over the head with your God damn elbow! That's great! Just great!"

"Gin, I--"

"Everything's just great!" she repeated, for good measure, wondering when she'd ever been so angry, at the same time wondering why such a tiny thing had caused such an enormous outburst. She threw up her hands in exasperation. "My life's just perfect, thanks! Things couldn't be better!" God. This wasn't like her at all.

Upon contemplation, she decided that she really didn't care, pushed past George--harder than was truly necessary--and made her way across the common room to the girls' dormitories. On her way, she came upon Harry and Ron, who were both staring at her, open-mouthed. The sight of Harry made Ginny's ears ring, all of the fury and indignation she'd been building up for the past few minutes finally threatening to burst out of her. At that moment, she hated Harry Potter more than she'd ever hated anyone in her life. In a surge of anger, she walked right up to him and violently overturned his precious chessboard in one swift motion. She looked Harry in the eye for the first time since she could ever remember as chess pieces went flying in various directions.

"Look at me, damn it!"

Ginny didn't even wait for a reaction. She simply turned on her heels and stomped loudly up to her room, fully aware that every single person in the common room was now staring at her, wondering if she'd gone mad. And once again, she found that she couldn't care less. Maybe they were right, and she had gone mad. But she'd let them think whatever the hell they wanted; she had things to do.

Walking purposefully over to her bed, Ginny knelt and pulled out a tattered shoebox-sized cardboard container from under it. She wrenched the curtains back on her four-poster, then hoisted the box up onto her bed. Decorated with glitter and hearts, it was labeled with a single word in curly-q letters: Harry.

She supposed in a way, it was like keeping a diary, only...not. It was precious to her, the way diaries were to most girls her age, and it contained well-kept secrets that she could never share with anyone else. But this way, she knew she wouldn't have to worry about being possessed. Yet somehow, she'd still felt as if she were under a mystifying spell. Well, Ginny thought, this ends here and now. The spell is officially broken.

Ginny ripped it open with vehemence and surveyed its contents. Harry. Every single item in this box screamed of Harry. It even smelled like him. She frowned, then after a moment of consideration, crossed the room and dragged the trash bin over to her bed. Now she was ready.

Ginny reached for every single newspaper article about Harry that had appeared in the Daily Prophet since she'd met him. Each piece of paper was labeled with the date it had been printed, and all were held together neatly with a rubber band. It was a rather impressive collection, in her opinion. A rather pathetic collection is more like it, a biting voice in the back of her mind added bitterly. Her heart still pounding with fury, Ginny thrust the stack of newspaper clippings violently into the bin, which resulted in a loud, satisfied thud.

Turning back to the box, she pulled out a photo she'd nicked from Colin Creevey last year. In it, Harry was smiling sheepishly and running his hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. Ginny frowned as she carefully looked over the image, disgusted. She gave an agitated snort and tore the photo into halves, then fourths with a loud rip. The horrified expression on Harry's face as she tore the picture was almost comical, and Ginny let out a sharp, bitter laugh. Poor Colin had agonized for days over the lost photograph; Ginny remembered being asked if she'd seen it. She'd lied without blinking, No, Colin, sorry, I haven't seen it. I'm sure it'll turn up, though, don't worry. She was glad Colin couldn't see it now, in shreds at the bottom of her trash can. It was hard to believe she'd resorted to petty theft, just for a stupid picture. God.

Rummaging around the bottom of the box, indignantly shoving items out of her way, Ginny searched for the next piece of rubbish she should bin. Just as she was about to pick up an old, discarded button she'd seen drop off of Harry's robes, a small piece of pink paper caught her attention as it slipped from the box and fell to the floor.

Slowly, Ginny bent to pick it up. Her hand shook slightly and her breath caught in her throat as her mind registered what she was looking at. On scented stationary adorned with pink and red hearts and flowers, penned in Ginny's neat, careful handwriting, was a copy of the poem she had written for Harry in her first year. Her eyes stung and her heart beat painfully fast as she read over each stupid, idiotic, immature line.

His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.

Oh, God. Both Ginny's head and heart ached wretchedly as she recalled all of the pain and humiliation those few simple words had inflicted upon her. She'd cried for hours after it had been delivered. And then those gits Fred and George wouldn't stop singing it for weeks. She tried to swallow down the lump in her throat, but Ginny could no longer hold off the tears she'd been fighting all day, and began to weep freely, tears raining down her face as she felt each heaving sob jar her soul.

Feeling both red-hot anger and unspeakable sadness, Ginny grabbed at random objects in the glittery box, no longer stopping to inspect them, and began hurling them into the trash bin, uttering small, suppressed cries with every flick of her wrist. Down they went, filling the bin--photos; one of Harry's old books; various items she'd seen him drop, then retrieved from the floor; a shirt she'd stolen from Ron's room that Harry had left; even a piece of his Nimbus 2000 she'd found near the Whomping Willow last year. It infuriated her to remember how dangerously close she'd allowed herself to get to the deadly tree, all for a piece of a broken broomstick. Each object made a loud clang as it united with the metal trashcan. With each ripped photograph and destroyed book, Ginny felt a weight being lifted off of her shoulders, yet she couldn't stop the hurt, angry tears falling from her eyes. She'd let herself go, and now couldn't contain her sobs, couldn't call back the feelings she'd let burst from under her.

Suddenly, Ginny heard a door open from behind her. She turned around to find Hermione watching her with the same frightened look George had worn back in the common room. Hermione's expression immediately went from confused to compassionate the moment she saw Ginny's red, swollen eyes and tear-stained face. Ginny stood helplessly as Hermione's gaze traveled from Ginny, to the shoebox, to the trash bin, and back to Ginny.

Hermione hesitantly took a step forward to her friend, but instantly stepped back, as if she'd suddenly thought better of it. Hermione appeared to be torn; she wanted to comfort the distraught girl, but Ginny knew what she was thinking--will she pounce on me the way she did the others? Even Ginny wasn't sure of the answer.

Hermione took another tiny step forward, and this time, she didn't step back. "Um, Ginny, are you okay?" she asked tentatively, her voice soft, as if she thought that would lessen the chance of Ginny shouting again. "You seemed a little...upset downstairs. I wanted to come check on you."

It took Ginny a few seconds to recognize the look on Hermione's face--it wasn't just concern, it was...pity. Hermione pitied her. If there was one thing Ginny hated (more than herself and Harry, that was), it was being pitied. She'd gotten enough of that after the Chamber of Secrets! She remembered it well--the way they'd get that sad look in their eyes as they watched her, with the corner of their mouths turned slightly down. Did they really think she needed them to feel sorry for her? Bloody hell, it wasn't like she couldn't do that for herself. She'd become quite the expert at it, really.

Therefore, there was absolutely no reason for Hermione to pity her. None. She could handle this by herself, but it was just too much standing here, seeing that sorrowful look on her friend's face--especially when it was so bloody unnecessary! Ginny had the sudden urge to slap Hermione. Ginny didn't need a babysitter to come check on her. She was just fine, thanks; she thought she'd made that clear already. So what was Hermione doing up here, anyway? This wasn't even her dormitory! She just needed to mind her own business. Didn't she know she was making Ginny's headache worse?

"I'm fine," Ginny lied, but couldn't suppress a sob.

"No, you're not," Hermione said, quietly. "Ginny," she hesitated uncertainly, glancing back at the box as she picked at her fingernails nervously. "What--I mean, well, that is to say--um, what are you doing?"

Ginny huffed, then puffed out her chest like a peacock drawing up its feathers. With as much dignity as she could muster, she successfully fought down another sob and tried to answer coolly and evenly. Instead, her response came out as more of an indignant shout. "I'm taking back my life!"

Ginny felt a warm tear slide down her cheek as she watched Hermione's puzzlement. "Er...what?"

Ginny's head was going to explode soon, she just knew it. Then Hermione'd be sorry. Ha. God, did she have to spell it out for her? And Hermione was supposed to be smart. "My life!" Ginny yelled, and saw Hermione flinch. She swiped at her forehead viciously; her stupid, ugly red hair kept getting in her eyes. "It's mine, isn't it? Don't I deserve to have it? And what about my heart, don't I have a right to that, too?"

"Well, I suppose, but--"

"Good." Ginny's voice had turned an eerie calm. Suddenly every word took great effort. She picked up the box and heaved the entire thing into the trash bin. She then grabbed the cup of hours old tea she'd placed on her nightstand earlier and slowly poured in out into the bin. She watched as the clear brown liquid stained the box and its contents, ruining her memories. "Because he. Can't. Have them. Any. More."

A look of dawning comprehension washed over Hermione's face as Ginny slid to the floor in a crumpled heap, placing her head in her hands and sobbing uncontrollably.

In an instant, her friend had flown across the room and joined the weeping girl on the ground. Wordlessly, Hermione wrapped her arms around Ginny and folder her into a gentle, comforting embrace, pushing her hair out of her eyes for her. Ginny felt like an immature child who had skinned her knee, then run off to her mum, but allowed Hermione to slowly rock her back and forth. She blinked fiercely, knowing it was pointless to fight the hot tears pouring down her face--they would come, whether she wanted them to or not. As the two girls swayed on the cold, hard floor, Ginny listened to Hermione's coos and let her stroke her hair, feeling vaguely apologetic for staining her friend's sleeve with tears.

"Shh," Hermione whispered, "I know it's hard."

Well, she was right. It was hard--horribly, dreadfully, painfully hard. And Ginny didn't know if she could bear it. But she knew she had to. Gradually, her sobs died down to ragged breaths, all of which threatened to turn into full-blown hysteria at any moment, but not of which succeeded. She sat like that for what felt like hours, but could have only been a few minutes, rasping and heaving fitfully in Hermione's arms, but was grateful that the tears had stopped flowing and for the other girl's presence.

"It's going to be okay, Ginny."

Hard to fathom as it was, Ginny knew she was right. Somehow, she was able to allow a glimmer of hope in: the belief that things could get better, that things would get better. It really was going to be okay. She wouldn't be a puppet on a string for the rest of her life; she knew that much. Yes, she was still quite miserable, and no, it wasn't over, but now she could pick up the pieces and let the healing process begin. Something told her that she was about to start her life as the new Ginny Weasley. Not the Ginny Weasley who was taken to the Chamber of Secrets, not the Ginny Weasley who few people were interested in talking to, and certainly not the Ginny Weasley who worshipped Harry Potter. Just Ginny.

"You know," the redhead said through a tearful laugh, her head still cradled in Hermione's arms, "I heard Neville needs a date for the Yule Ball."

Baby steps, she told herself. Baby steps.