Life's But a Walking Shadow

Ginny sloshed through multitudes of deep coffee colored puddles that riddled the cobbled pathway that led through Diagon Alley. Muck flew up and clung to the hem of her nicest black dress. Ginny stared somberly at the curtain of crystalline drops that fell all around her. Somewhere in the deluge were her parents and the twins. Bill and Charlie were off on Order business; Ron was coming later with Harry. Percy's pride was still too broken for him to associate with his family.

A large (though not quite so large as Hagrid), muddy man bumped Ginny's right shoulder brusquely, sending her plunging to the ground and snapping her contemplative reverie. Wetness seeped over her newly-sore bum, and her wrists smarted from catching her fall.

"Hey!" she shouted, immediately regretting it because he was probably three times her size. Thankfully he didn't appear to hear her. Still, as she watched his retreating back, her temper flared up in her, as red and fiery as her hair. There was nobody else around, the street was plenty big to accommodate everyone, and still the oaf had slammed into her. The rude prick.

"Gin, you okay?" George had appeared at her side, offering a hand to help her up. Torrents of rain ran off his hair and caused little rivulets to cascade down his face. Ginny snorted as a mental picture of a wet dog inundated her mind. instantly she felt guilty for it, and let George help her up mutely. Today was a sad one, a somber one. Laughing seemed inappropriate at a time like this. She rolled her aching wrists as she jogged with George to catch up with the rest of the group.

It was too gloomy, too wet. Ginny thought miserably that the sky reflected the feeling of despair that pervaded the minds of her friends and family. This memorial was going to be painful, and Ginny didn't know if she could handle it.

Finally, chilled and moistened considerably considering the early-August date, the quartet of Weasleys arrived at the old, derelict funeral hall. Ginny glanced uninterestedly up at the rotting wood and broken glass. After a second she realized she was staring at the crumbling building. After another she realized that Dad was impatiently holding the door open for her, using an odd wind charm to keep the rain from coming in and spraying the floor.

"Sorry," she mumbled as she slid in. Dad observed her for a moment with a bemusedly critical eye. Ginny fiddled with her fingers; her discomfort under her Dad's gaze prompted sporadic, spontaneous movements that could not be suppressed. Finally, Dad spoke, smiling friendlily.

"Can you do a bit of a revolving turn for me, dear? I think some drying and cleaning charms are in desperate need." Relieved that the topic of her father's conversation was no more serious than appearance, Ginny slowly pirouetted with her arms out in a T. Warm air blew on her clothing, face, and hair until she was dry again.

"Thanks," she murmured appreciatively. Her voice didn't sound like her voice. Dad chuckled sadly. Why was he so happy? How could he laugh?

"Don't thank me just yet," he replied sarcastically, pointing her towards a window. He then obligingly approached Mum, who was gesturing wildly for him to come over. She walked over and glanced at the pale reflection that was superimposed over the rain.

For a second she thought her father had accidentally swapped her hair with Hermione's. The drying air had blown up Ginny's hair. About six inches of blazing fluff framed her white face, turning the somber event into another of the times in her life where her head appeared to be on fire. Ginny miserably thought that she looked like some sort of demon, in her blackest garb with a flaming halo.

The black dress drowned Ginny in it. The dress was at the height of fashion, and should have made her look older, more attractive. Instead, she looked like a five year old trying on her mothers clothes. This wasn't Ginny she was looking at. The person in the reflection looked so lost and scared. Nervous. Sad.

Two large, somber eyes stared out of her ghastly face, reproaching Ginny for some sin she couldn't name. Ginny shook her head nervously. She was not used to feeling so confused. This wasn't her, this sad, scared little girl. The real Ginny would have walked in, respectful but confidant, and gone with the others, making gentle small talk. For some reason, though, that wasn't happening.

For the first time in years, since Tom, Ginny couldn't figure out who she was.

How could she be this lost child and at the same time be the self she knew she was? Why was grief wasting her personality away? She hadn't even known him that well...but he was still...

What was happening... and why couldn't she face the source of all this pain? A lump was slowly rising in her throat, her reflection blurred, and her eyes stung.

"Ginny! Come on, you're beautiful, now lets sit down!" Mum, the constant, was beckoning Ginny towards the rows of seats, "And don't forget to sign the guest book!" Thank God reality intervened. The tears receded, the lump shrunk; but didn't disappear entirely.

"Coming, Mum!" Ginny responded automatically. Was that really her voice? It couldn't be. It's so squeaky and shrill. She pulled her hair back quickly into a sort of messy bun, hoping to tame it and sympathizing painfully with Hermione.

Ginny realized that it hadn't been Dad's critical glare that had made her uncomfortable-it was being here, in this place. Every fiber of her being was screaming at her 'Run away! Flee! Hurry and get out!" Ginny couldn't cope. Why couldn't she control her hands? Why were they still so wet after Dad had dried them off?

This isn't me, Ginny thought desperately.

She wandered across the room, the rotting floorboards creaking with every step. The windows were cracked, and Ginny supposed Dumbledore had put some charm on them to keep the cascading moisture on the outside from seeping in. A few of the ceiling beams were cracked and held there by what Ginny hoped was some sort of permanent binding spell. Darkness pervaded the corners, masking the holes and leaks that were the result of constant neglect. Mice scurried around the dusty perimeter. The entire building was falling apart at the seams.

It was an insult, to have the service here. It didn't seem fair. But things had to be secret, had to be safe. The post-mortem pardon had already come from the new Minister, Madame Bones, but having so many Order members in the same place meant that they still couldn't publicly parade the planned memorial.

And so many of the wizarding community refused to believe the truth. It was an insult. It didn't seem fair.

Ginny arrived at the rickety table that held a long piece of parchment. A guest book? Really? A sudden vision of Marietta Edgecomb with SNEAK spelled across her face in purple pimples flashed across Ginny's mind. There must be some sort of spell on this paper.

Why couldn't anything be trusted for what it was anymore? Who would be so evil as to do anything untrustworthy at a funeral? Ginny leaned over and quickly wrote her name:

Ginevra Weasley

The name was more mature-sounding than the one she commonly used. Maybe using it would make her feel less helpless and more adult. Maybe.