"As is a tale, so is life, not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters." ~ J.K. Rowling

Summary: Ginny Weasley doesn't hate fairy tales, but she would hex anyone who dared imply she was living one. If a certain Boy Saviour ever stopped being oblivious, he was free to join her in cursing fate. ~ Anti-love stories while being totally, completely canon.

A/N: This was an interesting piece to write. I'm on the committee of a creative writing society at my uni, and when it was my turn to lead a workshop on free verse poetry I was like, sweet, yay random/chaotic prompts! I then ended up writing fanfics. Is anyone surprised?

This little plot bunny came about when I asked everyone to write an anti-poem. Meaning, people could write a piece of not-horror, not-friendship, not-humour, etc. I decided to do a not-love poem. Then the idea gained sentience and resulted in this crazy mess covering Ginny Weasley's first through sixth years at Hogwarts. Have fun!

General Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling, while a lovely poet, is far too much enamoured with end-rhymes. Thus, from even just a stylistic sense, I'm clearly not her. It's cool though if you think otherwise, you can join me in denial!

"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."

Singing valentine from "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets"

'His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad–'

it was Fred and George. They were idiots

but no one would believe her denials.

They'd put on sympathetic faces with grins leaking from the corners,

call her precious, adorable, delusional, and oh Merlin

she wished she felt enough like herself to argue.

But by that time it'd gone too far

and the poem was the last thing on her mind. Instead,

it was crackled eyes flying open, a scream on her lips,

and him–always, always him–reassuring her

while he stood there, drenched in dirt, sweat, blood, red,

a gleaming sword at his side and mystical beasts behind.

Amidst her joy

(He was gone, gone! No more forgotten scenes, no more

feinted days, crimson and feathers splattered everywhere. Gone Gone GONE!),

irony settled on her chest.

A literal 'knight in shining armour' was a bit too much.

But for the moment she swept it aside for relief,

for sheer happiness which even

the clenching panic of leaving Hogwarts couldn't discard.

He became Harry. Just Harry.

She'd overheard him regret the impersonalness of it all,

that no one looked behind the hyphenated moniker.

That first summer cured her of it

–after the bedtime stories, awakening shrieks, and elbow in the butter dish–

she noticed he was shier than she

and seemed uncomfortable with the twins' loudness,

her mum's hugs, big meals which clearly churned his stomach,

even while his eyes lit up in confusion at the sweltering love.

They were Greengreengreen. Acid green.

Like the pulpy flower's blood which oozes from stems.

Not at all like a toad–the twins were blind.

She shoved these thoughts away; what did it matter that fears

lurked in the back of her mind?

He and she weren't friends, he and she wouldn't be together.

She got it, she did.

Silly childhood crush which

no one would let her forget.

The diary had cured her of that.

Spilling her heart to Tom had left her clean,

more unblemished than before and leaking with bits of crimson.

But there were no more ridiculous delusions.

She didn't write the dratted poem,

her mind was preoccupied and possessed at the time.

A certain bushy-haired friend of hers should remember this.

That was the awful thing about the

otherwise brilliant girl:

she could never hear she was wrong.

And maybe it was cruel (and naive, so silly) of her to think

that accepting a date would erase the pointed looks sent her way.

Michael was a prat, yes, but he was sweet to her,

had no idea about Tom,

and never mentioned a certain boy saviour.

That there was no red or green in any bit of him was a relief.

She had better things to do than dwell on Chang's self-satisfied smile

or crocodile tears.

Merlin, why wouldn't people stop staring?

It only got worst when he

became a Prophet sanctified hero once more.

Dean was better. More mellow, more happy without motive,

and his smile melted her the first time

she glimpsed it across the Great Hall.

A bit overly chivalrous, but at least he wasn't jealous of her flying.

He at least listened when she explained

of escape, of rushing wind, of soaring higher and faster than anything chasing her could go and–

and he enclosed his lips with hers when she prattled on too long.

Then he left.

Not left, she threw him away.

Awfully silly and childish of her, she knew,

but the stares had gotten worse and she hated being spied on.

Harry Potter was many things, but 'discreet'

was not one of them. Especially not with her best female friend

whispering a matchmaking commentary into her ear.

The staring verged on violent when she was with Dean, so she left.

She was much more at home being single. She knew

where she stood. No need for second-guessing

and looking over her shoulder for stupid smiling boys.

So then? Then, she flew.

Cascaded, cartwheeled, she hardly cared

and just did. Quaffles, bludgers and snitches blurred

until they were all a mix in the mad wind rushed reality and,

oh god oh god they won! They ended, they landed,

but it was all right for the party would sweep all the fuss away, and there he was

and she couldn't stop flying with excitement into his arms and––

Oh Merlin.

No, not now.

She'd had ages, months, years really,

what were a few more? Just a few, that was all she asked.

For he, with his beam amidst the cat-calls,

the strong arms around her weighted shoulders,

a lingering taste on her puckered lips of treacle tart–

of a fake smile stretched across her teeth.

What was she supposed to say?

She hadn't meant anything. Not really.

For Harry Potter didn't love.

She'd known it for years, sealed her heart

as soon as she glimpsed Tom behind his killing curse eyes.

Ginny Weasley didn't love.

Not even for one whose boyish, uncertain smile could dig into her heart,

who tried to hug with warmth and protection,

who understood the need for escape,

who looked at her as though there was no one else in the world–

"Yes."

The word felt hot, sticky.

She stayed outside far longer than him,

dreading returning to the interrogation in her dorm

far more than being caught out after curfew.

They were together.

It didn't feel true, not especially,

for she hadn't been a princess for years (if at all)

and he was mesmerised by the happily ever before they'd even begun.

The only time she surfaced for air was at the funeral:

"I'm sorry," he kept mumbling, fingers nettling his hair,

"I'm so sorry."

For the first time, she finally wanted to kiss him. The noble git.

Relief spiralled between her knowledge that she was the one

who should be saying those words.

He was gone.

Gone gone gone, just like Tom.

But there was little dizzying joy for,

for once and only,

she wished she could be kicked out of Hogwarts.

Of crucios, torture, red red red,

burning, sweltering around the Dumbledore's Army, Still Recruiting;

of a molten heart starting to freeze.

She never listened to Potterwatch, always too busy helping Neville and Luna.

Then Neville. Just him.

Always 'Just Neville'; no hyphens needed.

Still a hero.

Not a silver lighted one with a dark interior

burning bright at the touch.

A normal one. A kind one, hugging her

without hesitance. One she dreamt of

without even knowing.

Shame he was head over heels with Hannah.

They were both single

(Merlin, she was tired of repeating this over and over,

wanted to hex any who gave her knowing smirks).

Then? End to rumours, of constant Death Eater glares,

getting jolted out of bed, wand thrust into her hand as she's dragged

towards all that she'd never required.

All three were half-starved.

Ron was as freckly as ever,

Hermione was ignoring the burn across her arm, and he?

He doesn't look like a would-be conquerer. He?

He's even more of a scared little boy than he'd been in the Chamber.

His eyes are a murky, dead green,

–dark as a blackboard–

no shining armour any longer and, and she should be happy for the latter.

And she was ... until he spotted her

and there appeared a veil of several sunlit days, tranquility they'd never seen.

She's only just able to catch the cue thrown at her

and send Luna (Safesafesafe!) instead of the eager girl

with gulping tears surely at the ready.

The battle isn't like a fairy tale.

It isn't supposed to be, she knows,

but has a nagging feeling that she isn't supposed to be sick

at the sight of an 'enemy' falling down the stairs,

green light fading behind.

It's chaotic, horrible, and she remembers none of it.

She's told she fought bravely: these being the same people

still convinced she's madly in love and a poet at heart.

A foolish, stupid girl who always forgets.

Then there's Harry. Just Harry.

And she remembers this.

Lying still, cold and dead in Hagrid's arms

(Like Fred, a part of her mind whispers in reminder. She curses it to bits and pieces

and all's blissfully silent)

everything is quiet except for the scream.

Wait. No, that's her.

Why is she crying?

Why are her shrieks puncturing the air more than

Ron, Hermione, and McGonagall combined?

It shouldn't–no he's, he's gone.

He's gonegoneGONE.

She should just shut up, stay quiet,

wake up. Get out of this nightmare!

Out of the Chamber, away from the curling snake

and smoking diary and Tom laughing over her love's body.

Wake up! Stop being a stupid little girl,

the basilisk's still there and you're staring at it,

always staring like the people you hate so much.

Tom's here, stop screaming and fly and fight and dodge

and run the hell away before any can catch you!

Don't listen to the so useless and stupid words;

the shining hero's gone, which means there was never a story.

But you knew that, didn't you?

You always did. It was no secret,

everyone has been whispering it in your ears.

For the damsel in distress isn't supposed to be haunted,

Prince Charming never learns to love just for someone who can't look at him,

and the villain never lurks within the hero

living day by day unseen,

before pouncing until all that's left is the blasted red.

No. Wait, it's always been green.

Just like the curse soaring towards her mum;

the colour's distorted from what it should be, and is the perfect shade of pickled toad

(Fred would have laughed, he would).

Then it all comes to a screeching halt with a shout.

This time? It's not her who's screaming.

For she has always been red.

He's green.

But not anything even remotely like the poem any more.

As Harry pivots to face Tom (stunned, like them all),

she catches a glimpse of his eyes.

They aren't emerald, no longer flashing with subdued magic and crimson fire.

They're the shade of lily pads

(Which softens his face, makes him the boy he never was,

lightens the weight that has forever held him tightly,

gets rid of the blasted hero,

makes him utterly kissable).

She barely knows what was said.

It's a sweep of sounds, wands, bright colours,

and an anti-climatic ending.

Tom's gone, gone, gone.

She doesn't feel like rejoicing.

All she knows is that the dead pounds are now on her shoulders,

and she could cry on mum forever and ever.

Her thoughts are a whirl

(FredRemusTonksFredColinLaven derFredohgodGeorgeandwhycan'tthescreamingstop),

but she somehow notices him.

He looks even more exhausted than she feels.

More lost than when he'd arrived (wind rushed and starved) in the Ford Anglia,

more tired than the nights after Dumbledore

where he'd gaze when he thought she didn't notice,

more damaged than he'd been

with the too-heavy sword buckling his twelve year old frame.

He wasn't a knight in shining armour.

Not anymore.

Now? Now, they had ages.

Not months nor years, not moments rushing by without her noticing.

Both blemished, both twisted into tangled knots,

both perhaps a little bit in love.

And maybe (just maybe if she wished hard enough)

it would be like a fairy tale.

Once the dawn was clear, the weights swept away,

they could fly ever and ever and no one would catch them for they'd be

gone Gone GONE.

But who really knew these days; what's coming would come.

Yet as she left her family, crawled up to the Gryffindor dorms,

and exhaustedly lay beside him–

she knew it would be wonderful.

He, asleep but clearly just Harry

(and maybe perhaps her Harry),

felt the new warmth and pulled her into a hug.

There was no flinch. No hesitation.

She gave a tired though real smile.

Plucked his glasses off.

Leaned into his touch.

For it was like someone else's life.

A/N: To think this started out as a shortish idea! My original plot bunny was, "Omgomgomg, Ginny was in a loveless marriage because she was screwed up and couldn't say no to a boy hero who was that damaged and Holy Merlin this could totally be canon OMG!" But then this happened and the ending decided to write itself. So it's not really actually an anti-love poem, just an unromantic romance, and my muse sucks for making me write cheesy fluff. And always fluffy H/G! I'm not even a fan of that ship, but I can't get myself to write anything else. Apparently my subconscious is trying to tell me something *rapidly drafts an H/Hr story in frantic denial*

I blame Harry. As much as I love tragedy, I just can't make him miserable or dose him with amorentia. Le sigh.