Who would ever know? Not Harry. Not Hermione. Not Charlie. Not Bill. Not Fred. Not George. Not her mother. Not her father.

Nobody.

It was her little secret.

She had been so innocent back in first year. Tom had been her friend, that's all, her confidante. Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous.

No, when Harry had came and killed Tom, she had been glad. Happy. The danger was gone, the bad guy dead, and the hero victorious.

Her second year had come along, and she had found, to her dismay, that everyone knew about the poor little girl, controlled by Lord Voldemort. But nobody wanted to be near her. They stared, the whispered, but they couldn't be near to her. Oh no.

She had made friends eventually, but then they had made plans without her. Always leaving her out. See, she wasn't significant. She wasn't useful. She wasn't interesting. They invited her along but only if they felt like it. She was lucky if they invited her along. She never fought the system.

Third year was the same. She was always the odd one. Quiet. Drifting into her own little world. If she tried to make new friends, nobody cared. And so she had to stick with the old same ones.

Fourth year, she tried ever so hard to become friends with Harry, Hermione and Ron. But she was always "Ron's little sister." Ron would tell her to go away and they would never stick up for her. Because Ron was their friend, and she wasn't.

And so she was alone. Even her fake friends didn't care anymore. She spent time alone, out on the grounds, in the library. Sometimes she saw Hermione in the library. She would smile and say 'hello' but that would be it.

Even when Hermione stayed in the Weasley house, she would always sleep in Ginny's room, but she would run into the boys' as soon as she could. Because they were her real friends.

Hermione. Hermione represented everything Ginny wanted to be. Smart. With two real friends. Who stuck up for her. Who cared. Hermione. Who had looked so pretty at the Yule Ball. Who was always pretty, even when she didn't try. Hermione didn't use all those products like Ginny did. Hermione didn't sit in front of her mirror for hours every day, staring hard into herself, trying to find some other way to improve, some other way to make herself just that little bit better, to make somebody, anybody, like her.

Who was she? Who was Ginny Weasley?

She was a nobody. She wasn't a hero. She wasn't an anything. She tried so hard. She followed Harry and the others to the Ministry of Magic. For what? For nothing? She made no difference to anything!

Luna helped lock the doors and found them a way to get to the Ministry of Magic. Neville stayed with Harry to the very end, and protected the prophecy to the best of his abilities. Hermione was the whole brains behind the operation, tricking Umbridge, and remembering to put the Xs on the door. Ron found the prophecy. Harry lost his godfather.

But what had Ginny done? Nothing. Nothing. Everyone had got injured. Hermione Got hit by Dolohov's deathly curse. Ron got attacked by those brains. Luna got knocked out. Neville got the cruciocatus curse upon him. But her? A sprained ankle!?

A sprained ankle?

It was just so pathetic. Not one of the Death Eaters had bothered to attack her. She had simply tripped over something when she had been running so fast.

She had tried to get people to like her. She had dated Michael corner and Dean Thomas. But they meant nothing to her and she meant nothing to them. She knew it, they knew it, and it was all completely pointless. Just like Ginny.

Ginny stared into the mirror, straightening her hair strand by strand with her wand. Her hair was dead straight but she could not stop. She wanted it to be perfect. It had to be perfect.

She stared into her plain brown eyes. That was where her secret lay.

Nobody knew it, but Ginny Weasley was very unhappy.

'''''

I don't know why I wrote this. I never was a big fan of Ginny or anything. But this is how I imagine her. I always thought I was going to write this but I never bothered. Now I got it down. Not expecting a lot of reviews or anything, it is hardly the most exciting action-thriller, but, hey, its writing and that's what us writers are supposed to do, right?

I know I said I was going to retire from fanfiction but it is really hard. Fanfiction is so much more enjoyable than real writing. It is easier, anyway. Do you agree/disagree?