Hero
He was her first love...so sweet, so innocent, so pure. She got her first glimpse of him when she was ten--only ten, still a child, beautifully young and oblivious to the world. Regardless, she was instantly in love--in love with his looks, his unconscious charm, in love with what she'd read of him in the newspapers and heard all the adults talk about. She was in love with his myth, his legend--the fable that he was some courageous hero, always in time to save everybody and never at fault. After all, what flaw could some one so perfect and coveted possess? What flaw dare stain his body or conscience, the one who had banished Voldemort for so long--at only the age of one, nonetheless?
Harry James Potter, eleven years old and already the hero of her heart, or so she led herself to believe. What girl wouldn't like to say that she was in love with Harry Potter? What girl would hesitate into the action itself, to fall at his feet in all her glory and abandon herself to his whim? But Ginny wasn't ready to throw herself at his feet, she was too shy as yet. Pre-pubescent and not the prettiest thing out of the Burrow, her self-esteem wasn't at its all-time high, though her intellect couldn't have been more ripe for the picking.
Before she could even comprehend what had happened, her mind and soul had been subconsciously pledged to him, if only in her fetished dreams of his sweet kiss and gentle carress. There was only so much she could do to save her own sanity when he ignored her completely for the first year of their acquiantance, only so much of her glass heart she could preserve. Somehow she managed to find consolence in his heroism, telling herself that he would love her, too, once all his hardships and trials were over--that he would see soon eough. With as little as a whimper she managed to place those needed bandages over the cracks that vined her heart, piecing herself together and holding herself fast.
In her first year, she was both embarrassed at her weakness and pleased at his attention in the Chamber of Secrets. His saving her seemed to concrete further her love for him. He was her saviour, her angel. Her star in the sky, seen by all but only, truly destined for her. On the cusp of death, just on the very edge of that barren cliff, he'd come to her, thrusting her into the light with an iron grip and forever making her indebted to him. It was then she decided she would always love him, always remain faithful to him, regardless of circumstance.
She spent her first few years at Hogwarts, silent and equally celibate. As she blossomed she'd had many offers, so very many she almost lost count. She might have remembered them, had she cared, but the only offer that would ever matter would be Harry Potter's, one that would be slow in the coming. She studied hard and did well in school; in her spare time her thoughts wondered to him, to the dashing young man he was becoming, and how one day that dashing young man would be hers for the keeping.
His hair was black, constantly mussed but always charming; it shone in the light like silk, moved with his body with a fluency beyond words. His skin was pale as his hair was dark, an artful contrast; he grew tall, muscles wirey and strong though he looked at times skinny and frail. His scar seemed to darken on his forehead, right above where his old glasses would glint, behind them two intelligent emerald eyes that had seen more of the world than they wanted to show. Always, when he smiled, that dimple on his cheek came to play, and his eyes would glitter with inner satisfaction and amusement, the look of some one often distraught but content with his peace.
Her hero, her Harry.
In her fifth year it came; she saw the way he would glance at her in the halls or during dinner, lingering glances that seemed to leave a residue of happiness on her skin, and had her glowing for days on end. He would brush past her more times in a day than was necessary for coincidence to apply, and every touch of his skin would make her eyes shut in wonder. One time, his fingers found her hand, gently smoothing over the skin and into the crease between her thumb and forefinger. He grasped for a moment, letting her become aware of the pressure, and then he released her, leaving her aching for more.
When the kiss came, she was overwhelmed. She pressed back as hard as she could, savoring his lips against hers as it all came so naturally. His hands were around her waist, sliding up her back into her hair, as she ran her fingers through his hair and along his neck, tracing familiar contours she had memorized over time. It was needy and right; her hero, her prince, was finally hers.
They sat by the lake and spoke about nothing in particular, though Ginny could not bare to stand the silence. It was almost awkward, as if in their relationship the need to speak and be heard was a brute essential. It didn't matter if they spoke about dinner, or Ron's latest antics in Hermione's courtship--as long as they spoke and could hear the other's voice, it was all perfect. In between it all was the slightest sign of intimacy: a ball of clasped fingers, palms pressed together in soft appreciation.
And then in her sixth year, his seventh, it all fell apart--at least, for her. He told her he loved her, with such sincerity in his words that her heart seemed to melt, and when the quiet grew strange, she realized she was supposed to reply. Almost hastily she said the same, only later noticing that she had not meant it at all, only said it to see the satisfaction in her hero's eyes.
She pretended it hadn't happened, and went on as usual. She marched around Hogsmeade and the halls of Hogwarts on his arm, beaming at girls she had never seen before, smiling at the way they turned green with jealousy. Her hero, he was all hers. She could kiss him, touch him, know him, and they could only adore him from afar. Her hero, all hers.
The courageous Harry Potter. Who had defeated Voldemort so many times, so very many times. He was so brave, so valiant. A knight in shining armor, with a charming smile and a sharpened blade. Cunning, handsome and perfect, but above all, hers.
Then there was talk of Voldemort, and he started having pains in his scar. He stopped eating, talking, smiling--he even quit the Quidditch Team! All of a sudden he wasn't all that great to flaunt any more, and Ginny found that every time he came to her with his problems, her heart had to find other reasons apart from him to beat. She was floundering, confused and alone--Harry was weak, so weak. She could see now, and what she saw she didn't like at all. Why was Voldemort doing this to them? Why couldn't he die, die, die and just leave them alone--so she could have her hero back?
She tried to comfort him, encouraged him to be strong--not for his sake, but hers. All she had believed in since she was ten was his saga, the stories of him being the strongest boy on earth, being invincible and the most powerful wizard possible! And now, now she was to learn that all that had been a facade--that he was just as weak as the rest of them?
She was confused, and somehow this led her to strange nightly excursions to the lake, the place where they had spoken all those pointless conversations--conversations she now realized had been a cover-up as well. She didn't know this new Harry, this Harry that was vulnerable and depressed; she knew the hero Harry, the one that everybody else said he was.
She would lean her head against the tree and wonder how everything she had put her heart into could be such a lie...such a lie, lie, lie. She thought she had known him. He had been so perfect, so beautiful. He was so kind, so gentle with her, and yet now he needed her to be the solid one, the one where he could lay the problems on. He wanted her to be the hero, when that was his job!
It was on one of those nightly excursions, sometime near the middle of winter that she met Draco Malfoy. They sneered at each other and exchanged words, he laughed at her second hand coat, her raggedly hat and too-big boots--he made her cry and want her hero back more, then realize she couldn't just run to him like she used to...The tears were salty down her cheeks, and her breath was cold and unwelcoming before her. She could feel her heartbeat, oh so faint between the lairs of clothing, and she could hear his crunching footsteps drawing closer.
Only then, suspended within the cold winter air with snowflakes falling all around and the dim lights of the castle and her supposed-hero to return to, that she realized her mistake. She looked up at Malfoy, saw the inner turmoil in his eyes, and somehow did not feel scorn. His hair was windblown and fell onto his forehead, his cheeks raw with the wind. He was about a head taller than her and his whole demeanor suggested a catlike grace and lean but slender, feline build. Those eyes were a stormy grey in the cold, they looked so sadistic, but she knew it could not possibly be a facade.
Weaselette crying? he'd sneered, smirking icily, leaning down so that his nose was inches away from hers and she could taste the mint on his breath, What a pity you'll soon stop..you look so beautiful with pain in your eyes...It was the first time any one had ever called her beautiful, and even the sadism depicted in his words didn't change a thing. She was beautiful to somebody, and she knew in that instant.
The kiss was even harder than her very first, the one she'd had with Harry. His tongue invaded her mouth, not calm or carressing in the least, instead cruel and punishing, willing her to feel both the pain and the pleasure his will could inflict. He wanted her in the worse way, and she wanted him, too; wanted the strange salvation his embrace held, the way his scent made her forget who she was, or why she was crying.
Somewhere through the passion of their kiss, he managed to dig between the layers of her clothing and tear away her panties--when she gasped in shock, he laughed, licking the salt of her cheeks as his fingers found their mark. He pinched and pulled, yet soothed and eased, sending her mind into overdrive. Harry had long taken her innocence--she had given willingly, still under the illusion of her hero. Now, she gave with all her soul, her hands ripping away at his expensive robes as he sneered in amusement at her desperation.
It was cold, that first coupling, the wind biting them both as he slammed her into the tree, bringing her to her first shattering orgasm ever as he clamped his teeth hard onto her skin and rode out his own. They were tired when finished, and slid to the ground, sitting wrapped up in each other in the snow, the moon winking its knowledge above them, almost projecting it to the whole world. She gasped and panted for breath, while he opted for a more serene approach, resting against her with undue tenderness as he slowly caught his breath.
I can't decide what looks better on a Weasley, he confided against her cheek, pain...or pleasure.
She cried hard that night, because now she knew.
She continued to see Malfoy every night, and they would sit in silence against the tree, not having to speak to understand one another. Ginny was comfortable with him, even though he often made her cry, and want to shout and scream at him. He made her feel beautiful, let her know she was beautiful, even though he did it in the most sadistic and cruel of ways. She came to acknowledge that he knew no other way to make a person feel even an inkling of pride and happiness; he could only give pleasure while giving pain, and she began to love him for that, and everything else.
He had his weaknesses, but they didn't bother her. In fact, they made her adore him further, every imperfection, every flaw.
Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley. He made her feel so right, so beautiful. Sometimes, she wondered what it would be like walking around with him instead of Harry. Wondered at how shocked the other girls would be, how some girls would scoff at her choice, and how others would faint of jealousy...and most of all, how it didn't seem to matter what they thought, as long as she would be able to walk with him, openly, and show the world that she loved him, and in his own way, he loved her, equally, too.
Ginny Weasley had a found her real hero, and it wasn't Harry Potter.
Years after graduating from Hogwarts, Ginny Weasley lay in bed next to Harry Potter, twirling the wedding ring around her finger and trying to to cry as she watched him sleep in all his vulnerability. Still Harry James Potter, but not the Harry James Potter she had believed herself into loving when she was ten years old. He was not her hero, not her knight in shining armor. There were so many things she could never love about him, no matter how hard she forced herself.
She could never love him completely, in the way that she had experience only once before, with another.
He was not a hero...he was not her hero, nor was he anybody else's. Now, it was not his name that everybody spoke of when they refered to the downfall of Voldemort, five years previous--it was not his name everybody worshiped, not his bearing they fabled and riddled with myth and legend alike.
He had not been the one who made the last sacrifice, the one who had defeated Voldemort once and for all.
Ginny smiled through her tears, for she had known all along who the real hero was.
She lay back against her pillow, letting it soak up her tears. She felt Harry shift behind her, turn around and lay an arm over her, nuzzling into her hair and whispering into her ear his sincere I love you.
She didn't answer. She never answered. She didn't see the point in answering, hadn't seen it for as long as she could remember.
And why should she answer, any way?
He wasn't a hero, he wasn't even her hero.
Draco Malfoy was.
Author's Note: 1:32 AM...This came to me abruptly while I was trying to get to sleep. I needed to write it down, I liked this idea so much. Not sure it came out the way I wanted it to, but...oh well! Read and Review!