A/N: I have been attempting to write this story since Deathly Hallows came out. I kept trying and trying and trying to write from Ginny's point of view – which might've worked, if Ginny just wasn't so sad. Look, I don't want to write a sad story. I love to read them, of course (you know, those deliciously angsty Bella-loses-all-her-memory-POOR-EDWARD and despite-the-fact-it-says-this-nowhere-in-any-of-the-books-Harry-was,-in-fact,-abused-by-the-Dursleys. Oh, the dripping angst. Oh!), but I just don't write them. S'not (Snot. –muffles giggle-) good for me, cuz then I just get depressed.

So, on a day I was nearly-dehydrated and very food deprived, I attempted to write this story.

…Again.

Except, for whatever reason, it just so happened Peeves was narrating. D

Numbers in parentheses mark footnotes, which are at the bottom of the page, if you have the patience to scroll down and read them, that is.

1. This is a one-shot. 2. I don't own Harry Potter. I own a very nice set of the books, thank you, but I don't own the rights. And you wouldn't want to sue me. I don't own ANYTHING! Not a car! Or a house! All I own are books, gawsh darn.

She was the very picture of boredom.

All the signs were deadly, painfully obvious. It was deadly clear, plain as night: Ginny was bored. Very bored, in fact. Amazingly, fantastically, brilliantly bored.

More bored, actually, than a fifteen-year-old babysitting his five-year-old cousin whose ADHD had for whatever reason let up long enough for this said cousin to watch worms crawl around for a whole hour. Possibly, when he had a date, too. Maybe with the hottest girl in school. Oh, wait – that would be agitation, wouldn't it? Anger, too? Oh, well – that too. Ginny was in a very complicated sort of mood, you idiots. Give me a break – as if I have any experience with this sort of thing!

Fine. You want a better similarity? Tsk, tsk, shouldn't be so greedy all the time; tisn't good for you mortals.

Okay, okay. I was getting around to it, anyway. Not as if strokes of genius pop up at every moment, now is it? I'd expect you'd have more knowledge on that than I would.

Look: Ginny was more bored than a muggle, newly-paraplegic waiting for his wheel chair! Ha!

So, as you can plainly see/read, Ginny was bored.

Amazingly, fantastically, bored.

What do you mean, only kiddie books repeat their sentences?

My goodness, you humans are confusing.

Peeves, do this! Peeves, do that! Peeves, please dump hot acid on Matilda's pillowcase!

What do you think I am? A golden retriever?

Oh, be honest.

Okay.

Fine.

Not that honest.

You're really a git, you know that? If you were anywhere close to where I am – ha, I'd dump hot acid on your pillowcase!

As the Americans say it: oh! S-nap!

Clearly, Professor McGonagall, that diplomacy-learn-of-the-ways-of-other-cultures-whatchamacillt is not necessary.

Anyway.

Back to Ginny.

You know, the bored ginger? Carrot-top weasel girl?

Very good.

You've been paying attention.

Oh, c'mon. Don't look at me that way. Not like I'm gonna give you a medal for not having short term memory loss, you dope.

Do any of you remember back to that time the carrot-top weasel twins (pranking abominations of the earth, I tell you – oh, bless their brave little souls) escaped from Hogwarts?

No?

Hmm.

That isn't very good.

You see, you're supposed to remember. If I explain it, it just takes away.

Sigh.

I'll explain best I can.

Well, so, there were these carrot-top ginger abominations of the earth twinsies.

And they escaped from Hogwarts.

In a very heroic, epic way.

If they ever make a movie of this, it better be good.

Look, I'm trying, here.

Anyway, right before these carrot-top ginger sneaky epic abominations of the earth twins escaped, they made me promise something.

That's right, me.

Now, I can't say this was a very smart move of them, because honestly if you want a promise kept you're probably better off asking someone who actually remembers these things.

Like…the Granger.

Or Eloise Midgen.

The bookish girl and the pimple girl – yeah, you know the type.

Now, their promise was still along the lines of what I usually do. But…

But their escape was just so epic you'd have to be plain coldhearted not to give in the moment their big freckled heads turned to ask you.

So, I did. I accepted.

Oh, c'mon. What did you want? A long, three page explanation?

Look, it was a very simple thing. You would've done the same thing, had you been in my shoes.

Oh, for the love of God, I know I haven't any shoes! It's metaphorical! A phrase!

Humans. Always so thick. Think you know everything. Yada, yada, yada. Face it, you've heard it before. From an elf – a dwarf – ghost, maybe – goblin, certainly; if you ever even listened to us –

Which you won't.

Because you're thick.

And think you know everything.

Kiss my multi-colored pant leg, human.

Anyway, this promise the twins asked me – yeah, I dunno if you can tell, but I'm just not really the type to go along with whatever anyone says. Tis boring. Predictable. Boring. (Boring, like how the girl who I spent a few precious sentences on is feeling. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we'll get back to her and Her Plight soon enough.) I need stuff to do with myself or else I just lay around. Which I never do, because I'm always goofing off and holding my own and setting beds on fire.

Their promise was an easy one, a very simple one, actually. Something I already did.

But you just had to give it to them. It's what – two years later? - and I still remember them. Not an easy thing, that. Usually I'm too busy rhyming or buzzing in someone's ear to remember anything past three seconds. Me and goldfish – we get along.

They were just that certain type of person. The one you always remember for the rest of your lives, the one who made raspberries at the yearbook and stole your best toilet paper.

And I can't help it. That kind of thinking led to a certain fondness for the whole red-haired lot of them. So, I had self-appointed myself the official WOTBFGF.

Or: Watcher Over on That Big Freckly Ginger Family.

I'm pretty sure their last name starts with a W, but I really hate little technicalities like that.

What I do is I make sure the family doesn't get into too much trouble.

(NOTE: LIMITED TIME OFFER. Valid till June 3, 1999. Offer only covers time spent on the Hogwarts Grounds and does not cover (including, but not limited to): Hogsmeade, The Burrow, The Forbidden Forest, or wherever else those crazy kids are ending up. Does NOT include: friends of the family, boyfriends of the family, girlfriends of the family, relatives, mistresses, things, it's-complicated's, hired help, house elves, acquaintances; or anyone with name: Percy Augutus Weasley. He is cut out of every bond, tie, secret, or deal, the nasty little backstabbing pompous prick.)

The Weasley children are fully allowed to get into trouble, that is, detention or Filch or both. But I've taken it upon myself with my very busy schedule to take care of them.

No, not the "wash your face, dear, it's getting a tad dirty!" "want some cookies, love?" taking care of, thing.

Who do you take me for, anyhow?

Some kind of poltergeisting mother hen?!

Hmmph.

I could be very insulted by that, you know. Very much indeed.

No. What I do is a little more complicated/less complicated than that, depending on how feminist you are.

What I do is I try to keep them safe. It's a little hard, you see, what with them sneaking out all the time (to which I applaud them and their detention slips) and being buddy-buddy with Hairy Potty, AKA most famous mood swinging teenager of the decade, AKA more prone to attracting danger and chaos than a horny giant.

It all adds to the challenges of it all, and I've been keeping it up proudly.

For example, do any of you recall the incident when that tall one got poisoned/drunk? It wasn't just luck that bezoar just happened to be in the potions cabinet just as Potty desperately needed one.

And you'd think his baby sister would end up in the hospital wing every once in a while after playing Quidditch so much.

And you'd also think it would be a little odd, Felix Felicis or not, that they always seem to come out of every Potty-caused battle unscathed.

And you'd-

Well.

No.

That isn't true, actually.

Not so true at all.

In my defense, it's hard to keep track of nine little people at once, flaming red hair or not. You try it, and see if they all come out without a scratch.

Go on! You try!

I have three little rules I've made up for myself in my term as a WOTBFGF:

Rule 1:

Let no one find out what you're doing.

This is a very simple, straight-forward rule. After all, who wants the dreadful shame of being found out you actually do something with your time? WHO??

Rule 2:

Never work outside of Hogwarts.

How am I supposed to prank a whole school while nannying a few gingers in their spare time? I work where I work, no exceptions.

Rule 3:

Never let a Weasley die on your watch.

Funny how it's the most straightforward stuff you fail. The complicated things are more obvious to keep in track.

Fred. Fred Weasley.

Dammit! He was the reason I am watching over this family!

And then he went out and got killed.

Well, shitcakes.

I liked Fred. He was a nice guy. Crazy, too, but that added to the appeal. He was more outgoing than his twin. More fun.

Forge wasn't taking it too well, that's for sure.

And neither was his sister.

His bored sister.

Because Ginny wasn't bored.

I mean, yes, she did look bored. Very bored indeed, in fact. Her face had just the right amount of glumness, looking as if she'd let out a sigh at any moment, supported by her hand. Her legs were casually splayed across the bench, too, perfecting her façade.

But the truth was, she wasn't. Not at all. Ginny would be bored if, say, it was 3 PM and she was surrounded by classmates all chattering and there was nothing to doand she isn't as clever as Fred so maybe she'd just sit there blankly, bored out of her mind.

But she wasn't surrounded by anyone.

And there are several things to do. Obvious ones, too.

And it wasn't 3PM. It's 3AM, and exactly two days after the battle with Lord Voldemort. (You know, Moldy Voldy, right? Yeah. Good. Just so you don't confuse him with any other snake-faced, murdering, genocidal, bald, sociopathic warlords, or anything.)

Ginny was sitting alone, hands cradling her pretty little face, legs crossed underneath her. She was sitting on top of the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.

I guess you'd have to have to have supernaturally good eyesight to see the tear on her cheek.

It was all really dark; half-closed windows splashing silver moonlight onto it all. It was all very quiet, too, and I'd say "you could hear a pin drop" except that wasn't true because you could also hear the clanging and whispering of house elves as they worked and skirted along, and the wind howling outside and the whole feeling of loneliness and despair, which wasn't a sound but it felt audible.

Ginny's eyes kept flickering to the dying flame next to her. It was just a candle, a very ordinary white wax candle, with a lit wick that was very quickly reaching the end of its lifetime. The tiny flame kept wavering inside of the glass case, sides smashing against it with as much force as a flame could possibly make (er, that's none), like it was frantic, like it was trying so desperately to survive.

What an odd thing to be looking at.

She uncurled her legs, hugging them to her.

I felt this tiny pang of pain, then.

Hunger?

Sure as hell hoped so. Last thing I wanted was to become a sap.

Ugghhh.

I had this sudden vision of myself floating around, holding a small pink paperback book with a white horse in the middle. Some of the students stared. Others threw rocks.

I froze for a moment, blinking furiously.

Blimey, get it out, get it out!

I probably would've gone on like this, in this shocked, mortified invisible little bubble, if it wasn't for the next movements from this girl.

Her tiny shoulders, already hunched, started to waver a bit. Just the tiniest bit of shaking.

Oh my God was she epileptic holy crap I had no idea I had been watching over these kids for God knows how long and suddenly she's having a seizure oh my freakin holy shit oh my word freakin' frackin' cheesecake oh god oh god what do I do now I'm just a poltergeist I didn't know I was actually supposed to listen to Pomfrey oh my-

"Harry…"

I blinked.

Snuffle. Sniffle. A snerk. (Wait, was that last one me?)

…

…

…

Oh, my God.

Ginny Weasley was crying.

…

WHAT?!

I had seen the tear – but I would never have guessed she would be crying.

Dear. Lord. It's official: hell has frozen over. Satan has become king of the ice rinks.

I mean, yes. Her boyfriend was an emotional wreck, her friends were stony, her family was in shock, she had just been apart of an epic final battle, some of her friends had been murdered, her favorite professor was dead, and one of her favorite brothers had been killed in an accident – but I didn't expect she'd go on crying about it!

This was Ginny we were talking about. Intrepid, insightful, funny, strong Ginny.

What the heck was she doing?

And why would she be crying to Harry?

I do not get girls. I never, ever have, and after this moment I have lost all hope to learn anything about them.

"Harry. Harry. Please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Oh, bugger. She was going plain barmy, wasn't she?

A full-blown schizo…was this better or worse than epilepsy?

"Why are you crying, Ginny?"

I blinked.

Again.

Oh, today is just filled with surprises…

Harry?

Oh, this was good. This was good. Way better than The Bachelor. Harry had come to save this damsel in distress.

…

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Hold on while I get my camera – I need to video tape this.

"Um, Gin? You hear something?"

"Wha?"

Oh, shoot. Better keep it down. Don't want to disturb them while they're having their little "private time". Nuh uh uh.

I crawled around in the air, getting a better spot to watch them from.

Sound hard? Not really – not when you're weightless. Not when this is something you've been created to do. Unless I was pointing, or giving a raspberry, I rarely ever had to move my limbs. It was simply a matter of your mind wanting to go somewhere, and then your entire body following that will.

I drifted off, still invisible, staying close to the ceiling. Uncomfortable, but the safest way. If I was going to muffle a few more laughs(1), the higher the better. If I was going to leave my little teen soap opera while it was still going strong and beautifully angsty, I'd have to be as quiet as dearly possible.

I positioned myself very, very (very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, etc.) carefully. I was hugged close the left wall and ceiling at an angle where I could still see (and hear. Oh, don't forget that – really, really) my very melodrama-worthy scene playing out before me.

Harry was standing very awkwardly over Ginny; he seemed to be in a mental argument over whether to touch her or not. One hand was close to her as if to give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but it didn't seem like the hand in question was particularly enthusiastic about that, so it hung out between them, creating a kind of unintentional Wall Of Extreme Pubescent Awkwardness between the two of them.

Oh, it was times like these I wished I could eat; I was dying to get my hands on some popcorn.

"Ginny?" he asked, softly.

"Mm?"

I heard him take a sharp breath. "Wh- No, er – I mean-"

Way with words, this kid had. What was he doing, fighting off magical crime, when there were inspirational political speeches to be made?(2)

This time, he took a breath in with his nose. It was very loud, and kind of ugly, and I swear I heard a bit of snot while he inhaled – but this seemed to give him courage, the poor young chap: "What are you doing down here, Ginny? Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"

"Oh? And you?"

Ginny: 1

Potty: 0

"I…I don't think I'm going to be in Hogwarts much longer, actually."

Popcorn. Oh, sweet, buttered popcorn – please God, why can't I eat, again?

There was a moment of silence, then.

Ginny was suddenly very engrossed in her school scarf.

"No. Look. Ginny. I…" Harry was trying. Again. "Er, I just…" I wondered vaguely about dropping a dictionary. "I," Deep breath – #3! Oooh, was he an asthmatic, too? Quick, Ginny! Don't waste any time talking! Grab him an inhaler! "I just can't stand this any more," - he said this even more quietly, and then even I had to strain to hear it – "There's just too many…too many memories. This place…it just doesn't seem like it used to anymore. It doesn't seem like home."

I watched Ginny's red brows go up a little higher. "Where else would it seem like home to you, Harry?"

"Ugh. Well…crap. Really. Crap. Look, I need some time-"

"We all need some time, you moron! All of us! Every single person in this building needs time – none of us like it here – what, you think we do? You think we're all just happy and skipping and whistling our little hearts out – so joyful to be in the same room where our closet fa- where our friends died?"

Ginny: 2

Potter: Big fat zero

"No, of course not!" Harry cried indignantly.

"Then would you please just stop wallowing like you're the only one on the planet going through any sort of emotion about this whole mess!"

"That isn't what I-"

"Shut it, Potter."

The hand reaching for Ginny dropped.

The one with boobs and a carrot-top crossed her arms, lifting her head up just a bit. I wondered if Harry could see the tears she was frantically blinking back.

Her eyes were flickering to the candle again.

So quickly now it moved – the movement was so vivacious it was almost hard to believe the wick was all but snuffed out.

Ginny exhaled, now. Loudly. "I'm sorry, Harry. That was mean."

Oh! Penalty!

"I know I'm being…completely nasty. It's uncalled for. You're right – I don't know what you're going for. And I can't say I wish I could empathize, either."

Toilet-water-brain didn't even snort. He just stared back at her.

Ginny looked right on back.

You didn't have to be a body-language expert to know that it wasn't defiance in her brown eyes.

For the first time, I felt a twinge of discomfort. Suddenly, the moment seemed private. And I (that's right, Peeves, the shameless poltergeist, for crying out loud) felt almost…intruding.

It was very, very odd feeling this way. I brushed it off automatically. Maybe I needed to eat steak and eggs or lift some weights or watch The Terminator, or something.

"I'm being such a jerk," Harry whispered suddenly. He pulled a bit away from Ginny, and I felt my uneasiness vanish instantly.

Phew. Was getting worried, there.

Ginny didn't answer; her eyes just traveled down from his and to the floor.

And then to the candle again.

Curious.

Maybe my soap opera was becoming more of a mystery.

Before I could ponder any further, Ginny spoke. "Where are you going to go, then?" her voice a bit thick.

I watched Harry lick his lips. "I was…well, I do have a godson now." There was no happiness in his voice.

Ginny answered with something, but I was busy with other matters, like, for example, a very pressing thing, like the tiny little insignificant unimportant footnote of a detail that Harry Potter, most famous blundering orphan of the 20th century, was in charge of a baby.

…I have no words for this.

Harry was answering whatever Ginny had asked (or said. I have absolutely no idea, as I'm pretty sure I was in the ghost variation shock at the time) – "Yeah. I was thinking of kind of…bunking with Andromeda. I hope she…I mean, she's gotta, of course – but…God, this going to sound bad, but I hope she already knows…knows about Tonks. Tonks and Lupin, and that. And stuff, and stuff. And more stuff, and things like that. Idon'twanttohavetobe the one to" - Harry might've carried on this sentence, but his voice was getting a little too discernable to tell.

I watched him shuffle a bit, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Ginny chewed on her lower lip. "Yeah. Yeah, I can understand that."

"You can?"

His voice was at least three octaves higher than normal.

Harry, sweetheart - you need any voice lessons? I know I'd be happy to help.

Ginny snorted.

"Okay, that was a bit of a stupid question," Harry smiled.

There was another silence, far more awkward this time. Oh, much better. If it got anywhere close to the way it was last silence around, I'd puke. Or lose Testosterone. Whichever.

Harry was shuffling; Ginny, on the other hand, she kept on staring at that flame, as if looking at it long enough would give her a pony for her birthday.

It was becoming weaker now; the whamming of fire was losing the battle against the glass holder – in just a few moments, the flame would be nothing but a ribbon of smoke, dissipating in dark bundles, nothing but a ghostly gray memory.

I felt a flicker of my old Weasley-protecting ways. If Ginny was turning full-time pyro, what did that mean I'd do?

"Um, Ginny?" which was something I felt like asking, too.

I shook my head quickly. Those WOTBFGF days were over, more gone than the wind. If the Weasleys ever got a bodyguard, they'd probably do a load better of a job than I'd managed to scrape out.

"Yeah?"

"I just…bye."

He grasped her hand, touching her for the first time during the entire conversation.

"No – Harry – I-" And for the first time, too, Ginny's voice had a note of desperation.

He just smiled back at her, mouthing something far too gooey to be written here.

And then with a flurry of movement as his cloak brushed along the ground as he sped out to the forest, he was gone, leaving Ginny alone in the darkness.

Just as I was getting up, I watched Ginny turn to the flame again.

It was all snuffed out by now, wick blackened and bare.

I saw a tear collecting on the edge of Ginny's eye.

And suddenly, I knew why.

I yawned, and moved, floating far above Ginny's silently shaking form.

It's not as if I'm cruel.

It's just, there were better places to be now.

FOOTNOTES (I'm a little amazed I got it down to TWO! I started off at eighteen of these, you know):

(1) Laughs? Laughs?! More like hysterical paroxysms.

(2) Obama/Potter '08 – A different kind of America

A/N: Narnia, Franco, EB (AKA: IAmSoBella), Clare (AKA: shakespearesapprentice) my fearless, wonderful betas, slashing out multiple footnotes and clucking their tongues at lacks of exposition with their great metaphorical red pens of almighty doom: -GROUP HUG-

Thanks for reading. Reviews are loved, cherished, and read over and over and over again and occasionally become the subject of dreams. No, I have no life. Poor me. –sob-

Anonymous reviews welcomed, and are just as much loved and cherished as the signed ones.

Constructive criticism is my crack; I can't have enough of it. If you see something that you'd want to improve, tell me!