A/N: Okay. This is hereby officially the worst fic I've ever written. I don't really even like it, and I WROTE it! I'm serious, this doesn't make sense even to me, and it's partly about me! Well, actually, it's from Ginny's POV, but you'll probably be able to guess that anyway. It just has a lot of my own thoughts in it. J.K. Rowling owns Ginny, and anyone else mentioned. Jewel owns the song Hands.

If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we're all okay
And not to worry, 'cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these

I could never quite understand why people are so worried about everything. I mean, I will admit that everyone has their own little set of troubles, but things are going to work out eventually. And what does worry do for anyone? It shortens your life expectancy, that's what. It makes people unhappy, unsatisfied with the lives they have. Truth be told, I'm not always that happy. It breaks my heart to see people so depressed, and to know that nothing I can do or say will lift them up. Especially when they're my friends. Hermione worries about her grades, Harry worries about Voldemort, my brother Ron worries about being second best, Colin worries about being popular....I just can't understand what there is to worry over, and this lack of understanding makes me unhappy at times.

I won't be made useless
Won't be idle with despair
I'll gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear

Even though I can't understand, I want to help. I won't let their depression get me down. And I'm trying to make them happy, I really am. I've tried different things, and nothing has really worked so far. Maybe if I'm just happy, if I let my beliefs shine through my life, my light will be able to drive away the shadows that cloud over their own happiness.

My hands are small, I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken

I look at myself, the outer and inner appearance of who I am. Outside, I'm small for my age. Large brown eyes, red hair, freckles, and tiny little hands....sometimes I think my hands must be my weakest feature. They're thin, and delicate, and pale.....not the kind of hands you would expect to change much in this world. Still, they're my hands, and I can do what I want with them. Just because I'm little outside doesn't mean I have to be little on the inside. I believe in myself. I believe I can help people. The least I can do is try.

Poverty stole your golden shoes
But it didn't steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn't ever after

I often feel sorry for my parents, especially Mum....she grew up in a wealthy family, and became used to luxuries. Shortly after she married my father, her parents' fortune was lost in some bad business transactions, cutting off any financial backing the newlywed couple had. Both of them are such good, sweet people, and they''ve worked so hard for the little bit that we have. But, you know, I don't think of us as being poor. I never knew we were poor until I befriended people who are better off than us.....I suppose it's just that no one in my family ever acted poor. Mum and Dad always laugh a lot....whenever I think of them, I see them with smiles on their faces. Of course, they can be unhappy, too. They worry a lot, but they try not to show it around us. Pain can't last forever.....and I was always taught to believe in the rainbow among the clouds.

We will fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what's right
'Cause where there's a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing

Looking back on it, I think Dad is where I get my optimism. Mum is a cheerful person, but she's more down-to-earth. Dad is the rebel, the dreamer; he's not afraid to stand up for his ideas, no matter how crazy they may be. If one of his friends needs anything, he'll find a way to get it. And the wonderful thing about it is that he does it out of pure kindness. There aren't any ulterior motives, just a desire to make someone else happy. I've always wanted to be like that.

My hands are small, I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken

Hands. All my life, I've been fascinated by them. I notice a person's hands....sometimes, a hand can reflect that person's life. Scars, wrinkles, broken nails, the texture of the skin. You can tell when a hand has worked hard for a long time. Sometimes, it makes me disappointed in myself. My hands are delicate, smooth, white, with clean, evenly cut nails. They're pretty, I'll admit that, pretty enough to have people comment on them on occasions. And yet I'm ashamed of them. Someday, I'll have hands that have done something. Hands scarred with years of helpfulness, wrinkled and aged by time. Then, in spite of their petiteness.....they'll be beautiful.