I wanted to write a Halloween-type story. So at roughly 3am last night, I started writing. I didn't get it typed up until just now, so, um... Happy Halloween!

This is... different. I don't know where it came from. I really like it - but I'm really disconcerted by it. I would really appreciate your thoughts on it - loved it, hated it, tell me why! I... yeah. Let me just say, it's not a happy ending (well, it is for the narrator, but-- I don't want to give anything away.)


I tried to be what everyone else thought I should be. Quiet, well-mannered, polite. With six brothers, I was expected to be lady-like and quiet, mother's little helper. I would have rather gone flying with the others, or talk Quidditch, but I tried to do what was expected of me. I let others decide what I should do, and they took advantage of it. They took my silence as acquiescence, and began deciding my life. I was smart - everyone could see that. They expected I'd get top marks at Hogwarts, and have a chance at any number of jobs once I graduated. I'd surely get married, and have several children. It's what's expected of Weasley women, after all. And hadn't I been raised as my mother's daughter?

Indeed, I had been. And I wanted none of it. I'd been there, all day every day with her, as she put meals together, did the laundry and cleaning - and complaining. Perhaps she thought I couldn't hear her, muttering not-quite under her breath. The boys' rooms were always filthy - save Percy's - and Mum finally realized that the twins' room was a lost cause and refused to enter. It seemed as if she hardly left the kitchen, and never for more than ten minutes at a time - food was always being prepared, and she was always either furious or exasperated at something one of the boys had done. She always looked forward to autumn, when she could send the little hellions back to school - but then not a week afterward, she would complain that the house felt so empty!

I was glad when it was empty. I could finally hear myself think. I never voiced my thoughts, but I certainly had them, even at that age. I knew I didn't want children, and I certainly didn't want to end up like my mother.

When I was ten, I met a boy. He was my brother Ron's age, with black hair and bright green eyes. I knew who he was - we'd all grown up hearing about Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. And despite myself, I wanted to know him better. Boys, I had always figured, were nothing but trouble. Take all six of my brothers, for examples. But Harry Potter - he seemed different. He was quiet, and shy, and seemed slightly overwhelmed by everything. I knew just how he felt.

Maybe things would have been different. I wonder sometimes. I don't regret anything I've done - it would be pointless, for one thing, but I honestly am not remorseful. But sometimes, I can't help but wonder. If my First Year at Hogwarts had been different... Well.

When I was eleven, and getting ready to start school at Hogwarts, I met another boy. He was older, about the twins' age. He was nice, and listened to me when I talked about all the stupid things I knew were ridiculous, but couldn't help thinking anyway. He encouraged me. And, when I started telling him things I'd never said out loud before, things that I'd always been ashamed of thinking - he didn't reject me. He wasn't upset that I could think such things about my own family. He agreed with everything I said.

He eventually explained to me that he wasn't whole. He was only a piece of an even greater whole. I had shared all my darkest secrets with him, and he shared his. He told me where he'd come from, what his life had been like to drive himself to splitting himself into different pieces. He wanted me to help him become whole again, and said then, we could be together.

I loved Tom. I would have done anything for him. I wanted him to be better, so we could be together. I did everything he asked. I was so close to making him whole--

But then he ruined it all. Coming in, the dashing hero, with his battle-torn robes, dirt-streaked face, and scar. He took Tom away from me, killed him, then expected me to thank him! They all thought I refused to talk about it because I was "too traumatized." I wouldn't talk about it for fear of flying into a blind rage! The idiots! How could they not see?! Maybe Harry had saved me, but no one had asked if I wanted to be saved.

Well, time went on. I played the role I'd been raised for. Eventually, I even dated Harry Potter, like everyone had expected. Everyone had known it would happen (except for Harry, it seemed), and I went along, just as I always had. When Harry said we couldn't see each other anymore, because it was too dangerous, everyone thought I put on a brave face, and was being very understanding. Oh, I understood. But the only face I put on was one to hide my relief. I wasn't sure how much longer I could fake my feelings for him.

Harry, of course, went off and destroyed the other pieces of Tom. And then he fought, and finally defeated the Dark Lord.

It was a glorious day for all. There wasn't a witch or wizard alive who didn't celebrate (and some who weren't technically even that.) I was even allowed to join Harry, Ron and Hermione in a toast. One of several, for me.

I insisted on pouring the champagne. It seemed the hostessly thing to do, after all. And as we all drank, I couldn't help but smile coyly at Harry. It was a night of endings, and a night of new beginnings.

It all happened so fast after that. As far as anyone can figure, his last battle with Voldemort must have been just too much. His magic was depleted, and his heart just -- stopped.

Revenge, I've found, is like champagne - best served chilled.


Please review!