Ginny watches. It’s what she does, her natural talent. She remembers being less of a spectator and more of a participant when she was younger, but that was before. Before adolescence, before her crush on Harry Potter, before her obsession and infatuation with Tom Riddle. Now she watches.
After the Dursleys were killed she hoped he might come to live with them. She dreamt of comforting him, of having him sob on her shoulder about how even though he hadn’t been happy there, it was so hard to be without any family in the world. At which point she’d tell him that they were his family now, and he would continue to turn to her until eventually his feelings for her became clear.
As it turned out, of course, he didn’t need much comforting following their deaths, and he found a new family in the Order of the Phoenix. She knew more about the order than many would suspect. She listened closely to hushed conversations between her mother and father, Percy and his friends, Ron and Harry.
Ron-and-Harry. Harry-and-Ron. Best friends, supposedly. She had always suspected that Ron was somewhat attracted to Harry, but then again, it was so easy to dismiss this as her projecting her own desires onto her brother. It was easy to interpret their friendship as something more, to see Ron’s admiration for his friend as something romantic.
But the walls in the Burrow were hardly soundproof, and when she heard the moans from upstairs late one night, she allowed herself a little triumphant, knowing smirk before covering her ears and muffling her sobs.
She watched them the next year at school as they studiously avoided one another and Ron started going out with Hermione, who was puzzled by the newfound awkwardness. Hermione asked her if she knew what was going on.
Ginny lied, and said she had no idea, but afterwards, after Harry and Hermione had engaged in a screaming match in the middle of the Gryffindor common room, she soothed her and stroked her hair and eventually kissed her, and as she undressed Hermione she thought there was something fitting about all of this.
He didn’t come back to the Burrow the next summer. She wasn’t surprised, but she watched as Ron moped and Hermione tried to console him, and listened to the whispers about the Order. Her father spoke of Harry’s bravery and courage and fearlessness in defending Hogwarts, but also of the danger. The worries about how much more of this Harry could take.
After Dumbledore’s death, they found out, and the answer was, enough. Enough to help them win. Enough to keep the world safe.
Not enough to survive to his eighteenth birthday. She cried for him. Now she cries for Ron, and Hermione, and the others that wish he were still alive. They are still walking around in a daze, refusing to believe that he's really gone.
But the war’s over, and she can’t bring herself to cry for very long. Someday, she thinks, she’ll be able to stop watching and participating again.