Chapter 1

“I hate him.” Ginny tasted the words as they flowed out of her into the empty room. “I hate him.” So easy to say, yet a long time coming. She had been bruised for the last time. She had been rejected for the last time. She said the words again, fiercely. “I *hate* him. Hate him, hate him, hate him. . .” Her fists clenched, nails digging bloody crescent moons into her palms, bringing stinging tears of pain to her eyes. She hated Harry Potter. It was that easy. That. . .simple.

Odd. Ron hadn’t come to see what was wrong. He was probably laughing with Harry. Who would care about their little sister when their famous best friend was in the house? Famous selfish prick. Hate him. It was easier to say it now. Hate. Detest. Loathe. Despise. Abhor. Hate. It was a word that described her utterly. She could feel it like a black hole inside her, nibbling away at what she had been. Eating away her purity of spirit. Good.

She was seventeen, dammit, and she wasn’t going to act like a little girl anymore. She crossed carefully over to her desk and slid open a drawer. Time for an alteration. She was overdue for maturity. And her bedroom? It had to change. All pink and fluffy, yuck. The teddy bears, the flowers, the pretty print on the wall, all going. Rummaging in her drawer, she withdrew a black eyeliner pencil, black eyeshadow and black lipstick. Let her true colours show. Dark, dark, dark. Black as hate, black as sin, black as death. Death. Death to Harry Potter. Pleasant to contemplate.

She carefully drew in the thick black lines under her eyes and softly dusted her eyelids with eyeshadow. Lipstick now. Hair. Wrong hair. Too long and too bright copper. She drew out her wand and darkened her hair right down to a deep blood red rather then the gingery colour it had been. She looked herself over in the mirror. A stranger stared back at her. An interesting, mysterious, mature looking stranger. She rose from her seat and stripped off her pretty little lilac wool knit dress.

She drew on a clinging black satin top, and her black muggle jeans. Boots. She had boots. Big clunky black boots that reached halfway up her calves with black zips. Did she sense a theme here? She put them on and zipped them up. Last thing. A Gothic silver cross hanging on a thin black leather thong. She quickly ran a brush through her hair and pulled it back into a tight pony. It would do until she got it cut. Time to present her family with the new Ginny Weasley.

“Ginny!” Run gasped as she walked down the stairs. “What have you done to your hair?”

“Are you blind or just male? I changed the colour. I was thinking white, but blood red just called out to me.” Ginny breezed past him and out the door. “I’m going out.”

“Where?” He was in front of her, stopping her. Her eyes narrowed.

“Away.” She pushed him to the side. “Tell Harry thanks for showing me a new direction, one that’s more me.”

“Harry? What does Harry have to do with, with *this*?” Ron spluttered in confusion.

“He opened my eyes. Do you think I should get inked? I was thinking maybe a scorpion on my hip.” Ginny shrugged and went out. Harry was in the backyard, tending to his broom. God, he’d paid that stick more attention then he did her. She was well rid of that foolish delusion of teenage infatuation. His eyes started to drift over her, as they always did, and then he really saw her as she picked up her own broom. Not quite a Firebolt, but a respectable broom nonetheless.

“Ginny!”

“What? I am not in the mood, Potter,” she hissed at him as she straddled the broomstick.

“Look, I'm sorry about before. . .”

“No, no you’re not. You’re trying to appease your conscience. Have to be the noble idiot, don’t you, Potter? At least Malfoy is interesting to talk to. Maybe I should look him up,” she mused absently as she lifted off the ground and hovered. “Anyway, going out.” She soared over the hedge and into the sky above the clouds. Now she was out, where was she going? She cast a spell so she could continue breathing at this altitude. She lay back on the broom, her head cradled by the twigs. Bored. She was deadly bored. Wait, money, she had forgot money. She zoomed back to the ground again, landing at a run.

She dropped her broom, ran upstairs, boots thumping on the wooden surfaces, grabbed her Gringotts card (thank Hecate they’d discovered credit cards!) and ran back out again, slipping it into her back pocket. Ron was standing over her broom, looking determined. What, no hero friend to back you up against the obviously bonkers little sister? Oh, you’re such a manly man, Ronniekins.

“You’re not going anywhere, Ginny.”

“Oh, for the love of. . .” she muttered angrily. “Ron, step away from the broom, step away from the broom,” she said in a high nasal voice, mimicking those strange muggle car alarms. He didn’t. “I can hurt you,” she said almost pleasantly as she took a step forward. “I punch hard, ask Fred.”

“Wha, what?”

“Fred. I punched him. Once.”

“Why?” Ron seemed to be quite confused, ears as red as his hair the poor dear.

“Do you remember Christmas last year? He put a truth potion in my drink. I was talking non-stop, total stream of consciousness. He thought it was hysterically funny, right up until I punched him and he nearly passed out.” Ginny was sporting an evil little smile at her memories.

“Why are you dressed like this?” Ron had obviously decided to bypass that and head to the thing he could maybe deal with.

“Because I decided to grow up. Out with the old, in with the new. New look, new ideas, new everything. Maybe a new crush. Malfoy was looking very nice last term, f’r instance. Are you going to get off the broom now? I’m going shopping.”

“With what?” Ron asked contemptuously.

“*My* money, my Gringotts card and me. You haven’t noticed, have you?” Ginny said almost wonderingly, then a flare of anger surged through her. Some brother he was! “Dammit, Ron, you really are a bleeding pansy sometimes. Ponce. I had a job. Working, that thing you do so little of.”

“Where?”

“At home. Typing, secretarial work. Owled in manuscripts, owled back typed documents. Surprised you missed the many owls, the clattering of typewriter keys and my moans from a sore back. But the money’s good. Shoo, shopping now.” She flapped her hands at him, but he stayed where he was, same look of mulish obstinacy on his face. “Go *away*, Ron.”

“No. Mum’s not here, and you’re not going out.”

“Fine, arsehole!” She turned and stomped off, on foot this time. “No, I can annoy you more if I’m here.” She turned and went back inside the house, fuming. When she reached her bedroom, she turned up her CD player full ball and put on her Linkin Park CD. She started dancing, deliberately making noise. Sodding idjit. Grrrr.

“GINNY!” She finally heard Ron shouting, and turned around, brown eyes spitting sparks.

“What?!” She turned her CD player off. “Go and owl Hermoine or something. I’m sure it’s all sexual tension.”

“Ginny!”

“Is that all you can say? Ginny, Ginny, oh my goodness, Ginny. Quick, revert back to spineless mouse. Uh uh. Verge is here to stay. Hey, I like that. Verge, on the edge.” Ginny ran her tongue around her idea of a new name.

“It sounds stupid.”

“Bite me, Ron. Hard. On my arse. I’ll even bend over for you.” She reached over and turned her music back on. He tried to yell at her, but she ignored him. He threw his hands up eventually, and left in exasperation. Good. “I can not take this anymore. Saying everything I said before. All these words, they make no sense, I found bliss in ignorance, the less I hear, the less you say. . .” She started swaying. “Just like before. . .everything you say to me, sends me one closer to the edge, and I’m about to break! I need a little room to breathe, cos I’m one step closer to the edge, and I’m about to break! I find the answers aren’t so clear, wish that I could find a way to disappear, all these thoughts they make no sense, I found bliss in ignorance, nothing seems to go away, over and over again. . .” She started jumping again. Oh yeah, this was fun. “I’m one step closer to the edge, and I’m about to break!”

“Virginia Anne Weasley!” Ginny heard her mother trumpet as she reached over and turned the music off with a decisive click. “What on earth has got into you today?”

“A spine?” Ginny asked sarcastically, as she turned her music back on. Molly turned it off. “Hey!”

“The music is much too loud, and havens above, what have you done to your hair?” Molly fussed.

“I changed the colour. You know, magic wand, poof! I was thinking of getting it cut, spiking it up. There was a picture. . .” Ginny flopped down on her bed and scrabbled down the side of it, soon retrieving a magazine. “Here.” She flipped it open to the page as she sat up, and showed her mother the picture she’d been looking at before. A girl with short, tawny brown hair, spiked and scruffed. “Like this.”

“I don’t think so, Ginny. Now, turn your hair back to its original colour.”

“No.” Ginny’s face went stubborn.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Weirder shades coming up then,” Ginny muttered as her mother waved her wand over her hair, returning it to its natural shade. She glowered after Molly as she left the room. “Sod.”

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