Stepping onto the train in her fourth year, Ginny called Luna “Loony,” dismissively, thoughtlessly. That was just her name. That was the name of girls like this, the wide-eyed children whose ranks Ginny had proudly left behind.
A year and hundreds of pages later, Ginny snarled at two boys for using the same hurtful lash of the tongue.
There was so much growth between those pages, glimpses of a girl learning what she wanted to fight for.
How about this story? Arthur Weasley lurked in Muggle used bookstores, bringing home battered comics, penny and dime mystery novels, swooning romances for Molly and Charlie, and once an old bound copy of Shakespeare’s collected tragedies.
Ginny holed up with the Shakespeare the summer after her first year at Hogwarts. She needed other people’s tragedies to retreat into and an excuse to sit in an secluded corner where no one would touch her.
She wrapped herself in all the stories, but got drawn back to Hamlet. The men there went mad in their minds, and the women went mad from their hearts.
Ginny vowed, if she went mad, it would be in Hamlet’s shoes. She would be the hero of her story. If she went mad it would be from the head, from ghosts whispering in her ears, from guilt and bottled rage. If she went mad, she would destroy her world before her self.
She would wreak her wrath, not drift off the page.