Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.

Written for the Disney Competition - Sally The Ragdoll (Ginny Weasley) Prompt - Hair.

A Poetic Kind Of Irony

She'd hated being the only girl growing up. It was hard, having six older brothers. They didn't want to play with her, they teased her mercilessly, and yet, they were so overprotective, she could never make a real friend. She had, for a time, looked forward to going to Hogwarts, at least, she had until she realised that four of her brothers would still be there with her.

Still teasing. Still ignoring. Still being over protective. Still stopping her from making a friend.

Maybe that was why she loved the diary so much. It had been the attraction of having a friend. Someone just for her, that her brothers couldn't take away. Maybe that was why she ignored the warning signals, her father's voice in her head telling her that it wasn't a good thing for a book to be writing back to her. She wouldn't let any of them take Tom away from her.

When she was older, she wondered if he had been her first love. It was a twisted love, of course, but then, it was a twisted situation. She'd always thought Harry was her first love, but she knew that at first, it had been nothing but obsession with the Boy-Who-Lived. It took her a while to grow out of that. To fall in love with the person he was, rather than the books her father had read to her as a child.

Tom, though. Tom seemed so real. He knew all the right words, knew what she wanted him to say. He was sympathetic when she needed him to be, and he was funny when she needed a distraction. He was lovely to her. The very thought made her sick in her later years. It haunted her. It didn't stop it from being the truth.

That it had been Harry who saved her was a poetic kind of irony, she thought.

During her second year at Hogwarts, she had been terrified. What if another object came along to try and kill her? What if she was taken in by someone charming, only to be put right back into a bad situation. It scared her. She didn't make any real friends that year either, though that was more her own doing. She was scared. Harry had been the one to save her again. She watched him go through hell with the Dementors, and he still fought on. He'd given her the strength to fight her fears, even if he didn't know it at the time.

Ginny started to make friends after that. With the people in her own year, with the people in Harry's year. She opened up a little, and was happy to find that people seemed to like her. Later, she realised that was when she started to forget about the Boy-Who-Lived, and started to think about Harry Potter.

xxxx

There were times, as she grew into an adult, that she still had nightmares about what had happened to her. Times she woke up scared in the night, shaking, crying, calling out for help. Just as he had been when it happened, Harry was there, wrapping his arms around her, telling her everything was going to be okay. She felt guilty for a time, for waking him up with her nightmares.

He'd suffered more in his years than anyone she knew, and he had his own nightmares, his own demons to face. He shook away the guilt with a gentle smile, assurances whispered into the night that he loved her. She knew he'd protect her from anything. Even herself. He'd stroke her hair for hours until she could fall back asleep, and when morning fell, he made no mention of it except to ask her if she was feeling okay.

She found it rather odd in a way. All those years ago, Tom had fooled her into thinking she had a friend. It was all she'd ever wanted. Instead, he'd given her the love of her life. No matter how strange other people would find her for it, she was grateful to him. When Harry, late at night, had told her that he'd seen her in his mind when he'd given his life for the cause, the feeling intensified.

Not only had Tom given Ginny Harry, but he'd given Harry the weapon he needed to beat him once and for all.

All she'd ever wanted was a friend, and instead she'd gained her soulmate.

And all because of Lord Voldemort. Now that was a poetic kind if irony.