Ginny's love letters are dear to her.
How have you been? I haven't seen you in too long, and the absence is a phantom pain, an aching vacancy where there should have been comfort and warmth. I miss you. I would say the stars are not so bright without you, and food tastes like ashes in my mouth, but the truth is I can't really see the stars through the bars the Dursleys welded over my window, and the leftovers they feed me taste like ashes anyway, so... But everything is made more bearable by the thought that we will soon be at Hogwarts again, and I will be able to see you once more. Until then, take care of yourself.
Did I ever tell you I loved you from the moment I first saw you? You were so little then, such a delicate little thing, so shy and wide-eyed with wonder. I didn't want to; you were only a child I'd met at the station and might never see again, the little sister of a boy taking the same train to Hogwarts that I didn't even know if I would like.
And who knew what you really saw: The Boy Who Lived, some romantic figure of a lonely orphan who would be exalted by your innocent love, or what. Ron's becoming my best friend didn't help any - while he teased me about your crush on me, I bet he'd have pummelled me if I had expressed any real interest in his baby sister. I envy you your family, you know. What would I give to have a Percy boss me around, and a Fred and George to tease and play tricks on me, and a Ron to get impatient with me, a mother to scold and coddle me... they must exasperate you awfully, but I'm only grateful I can borrow them while we're at Hogwarts. They do care about you, even if it's hard to tell sometimes. You should have seen Ron's face when he heard you were taken, that terrible time when the Chamber of Secrets was opened. Cherish them, but don't take anything that Fred and George offer you unless your mother is there.
Strange how things work out, wouldn't you say? The one time I had an excuse to ask you to the dance, with Ron's full approval, and you'd already accepted Neville's invitation. I was quite crushed, but I'm glad we had the chance to go separately, and I could finally see that it wasn't blind, thoughtless infatuation on your part and you didn't abandon Neville just to go with me. You are a kind, wonderful girl, and I don't know what I've done to deserve your love, but I hope I can become worthy of your faith in me, someday.
I can't take it any longer. I have to tell you this: I HATE YOU. From the moment I wake in the morning to the instant I fall asleep at night, all I can think of is you. Every indistinct face I see is your face, every half-heard voice is your voice, I can't do a single thing stopping to wonder - what will you think? would you like a Chocolate Frog too? do you have any difficulty with your homework? It's driving me crazy!
Ron and Hermione are worried and upset because I seem so distracted, and I can hardly keep on my broom for seeking your face in the crowd, much less track the Golden Snitch. My life is a wreck, my homework is covered in your name, and the Slytherins are sniggering at me because I didn't even notice the 'Potter Stinks' badge from last year one of them put on my back and Snape gave me detention for self-aggrandisement and disrupting his class.
As such, I find I have no option but to move directly into your home as soon as we get back from Hogwarts for the holidays. That way, I will be able to fill my eyes with you constantly instead of having to wrack my brains remembering every detail of how you look and what you are wearing. I will be able to see for myself what you are doing and eating instead of always wondering the same, and should I desire your opinion on anything, I will be able to ask you and satisfy my curiosity promptly. I trust you will be able to make space for me by the time I arrive with all my worldly possessions and Hedwig, as soon as I pick up what few things I have at the Dursleys'.
Ginny takes the letter from poor faithful Errol, reads every word, cherishes the emotions they evoke, and carefully burns the incriminating parchment before her brothers can catch her. She writes no reply; she never does.
Harry writes nothing: Ginny is the recipient, living vicariously through this imagined Ginny and a Harry who loves her madly and unconditionally, and she is the secretive sender who writes them into being with a lighted wand under her blanket, in the middle of the night. But Ginny never writes to Harry, though she thinks that perhaps, if she can pick the right words, arrange them just so, perhaps Harry will look at her and see her, Ginny, not Ron's little sister. She never writes. Her dreams are dear enough, and she knows better than to imagine she can afford delusions.
Ginny is no princess. She is not a wealthy heiress. She has no exceptional beauty, no great virtues or talents that may charm a hero who will swoop down on his cloud-white pegasus and carry her away to his fairy-tale castle. There is no cruel family to save her from, there are no malicious rivals. There was a terrifying monster, but it is long vanquished, and the valiant hero has gone on to greater deeds. She has nothing, but she has a quill and parchment, and a patient owl who will fly a circle around the room for her. Ginny writes.