Ginny's bright brown eyes could be likened to tiger's eye, a thought that
crossed her mind as she arranged dried flowers in vase made of blue glass.
Bright brown waves of discontent pierced by daggers of silky amber
spiderwebs. During these intermitently hot July days, these eyes were
lately more often than not pointed toward the floor, like an inner purdah
that was begging to be broken.
"Ginger. Amelia. Weasley. " she recited to herself, twisting together stems of dead Black Eyed Susans. Perhaps it would grow on her. Sad, to think that one had to learn to like their own name. She had always imagined having a man speak it to her: whispering it perhaps, into her ear. At eighteen, she was too old to hold onto her fantasies, and yet already too jaded to hope for any more. Or at least she wished. Even now the knowlede that he was coming over shortly left tiny knives twisting into her heart, and this infuriated her.
Dried roses were last, framing the bouquet in a kind of wilted exstacy. She set the bouquet on a acient oak table and turned on the radio. Muggle poprock blared into her tiny attic bedroom, competing with the gorgeous dappled sunlight comign in throught the stained glass window. She laid, listlessly, as a familliar song came on, one that she hated and loved all the same. It always brought out the same angsty feelings, feelings she would never know she shared with thousands of other teenagers, Muggle and magickfolk alike.
"You gave your love to me softly
I heard your heart beating true
Still your Bijan lingers on and on and on
You gave your love to me softly."
Ginny traced the golden snitch embroidered onto her quilt, willing not to remember.
"When I'm feeling blue and lonely
All I have to do is think of you
We had just one night but it lingers on and on and on
You gave your love to me softly"
She deliberately stared out of the window, caught between screaming in her anger and betrayal, and dissolving into tears at her rejection.
"La, la, la" you sang to me
"Baby don't you cry Put your arms around me child
and lay with me tonight"
"Ginny?" called a familiar tenor voice up the stairs. His voice.
Ginny turned towards the wall, listening but not answering.
"Ginger. Amelia. Weasley. " she recited to herself, twisting together stems of dead Black Eyed Susans. Perhaps it would grow on her. Sad, to think that one had to learn to like their own name. She had always imagined having a man speak it to her: whispering it perhaps, into her ear. At eighteen, she was too old to hold onto her fantasies, and yet already too jaded to hope for any more. Or at least she wished. Even now the knowlede that he was coming over shortly left tiny knives twisting into her heart, and this infuriated her.
Dried roses were last, framing the bouquet in a kind of wilted exstacy. She set the bouquet on a acient oak table and turned on the radio. Muggle poprock blared into her tiny attic bedroom, competing with the gorgeous dappled sunlight comign in throught the stained glass window. She laid, listlessly, as a familliar song came on, one that she hated and loved all the same. It always brought out the same angsty feelings, feelings she would never know she shared with thousands of other teenagers, Muggle and magickfolk alike.
"You gave your love to me softly
I heard your heart beating true
Still your Bijan lingers on and on and on
You gave your love to me softly."
Ginny traced the golden snitch embroidered onto her quilt, willing not to remember.
"When I'm feeling blue and lonely
All I have to do is think of you
We had just one night but it lingers on and on and on
You gave your love to me softly"
She deliberately stared out of the window, caught between screaming in her anger and betrayal, and dissolving into tears at her rejection.
"La, la, la" you sang to me
"Baby don't you cry Put your arms around me child
and lay with me tonight"
"Ginny?" called a familiar tenor voice up the stairs. His voice.
Ginny turned towards the wall, listening but not answering.