Heavy
Disclaim: I own nada. Florence + The Machine: Heavy In Your Arms; J.K. Rowling.
Set: Mid-war. DracoxGinny. Tragedy.
Bleeding.
Everything bloody and red and thick; he was scared, he was pressured, he was lost.
Dying. So limp.
Her hair was matted to her forehead in the rivulets. He couldn't stop it. He just kept touching her, afraid, fingers convulsing like that hard thing in his chest, covered in shining crimson.
She was panting, her chest rising and falling in quick succession, her arms and legs useless and weak against the wet ground.
"Ginny," he was crying, grappling at her torso, trying to pull her closer. She was so weighted - she was so weak. She moved not.
"Ginevra," he croaked desperately, locking his fingers behind her back as he dragged her upwards. "Ginny, no."
Her eyes rolled in their sockets, flashing at the scenery, the black sky and the fire. They were unsettling and unsettled, jumping from tree to building, figure to fallen.
"Draco," was like a sigh from her cracked lips, chapped and white. Her skin was like new snow, her hair sprawled around her head like a satanic halo.
Screams echoed behind him, ricocheting off of storefronts with broken windows and battered bodies. Somewhere, someone was singing.
He pulled at her body, lifting every limb until it was tucked inside of his cradle, her head rolling uselessly.
"Strength, Ginny." He was crying, the tears hot and fast down his face, just like his breath. "Whatever strength you have left."
Her shoulders twitched, her fingers flexing. With an agonized scream and the push of his hand, she forced her head onto his shoulder, her fingers locking behind his neck. He clutched her as tightly as he could, his grasp like iron, gripping her to him. Her muscles twitched beneath his neck, fighting their use, but she stayed lucid, her eyes a thin sliver of consciousness. She was staring at him, blood running down her face.
The push to his feet was so much harder, balancing his mask and her body. Its birdlike nose stabbed him in the side, but the dull pain was far surpassed by the breaking in his chest. His body was one massive seizure, his fear dark and crippling, fighting the urge to stand and run.
His black cloak was constricting. It was wet and heavy, weakening his arms and legs as he pumped them down dirty streets.
It was wrong. He felt the adrenaline surge through his body as he thought of it, that detached part of his mind, ever logical. He was going to be tortured and killed. He'd left his post, he'd abandoned his task. He'd seen them take her down, their brute force knocking her from her feet onto her back in one swift movement. While they'd had her crippled in the street, clearly lacking defense in that one moment, they'd struck her. The words were whispers in the night, terrible utterances that took hold of her body in green, electric twine. Her body was overtaken with spasms, even as she grit her teeth and locked her fingers into the pavement. It twisted and jerked repeatedly, her jaw falling open with tormented cries. Her eyes rolled back into her skull, her face paling, her limbs losing their fight.
The skin was different. It split open into tiny lesions, covering her body like chicken pox, as deep as knife wounds. Her pores began to drain, her body slick with her own life.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. They'd passed over her, striding quickly and secretly down the street. Explosions scurried the rest of the rats, scaring them into traps and holes. Their screams joined Ginny's in the sky, an atmosphere of constant shrieking. His heart had been so firm when they'd come upon her. Then, it was coming undone, pounding and seizing as he had thrown himself to his knees beside her.
Even as he forced his legs to pump, his feet to move, she was so heavy. He tried to ignore the dead weight that fluttered through his fleeting thoughts, but it still clenched his throat, his breath coming out in short spurts.
Her fingers flexed against his skull, her eyes jerking open suddenly. Her jaw unlocked once again, and the shriek that spilt forth was filled with grief and suffering, so powerful the tears sprang from his eyes in fresh droplets, running down his dirty face.
"I'm so sorry," he kept gasping, hurling himself down the abandoned street. There were ghosts of cries and heckles from the alleys, forcing him to move himself more quickly.
Of course he was. This was his fault. He'd planned to shadow her as factually as he could, mapping his route with hers. She was always aware of him, as he was of her. That was their epic plan - so smart, he had thought. He could pretend to fulfill his duties while he helped keep her back safe, dodging his own trackers as he killed hers. It had worked so well; she'd been so keen. He had let his hope get the best of him when he realized that Pothead was on the right track, going the right way, finally not screwing up. He was going to win this thing. He was going to end this pain. He was going to kill that snake bastard and stand there with the banner in his hands, calling from the rooftops of his victory.
He had shifted in his hiding. He'd been so foolish. He hadn't noticed the young wizard with the trembling wand breathing down his neck, and had allowed himself to be bested for only a moment. A simple slip up that he'd taken care of, but not without a surprised cry. A noise that would reach her devoted ears, send her loyal heart pounding. She had turned to defend him, turning her back, and had been, in turn, bested by her enemies.
His legs felt like cement, knocking clumsily against the pavement. She was so small in his arms, but she had so much mass; it was like she was dragging them both, emotionally and physically, as his heart fell into his feet. She was so heavy.
"I love you," she croaked, her lips sticking as they mouthed the words. "Always."
"No, Ginny, no," he whimpered, kicking in a charred door. The Disillusionment was like a subconscious thought as he carefully adjusted her body on the floor, running his hands over her arms and legs. The dark didn't hinder his strength as he ripped fabric in his fingers, exposing her lacerated flesh. His mind was like a Rolodex, channeling the healing knowledge he'd attained in school and under pressure. The words couldn't come fast enough, fumbling at his lips in whispers.
He would kill who'd hurt her. He would strangle them with his own fingers, he would choke their desires through their eyes like tears. He would make them suffer, like she was suffering. He would make them heavy like the darkness they bore, dead weight. The right kind.
"I love you," she whimpered again, her chest rising and falling. It was no use, even as her skin began to turn new and pink with healing. She was so pale, so grey. He was hopeless, his heart an iron ball.
"Always, always," she moaned, even as her hands finally stopped convulsing and rested still against the scarred wood of the floor she laid upon.
He pulled her body into his arms, sobbing loudly and unabashedly over her limp figure. He clawed at her soaked locks, grasping the back of her neck, desperately forcing her into his chest.
"I love you," he sobbed, clawing at her back. "I failed you. I'm so sorry. Ginny - Ginevra - no, please, no."
Her breaths were coughs now, shuddering in her lungs and through her throat. She was wheezing under his hands, slowly winding down, her motions stilling.
"I love you," he whimpered, his voice forcing conviction and hiding condemnation. "Ginny."
Her head lolled in his palm, like it rolled when he had massaged her nape in their happier days. His eyes were so blind. She was so still.
"I'm so sorry," was all he could say as he held her body in his arms, weeping against her forehead, curling her into his lap.
She was so heavy.
~fin