Writing Letters To Nobody
A/N: Not the best one-shot I've ever written; just an idea that came to me. I may re-write or re-name this fic, or possibly just re-write it and give the name to some other fic. Don't know yet, but R&R!
Ginny Weasley sat in what had become her bedroom, at her desk, her hands flitting over a crumpled piece of parchment as her quille bobbed up and down. Her haste to express these overpowering emotions was immense, her mind in utter turmoil as she struggled to get what she meant and would always mean down into words and away from her mind. The room was dark as she wrote, only a pool of moonlight illuminating her work-space as she wrote, dripping in from the barred window, along with the chill breeze that made her shiver in cold.
Draco...
That was how she began her 'letter'. To her one, her only, Draco Malfoy. The love of her life, the only man she could ever bring herself to surrender completely to. The man who held her heart so close and so tightly not even Ginny could wrench it away from him, not even if she wanted to. She didn't want to, though. She thought that, with him, her heart was safe and eternally at peace. There needn't be room for worry or hurt if he kept her heart, her most prized posession, close: he deserved her heart, and he deserved much more than she could give him, but, regardless, she would always try.
I can't do this any more.
She couldn't--she couldn't do this any more. She had never been away from him so long; she had never thought she would have to go more than a week without him.
I need to see you.
She hadn't even caught a glimpse of his sweet face, his erect back, nay not even an ivory hand, and she missed him horribly. It had been months--more than months--since she'd last seen her love. Her heart pined for him, bled, even, and every second without him she felt as if she was losing him over and over again, to some horrifying end. She wouldn't think about it, though, she would only think about when she and her love would be reunited. Once they were reunited, she would never let him go again. Never.
I miss you with everything in me, love. I need to see you, to feel you, to know you again. Isn't it strange how we all make promises, then break them? You promised you would marry me, Mr, and still here I am, at home, awaiting your return to me and our promised union. Oh, but I worry too much, I fear, fore I know you would never break a promise to me. Our love was too strong for that, and still I remain young and yours only. Yours only, forever yours, and you are forever mine.
The blank white walls seemed to press in around the grey and ginger haired woman as she wrote, seemed to fold in on her--but still she wrote, her wide amber eyes, once so filled with youth now bearing the mark of age. Still she wrote, though, for that was all that mattered to her. Writing this letter, then sending it to her beloved. Her back was hunched over the desk, her wrinkled hands flying and her old white dressing gown wispy in the light breeze that came in from her cell's single window.
"That's all she ever does, you know," said the sad asylum guard, "Sit at that desk and write letters upon letters."
This particular guard had been present at St. Mungo's Incurable Asylum for the past thirty years, and he had watched what had once been a radiant young woman turn into a dull, old creature, wrinkled and withered-looking. He sighed as he eyed her, eagerly writing her latest epistle.
"All she does?" asked the new guard, who had only been working there for a few nights now.
"Yup. I've never seen her sleep, and they feed her with some sort of spell. She's always writing letters to her love."
"Why do we never mail them?"
The older guard eyed his young companion.
"That in there, that's Ginny Weasley. Around thirty years ago, they brought her in here. She was a lunatic, raving about her family and how she would soon be married--"
"Thirty years ago...That was..."
"Uh huh, the war with the Dark Lord. Her family was wiped out in the battle, and if they still survive then we know not where they are."
Inside the two men watched the woman smile through tear-filled eyes, her crinkled hands still writing. She stopped then, crumpled up the paper she was using and threw it behind her, then picked up a new one and began writing on that.
"What of her lover, then? Does he survive?" the young guard inquired.
"Draco Malfoy. We found his body days after the Dark Lord's defeat. Dead as a stone."
Together the two men watched the old woman continue to write letters to nobody.
The next morning the new guard was sent into her cell to collect her trash, to find her awake and writing another one of her letters. It was true then, she didn't sleep. Her back was turned to him, and she didn't even acknowledge his presence, though he was sure she heard him.
Picking up the many crumpled letters around her cell, he inquired, "Why don't you stop writing those letters?"
He could feel the tension rise up in the air and practically felt her hand freeze over her parchment. "Why don't you stop breathing?"
Her voice was strong for an old woman, and her answer shocked him. "That's not sensible, now, is it?"
"No, it's not," with her back still turned to him, she continued, her hand for once not active, "So why do you ask me to stop writing my letters?"
He paused, then blurted, "He's dead, you know."
He felt the tension melt, but knew that had not been the right thing to say.
He gaped as she turned her old, wisened face towards him. On her face was a peaceful smile, in her eyes there brimmed tears--but also in her eyes there brimmed something else...
"So?"
...hope.
Author's Note: R&R please! It's March Break and I'm in a one-shot mood--also in mood to get many reviews! LoL, okay okay, just revviiieeww purdy please :)