Title: Broken Silence
Author: Katy
Rating: PG13, nothing really happens that is high rated, it is just a bit
dark
Pairing: Ginny/Another girl, I don't think I'll tell you quite yet if you
don't mind.
Warnings: Dark, suicide and femslash. Gosh that is a hell of a lot of
warnings for my first fic.. What ever happened to me being a 'nice girl'?
What would my mother say now!
Disclaimer: If you are under the misapprehension that this could possibly
be mine then you are not only wrong but extremely misguided.
Author's Notes: As I said, this is my first ever finished fic. So I am a
tad nervous.
I need to give my undying thanks to Enismirdal for her wonderful expertise, she managed to correct my grammar, point out when I wasn't making any sense, make me actually write this and then actually let it out to annoy all you lot with! Not only that, but she also kisses me lots (so under- rated darling!) and eats Bailey's ice-cream with me when I feel sad.. So lots and lots of kisses for you, not like I wasn't going to kiss you anyway. but there we go. Can never kiss too much, that's my philosophy. Thanks sweetie
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Broken
She was broken goods, defiled and ruined before she ever had the chance to be something real. Written out as a little damaged thing that was there purely as someone to pity. Ginny Weasley did not think highly of pity. But damaged, she could identify with that. Even now after all these years she always saw it, there and vivid in her mind's eye; the image of a beautiful young and clear boy as he drained her soul and bled her heart. For Ginny was quite sure that it was at that very moment that her heart had become dry, hard and quite dead. Not that she minded; she lived without a heart quite well, she thought. But in the night, in the infinite stretches of black, she bled all over again, on her sheets, silently, with a sharp knife, or after she had learnt that especially useful and quite dark spell with only her wand to guide her.
That summer had in its own way been worse than the event itself; that was what Ginny thought, in her most cynical moments, would send her to therapy for life. To be a Weasley was defining, the hair, the infernal happiness of it all. It suffocated her, enveloped her and refused to let her breathe. The fuss of her mother, the gentle concern of her father, and the rough, ill expressed and vague assertions as to whether she was OK from her brothers; they were all, Ginny knew, a way to cover their disgust for their sweet and innocent little daughter, now scared and dirtied by all that blackness. And in a way they was right, she was blackened by it all; her soul was never as blank and carefree as before.
She allowed what was left to rot, cutting her losses at only twelve; she already understood that, in her world, she couldn't go on and care with a continual and juvenile trust that her brothers had in 'light', in 'good', in Dumbledore and his 'Order'. The night then became in her eyes a time of only two purposes, that of blood, and that of dark. For the dark was fascinating. It all depended on what you were prepared to give, calculated risks. Allowing her to take advantage of the magic in her blood in her body and what was left of her already tattered soul.
It is amazing, she would hear her mother comment to some nameless friend over tea, how my little Ginny has come out of that terrible business in her first year quite unscathed. Ginny would only dig the knife in deeper covering the scars with one of the first less-than-blameless charms that she had ever mastered. After all, masking the truth could never be a pure intent. Ginny, however, knew that it was in fact the only thing to do. Her happy, bright family could never understand the ruin that had fallen on their daughter. Her strength and growing power would be viewed as nothing of the sort. She would be punished and mistrusted and they would mourn her loss of innocence all over again. No, it was better for all that it was this way.
I need to give my undying thanks to Enismirdal for her wonderful expertise, she managed to correct my grammar, point out when I wasn't making any sense, make me actually write this and then actually let it out to annoy all you lot with! Not only that, but she also kisses me lots (so under- rated darling!) and eats Bailey's ice-cream with me when I feel sad.. So lots and lots of kisses for you, not like I wasn't going to kiss you anyway. but there we go. Can never kiss too much, that's my philosophy. Thanks sweetie
~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~
Broken
She was broken goods, defiled and ruined before she ever had the chance to be something real. Written out as a little damaged thing that was there purely as someone to pity. Ginny Weasley did not think highly of pity. But damaged, she could identify with that. Even now after all these years she always saw it, there and vivid in her mind's eye; the image of a beautiful young and clear boy as he drained her soul and bled her heart. For Ginny was quite sure that it was at that very moment that her heart had become dry, hard and quite dead. Not that she minded; she lived without a heart quite well, she thought. But in the night, in the infinite stretches of black, she bled all over again, on her sheets, silently, with a sharp knife, or after she had learnt that especially useful and quite dark spell with only her wand to guide her.
That summer had in its own way been worse than the event itself; that was what Ginny thought, in her most cynical moments, would send her to therapy for life. To be a Weasley was defining, the hair, the infernal happiness of it all. It suffocated her, enveloped her and refused to let her breathe. The fuss of her mother, the gentle concern of her father, and the rough, ill expressed and vague assertions as to whether she was OK from her brothers; they were all, Ginny knew, a way to cover their disgust for their sweet and innocent little daughter, now scared and dirtied by all that blackness. And in a way they was right, she was blackened by it all; her soul was never as blank and carefree as before.
She allowed what was left to rot, cutting her losses at only twelve; she already understood that, in her world, she couldn't go on and care with a continual and juvenile trust that her brothers had in 'light', in 'good', in Dumbledore and his 'Order'. The night then became in her eyes a time of only two purposes, that of blood, and that of dark. For the dark was fascinating. It all depended on what you were prepared to give, calculated risks. Allowing her to take advantage of the magic in her blood in her body and what was left of her already tattered soul.
It is amazing, she would hear her mother comment to some nameless friend over tea, how my little Ginny has come out of that terrible business in her first year quite unscathed. Ginny would only dig the knife in deeper covering the scars with one of the first less-than-blameless charms that she had ever mastered. After all, masking the truth could never be a pure intent. Ginny, however, knew that it was in fact the only thing to do. Her happy, bright family could never understand the ruin that had fallen on their daughter. Her strength and growing power would be viewed as nothing of the sort. She would be punished and mistrusted and they would mourn her loss of innocence all over again. No, it was better for all that it was this way.