HPFC piece. . .hope you like it.
blood and tears strung like beads
When she woke Ginny was not alone.
It did not register at first, her brain clouded with the warmth and serenity of sleep. The man's arm tightened around her though, and she realized with a start that the weight on her abdomen wasn't from her.
With not a clue about whose arm it actually was, Ginny began to panic, war time paranoia set in and she desperately tried to think of a way out. The youngest of her family, Ginny was good at slipping out of tight grasps (a skill honed from years of being pinned down and tickled by various older brothers). So she squirmed and wiggled and barely managed to slither to the ground. Landing on the plush carpeting of the Gryffindor common room (so that's where she was) with feline-like grace Ginny looked up to the face of her attacker.
Staring down the end of her boyfriend's (or ex-boyfriends, or. . . Merlin she didn't even know anymore) wand Ginny felt very foolish indeed. It took several seconds before realization dawned on Harry, grasping for his glasses, he lowered his wand.
Slightly.
"What joke did George make, when he first lost his ear?" He asked, and there was hardness about him that Ginny had never noticed before (maybe, a voice whispered in her head, that's because it wasn't there before).
"He, he. . ." and Ginny was grasping for her memory of that night, trying to sum up anything, but she was left with nothing but the image of blood (brightbright red, tootoo much). She swallowed back the tears, and her heart aches, because she can remember now.
"It's. . .it's holy, he said he was holy." With that memory though, comes all the others.
Her brother is dead.
Her brother is dead.
Her brother is DEAD.
DEAD
DEAD
DEAD
DEAD!
And then she's sobbing, pulling her knees to her chest, and rocking like a child (because she is a child, only sixteen). Harry slinks off the sofa they had fallen asleep on, still wearing the tattered, bloodstained robes of yesterday.
He's crying as well, she noticed through the hazy, grey veil that's slipped over her eyes (DEAD). And then they're clutching at each, they needed (neededneededneeded) to know that they're not the only ones whose lungs are full of air.
The wounds they neglected to get fixed (so many who needed the attention more) had split open again, and as Ginny watched the blood drip down her arm she thinks that they're teetering on the edge right now.
One wrong move, one wrong word, and they'll crack. All the glue that they've applied and reapplied to get through this war (this awfulawful war) will disintegrate, like the illusion it is. And then they'll be worse than Fred (poorpoor Fred).
He might be dead (DEAD!DEAD!DEAD!) but he died laughing, and happy and sane.
Right now, the two of them aren't sane.
Not sane at all, Ginny thinks as she watches her blood and tears, strung like beads, slip down her arm.
Oops. . . I think it was supposed to be romantic. . .