Jaundice

by Rambling Thestral

Following death of a character. One guess who. This was one of those I'm bored moods. Review please. Flames, whatever. Although what would there be to flame? You tell me.

It wasn't supposed to make sense.

Ginny turns - flinches - rolls, whatever it was you liked to call it - at the merest hesitation of silence. Her heart must have jumped, like the smallest electrons you can imagine jumping from the one switch to the other. Scarlet streams through her pulsing veins.

But you are not by her side when she needs you here, now. You were not there when her body was wracked with sobs. Or else you were there, the one with the whip, not the sores.

.o.

You have taken it all away from us, all our mayhap golden days. And I do not understand.

.o.

This night, Hermione and I sit alone by a fireplace, far - too far - apart. Her breath near mists the air when she says, "It isn't right."

She looks at me, dry eyes. "Or is it?"

Pause.

"No. It can never be right."

.o.

I am standing now, outside the Burrow. It does not feel like home, a place encased with the smell of gingersnaps and pinewood. It does not feel like home because it lingers with your scent. Your suffocating, sickly sweet scent, like Eliot's fogged-feline. So beautiful, so unfair.

It doesn't make sense.

But I know what you would say, Harry.

It wasn't supposed to, Ron.