Saints and Fools
Summary: Percy, Ginny and faith, lost and found.
Don't you mess with a little girl's dream
'Cause she's liable to grow up mean
When Ginny was very young, she dreamt of weddings and the groom always had a brother's face. This was, she told herself when she got older, because then she didn't know that there was any other way for a man to look. Her world was red-headed and freckled, gap-toothed and grinning, without variation.
This was also, she suspected, why adolescence brought darkness. Dark hair and dark eyes, darkness and blood. She craved something other and she got it.
She learned to be more careful what she wished for.
Because now she dreamt of long fingers and whispered voices and the darkness behind the sun, when all she wanted was that little girl vision of froth and chiffon and sugared violets. At least, she thought she still wanted it. She told herself she did. Told herself that darkness was just that, and the dark was very lonely.
There were voices in her head that disagreed. They told her that the darkness could be sweet if it was shared. And wouldn't she rather have bitter chocolate and red wine than champagne and wedding cake any day? She would, because now she'd tasted both. Wouldn't she. Red and black and bitter besides. Much sweeter, secret and smoky. She belonged there in the dark. The darkness loved her and it would not let her go.
*
Percy, on the other hand, dreamt of churches. He dreamt icons and shattered glass, Saint Peter and Saint Joan, crosses and fire.
As a very young boy, Percy had been fascinated by those stories. Saint Stephen had been his favorite. He imagined that they were very similar, the two of them. Quiet, bookish, bruised, young and so misunderstood. The Stephen in his head wore glasses above blue robes. The priests told them that Stephen had fallen asleep and gone to heaven. Sleep sounded like the perfect hero's reward, because even then Percy had been tired.
He imagined each of his favorite siblings had a saint for a personal patron. Charlie was Saint George with his dragons, and Bill was clever Saint Patrick. Ginny, though, was Saint Catherine, and that was why he loved her above all the others. She'd been scarred and ruined. Stoic and pierced. Cursed to bear the marks of Christ. Made an example of.
One step from martyred.
And no matter how he tried, no matter how he worried, she would always be one step away from it. Unless she decided to walk willingly into fire, into shadow, into death. But Percy didn't allow himself to think about that. Much.
Instead he watched her. Carefully. Made sure she ate when she was hungry, slept when she was tired, took her medicine when she was sick, studied when she needed to.
If he hadn't, no one would have. He knew how that felt, his Stephen-bruises twinged with it.
And so he wouldn't let her be hurt. He would protect her, even if she never saw his protection, even if she never wanted it. He made a poor champion, he knew. He would never be able to be strong enough or keep the monsters away. But he would try. He would fight God for her if he had to. He would keep her from even one more scar, one more bruise. And if the only weapons he had to do it with were blankets and teacups and worried looks, then he would fight all of heaven with them if he had to. He would fight all of hell.
And then he would fall asleep.
*
A quick story note -- I've always had a quiet suspicion that the Weasleys were Catholic. I'm sure people will disagree with me, but there it is. The epigraph is from Control by Poe.
