So, obviously I'm not from England, right? But I've tried not to ruin the wording too terribly. If you see something that really bothers you, let me know. Constructive criticism and all that, right? Anyway, this oneshot is inspired by three quotes; I started writing and wasn't sure where this was going to take me, but here we are! I don't know who said two of the quotes, but if you do you should let me know!
Disclaimer, of course, is that I don't own anything in this except for my interpretations of the creatures.
"Self love is so important. Because when you're all alone and it's 3 in the morning and you're lying on the floor crying and shaking and wishing it all would end, who's going to be there for you? You. You have to pick yourself up and find the strength to carry on. At the end of the day, you're all you've got." -Unknown
"Someday someone might come into your life and love you the way you've always wanted."
-Unknown
Four in the Mourning
The faucet is dripping again. Drip…drip…drip; loose and leaking, it has become your best friend in these dark nights. It used to irritate you—piss you right off as you lay on the floor, too weak to move and hating everything down to your toenails—but now it is a comfort to your bruised psyche. A cold comfort, to be sure, but the only one you have anymore.
A while ago you noticed a crack in the ceiling, right next to where the chandelier hangs, and your eyes always find it after you've regained just enough energy to roll onto your back. The soft glow from the candles and wall sconces casts flickering shadows that make the crack look like a skeletal hand, waving mockingly from above. You used to wish, when this all started, that someone would come join you; that someone would lay next to you and question you about the crack and the leaky faucet, hold your hand and ask why the air was is thick with the smell of blood and sickness…you used to wish, but you know better now.
Oh, it never used to be so frequent; a single night here or there in a month spend on the floor isn't too hard to hide, but it's been every evening for a fortnight now and there is no more pretending. Your dorm mates, they know, they have always known, and you thought they were your friends but it seems you were mistaken. The most acknowledgement you've received is tonight, when one of them came in and told you that everyone is having trouble right now and you should have your breakdown a bit quieter because the dorm is trying to sleep, thanks.
Your House will be like your family is complete bollocks. Family looks out for each other, you know all about that, and your House has done fuck-all to look out for anyone but themselves in the whole time you've been at Hogwarts. If your House truly was like your family, someone would be in here helping you instead of telling you to quiet down. But you have grown used to it, you think bitterly, and roll onto your stomach so you can drag yourself to bed.
xx xx xx
And here you are again, practically convulsing on the floor and gasping for breath. You thought you would be lucky tonight; you fell asleep easily behind your bed hangings, but you awoke hours later unable to breathe and feeling and overwhelming need to escape. Your fear drove you to the bath where you submerged yourself in a tub after sicking up all over your nightclothes. Once the urge to sink under the water and inhale finally passed, you hauled your body over the edge of the tub and collapsed naked on the floor, and that is where you find yourself now.
There is a blue and bronze tie hanging from the chandelier and you wonder how and when it got there. You shift painfully and feel the cool water that you're lying in ripple around you. You breathe and see your chest heave, as if you are inhaling molasses; your hands shake as if you are two hundred years old and your mind viciously reminds you of the angry muttering you heard as you stumbled through your dorm room and something has to give. You think—hope—that it will be you, that you won't have to feel this anymore.
An invisible creature brings the tie down from the chandelier, drapes it across your neck in a parody of a noose. You shudder and choke down bile and hope this ends soon.
xx xx xx
Three days. You were free for three blessed days before it slammed into you, like a Reductor straight to the chest, and suddenly you were sitting in Potions and couldn't breathe. You rushed from the room as quickly as you could, sweeping past tables the way Snape used to before he lost his leg; you headed straight for the bath in your dorm room and now here you are, collapsed against the door and tasting copper, hair tumbling over your shoulders and blood dripping from your nose. You don't know what to do, where to go, who to turn to, how to—
It's never happened in the middle of the day before, the creatures have never been so visible before, Harry told you last night that there was no way the things you were seeing could possibly be real and—
You understand, now, why the letter Luna left was addressed to you and only said she was sorry, over and over again. You think bitterly that she must have done this to you on purpose, that she wanted you to go mad the way she had. You wish, with so much rage that you break a tooth gnashing them together, that she were still here—you'd kill herself, if only you had the chance.
You don't leave—you can't leave—and soon it's four in the morning and the candles have burned low and you're curled in a ball on the floor with your hair splayed out like a halo of molten gold. You've choked on your blood, nearly drowned yourself in tears, but you know it's oh-four-hundred because that time on the clock always greets you like an old lover, caressing you in dangerous places. Four in the morning is when she died, when you were cursed, when your life went to hell; you are intimately acquainted with this darkness that creeps in and whispers delicately to your soul.
There is nothing for you to lose, it oozes into the crevices of your mind, because you had nothing to begin with.
Someone—Hermione, most likely—must have gone to Snape, because you heard his voice slither under the door as the sun went down. If you are waiting for someone to rescue you, you are in for a wait that will last your lifetime, he had hissed through the cracks. That is how Miss Lovegood went, waiting for a savior that would never come; you would do well to learn from her mistake.
Now you feel as if he never left, just stayed outside the door hissing is vitriol over and over and over, trying to break you as if you are not already broken enough. A Snorkak comes and rubs its crumpled horn almost tenderly on your calf and an invisible creature strokes its tiny hand down your face and you cry for your sanity as it slips through your fingers like so much Egyptian sand.
xx xx xx
You are sitting in Transfiguration when you see it, sitting jauntily on McGonagall's desk and looking right at you. It smiles when it catches your eye and you try not to focus on its pointy black teeth. Keep your eyes on the board, you tell yourself sternly. Memorize the wand movement to transfigure a fish to a squirrel, you demand of yourself.
You forcefully do not react when it gets up and saunters toward you, thin, veiny wings fluttering to help keep it upright as it walks on long, stick-thin legs. It sits next to you and runs bony fingers through your hair, licks your ear and coos at you like a lover. McGonagall is quite upset when you suddenly burst into hysterical sobs and she sends you to Madame Pomfrey; the Wrackspurt waggles its bone-fingers at you as you leave, and no one notices that your tears aren't tears at all. No one sees the red stain left on the desk when the Wrackspurt is finished lapping up your blood.
Madame Pomfrey forces a calming draft down your throat, followed swiftly by a Dreamless Sleep when you continue to sob about waking nightmares. As the matron's worried clucking echoes around your skull you catch sight of the bed across from you; something is peeking out from under it, and that something isn't human. You try to scream but can only whimper, and soon enough you are lost to the potions.
When you next wake with a start it has been days since you lost consciousness and it is dark in the Ward, four-in-the-morning dark, and you are surrounded by creatures. The Snorkak is with you, trotting around on its hands-for-hooves and butting its crumpled horn against your bed; there are Wrackspurts lounging on the Infirmary beds, clacking their bone-fingers and cooing pretty, dangerous words; a Nargle toddles up your bed, a grotesque mashup of infant and cat, and pats your cheek with suspiciously sticky hands. Blibbering Humdingers are flitting to-and-fro on their disfigured bat wings, a viscous liquid dripping from their deceptively adorable fairy-bodies. And there is the beast from under the bed, the beaver-like thing that is covered in a thin layer of human flesh, countless other creatures that Luna never gave you the names of and never told you about, but you see them—finally you see them all, you really understand why she was the way she was and that she was protecting everyone, keeping these creatures at bay, and she left the job to you, but—
…there is a small phial of something sinister on the bedside table that catches your eye and in a moment of clarity you realize that Professor Snape, of all people, understands; that he's taken it upon himself to relieve you of your burden, to be your Savior if you take the offer…
-but you've never been as much of a Gryffindor as your brothers.
The Nargle pats your face again as the Wrackspurts cackle and claw at the stone walls, the other creatures painting the Infirmary in blood. Something cold and smooth nudges at your lips and you part them invitingly, swallow the thick liquid as it's tipped onto your tongue, and hope Severus Snape will know how grateful you are as it burns holes in your esophagus. You listen to yourself gasp, nasty wet gurgles spilling from your lips, and close your eyes lightly as you welcome your fate.
Hello Ginevra, is whispered sweetly into your soul, and you feel Luna smile against your lips. Welcome home, my love, she breathes, and finally, you are set free.
xx xx xx
"We are mosaics—pieces of light, love, history, stars—glued together with magic and music and words." -Anita Krishan
So writing this, I wasn't sure what fandom it would belong in until I neared the middle. I still wasn't sure if it would turn out as being about Ronald or Ginevra until the very end. I'm quite pleased with this piece; obviously I took quite a few liberties with quite a few aspects of the Harry Potter series, but that's the beauty of artistic liberty. And yes, the spelling of the word "mourning" in the title is deliberate.
Tell me what you think? This is my first foray into writing the Harry Potter series and I'd love to hear your opinion, even if it you think it's awful.