Butterflies and Flowers
He stared at the hair fanned out over the wet stone floor of the Chamber of Secrets, vibrant red contrasting on black. The girl's skin was very pale now, ghostly white as her life drained from her. She would not give in, she would not surrender, and she would not sleep and allow death to come easily. He hardly felt remorse for the girl, no, after all, she had not lived enough to truly miss it or effect anyone much, had she? He told himself no, she hadn't. He had not been loved as a child nor had he ever felt the slightest affection for a child, until now. Listening to this pathetic little girl squabble on in messy handwriting about homework and her teasing brothers and the wonderful Harry Potter, he had almost grown fond of her. As much as he loathed Gryffindor house, he had to admire the child's bravery as she lay here before him, dying.
Her honey-brown eyes found his and he realized that she was too weak to cry anymore. Her jaw was clenched tightly and her smooth white brow was creased with determination. If she had nothing else, and indeed he thought she had very little, she did have willpower. He knelt down beside her and she asked him the same question she had been asking all along, "Why, Tom, I don't understand? I thought you were my friend, I thought you loved me!"
"Shhh…" he stroked her red hair with his solidifying fingers, "Shhh, Ginny, it'll all be over soon, just close your eyes and go to sleep."
"No!" she cried stubbornly, trying to jerk away from his hand, "Tell me why! Don't you love me?"
He sighed wearily, merely speaking about love was exhausting, why did people put so much faith in it? Tom looked straight in Ginny's eyes, "Do you remember about the butterflies? The butterflies and the flowers?"
Ginny forced her face to remain sullen, but she nodded feebly.
"What did I tell you about the butterflies and the flowers, Ginny, what did I say?" Tom asked her and Ginny avoided looking at the handsome face out of weakness and tried to ignore the words. His tone became more demanding, "What did I say, Ginny?"
"You said nothing, Tom, you were writing."
"Don't be stupid, Ginny." He ordered and she felt a tear burn a path through the grime on her cheek. His voice became gentler, "What did I say?"
"You said that butterflies and flowers are beautiful because they only live for a few days. You said that they are fragile, as all lovely things are. You told me that butterflies are perfect, and yet something as small as a speck of dust or a drop of dew can kill them. You told me that flowers are perfect, and yet too much sun, or too much rain, or slight imperfections in soil can kill them." Ginny recited in a shaky voice, memorized word-for-word because she had made Tom tell her again and again, "You said that…their beauty cannot last…forever, like a sunset must eventually…become night, their beauty must cease…Yet it does not fade, it dies quickly without…suffering…"
"What about the Muggles? What did I say they did with butterflies and flowers?" Tom inquired.
Ginny swallowed and it seemed to take all her strength, "Th-the Muggles…they admire the delicate…delicate b-beauty…of the flowers and the … b-butterflies … and they don't … want it to ... c-cease…so…they…preserve it…"
"How do they preserve it, Ginny?" Tom asked, watching in secret delight as the girl's eyelids repeatedly sank over her eyes and she forced them open again. She would not last much longer.
"They…they c-cut…the stems…" Ginny said, her voice weak and still, "Th-they…hang them…b-by the stems and…let them…d-dry…"
"Yes, Ginny." Tom said, nodding his handsome head, growing realer by the moment, "And what about the butterflies?"
She looked up at him, her eyes pleading and scared like a dog that was kicked too frequently and too hard. Ginny whispered, her pale, dry lips begging, "P-please, Tom…I d-don't want t-to…t-to talk…about…the…b-butterflies…p-please, Tom…c-can't you…make…th-the p-pain…g-go away…?"
"Yes, the pain will go away if you just close your eyes and go to sleep." He explained again.
"W-will…will it…hurt…w-when I…wake up…?" she asked, her strength dwindling quickly.
He shook his head, "The pain will go away forever if you sleep."
She considered it for a moment and then the fire lit again in her eyes, "No! No, Tom, no! I won't! D-don't…don't y-you…l-love…l-love …l-love…"
"Ginny, tell me about the butterflies or else go to sleep." He interrupted.
"Tom…I d-don't…want to…to talk about the…b-butter…b-butterflies…" she whined.
"How do Muggles preserve the pristine and perfect beauty of a butterfly, Ginny?" he asked, his voice stern and his black eyes intent on her.
She let her eyelids droop, "They…put them into…into j-jars…let them…s-suffocate…so they…th-they don't get…d-damaged…" he remembered how she had wept when he had first told her this and for a moment he felt very guilty but it passed quickly. She compelled her eyes to open again and met his, "Pl-please, Tom…m-make th-the…p-pain…make the pain…s-st-stop…!"
"Ginny, tell me all of it."
"Th-the…b-butterfl-flies…d-don't feel any…p-pain…wh-when they die…" Ginny was crying frailly now, "T-Tom!"
"Ginny, shhh…" he stroked her face with real hands now, wiping away the tears, leaving slight wispy trails where his hands had been, "Shhh…you don't have to feel any pain either! Just go to sleep!" She tried to glare at him, but she couldn't. As much as she wanted to defy him and stay conscious and not give in to the pain that gnawed and tore at every inch of her, her eyes kept closing again and again, "Ginny…shhh…go to sleep and dream…dream about the flowers and the butterflies…"
Tom swore he heard the crash of stones and voices, but it all sounded very far away, perhaps a classroom, as she nodded, agreeing at last and said, her eyes clinging to his, "T-Tom…I'm…I'm n-not…not g-going to…w-wake up…am I?" her voice was calm although the words were anxious and frightened.
He shook his head, "No, you're not."
She accepted his answer, gulping in fear, "W-will it…h-hurt?"
He shook his head again, still petting her red hair and cheeks, "It will be like the butterflies." She smiled weakly, "Now dream."
Her eyelashes fluttered closed at last, like the wings of a butterfly perching lightly on a flower and Tom found himself filled with the absurd hope that it really would be painless. As he had already noticed, he had begun to care for the girl and as he stared at her peaceful, serene, dying face, he hoped that she would find solace in the dreams he had sincerely wished her.