A Good Old Fashioned Fariy Tale
A Good Old Fashioned Fairy Tale
Author's Note: This is my first story I've ever.. er published, so please review and tell me what you think. I don't always write in this kind of old fashioned way, but just bear with me and please stick with it at least till the next chapter. Thanks, and remember review, review, review!! Oh yeah, and of course these characters do not belong to me, but to J. K. Rowling, one of the geniuses of storytelling.
A Good Old Fashioned Fairy Tale Chapter 1: Midnight Passions She stood there, next to his bed, breathing heavily, the knife clenched in her sweaty hand. She let her eyelids flutter shut and she forced herself to take several calming breaths. He looked so peaceful, laying there, dark hair falling gracefully across his forehead. His thick dark lashes lying in stark contrast against his pale skin.

As she stood there, staring at him, the voices echoed frantically inside her head, darting around like little whispers on a wind. Do it, do it now, or you will never be free to return to us. They flickered across her consciousness, over and over, until she could bear it no longer and she took a shaky step forward. Another tentative step. And another. And another, until she was standing right beside him.

But as she gazed down at him, she shook her head fiercely, she couldn't do it. She just couldn't do it. But she had to. She forced herself to remember the pain he'd caused her. The pain he'd instilled upon her all ready broken heart. She forced herself to remember the laughter in his eyes when he'd looked at her. No, not Ginny, at her. The girl he'd fallen in love with. Even inside her head, each word dripped with cynicism. How could he lover her? Why doesn't he love me, she thought desperately. But that time had passed, she'd had her chance, and now it was time to choose once more.

He deserves it; she forced herself to think bitterly. But it was no use, the knife continued to hang uselessly at her side. Closing her eyes once more, she fought the internal struggle. Biting her lip in frustration, she felt herself break the skin. A small trickle of blood hung on her lip. A sob sprang from her throat, and she bent over, clutching her stomach. But as she doubled over, the drop of blood trembled for a moment, then fell. Grasping her mouth in horror, she watched it fall to Harry's forehead, where it lay intermingling with his scar.

Lip curled in disgust, she flung the dagger to the ground where it lay, slightly iridescent as it caught a silvery moonbeam that had slipped in through the casement. She felt her whole body tremble and she let out a slight sigh. With that sigh, escaped her last bit of strength and she crumpled to the ground in a paroxysm of misery. Auburn hair spilled over her shoulders, slightly entangled with the yards and yards of silk that spread about her on the ground. She buried her face in her hands and knelt there, cowering beneath his window.

There she sat, bathed in a silvery puddle of moonlight, for what seemed an eternity, until out of the silence came a small noise. It could have been the brittle fingers of the trees outside, tapping gently against the windowpane, but she could not be sure. Her head jerked up and she sat there, very still, muscles taught, ears straining to hear the slightest noise.

And for several heartbeats, there was nothing. Until, out of the darkness, she heard it again. Frightened, she reached out, just beyond the chunk of light on the floor, and feeling the cool, smooth handle of the knife, she curled her eager fingers around it.

She then rose, shivering only slightly, knife carefully poised. She crept towards his bed, and peered cautiously past the thick velvet hangings to stare into his face. What she saw made her heart freeze for several seconds. It was Harry who was speaking; he was the one making the noises. But then, the fear passed, as quickly as it had come, as she realized he was only murmuring in his sleep.

"Stop," he mumbled. She tried to squeak a reply, but her voice seemed to have gotten lost on the way to her mouth, and no sound came out. "Wait-no! Don't - I…" he flopped over, calling desperately, his hand clawing at the pillow. She wanted to run to him, to comfort him, to whisper soothing things to his sleeping form. She took a step forward, but then recoiled, remembering in a rush that he did not love her and she had to kill him. You have to kill him now, she thought fiercely. And swallowing her feelings, with a determination she did not feel, she rushed forward, and made to plunge the knife into his breast. But before the blade could reach his skin, he jerked violently, and burst out, "Ginny!"

She froze, the knife hovering inches above him, her hand quaking violently. "What did you say?" She breathed. He twitched again, his face contorted in agony, "Ginny!"

With a jolt, Ginny hurled the knife through the window, shattering the perfect image of the moon hanging over the lake, and with it, shattering the stillness of the night. She turned to dive out the window and plunge to her death, but all her strength had left her and her breath burst from her lungs as she toppled to the floor, unconscious before she hit the ground.