Caged 2
by: Isa
PG-13
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise either belongs to J.K. Rowling or to Massive Attack.
A.N.- Thanks to all my reviewers. I wasn't sure about going on with this story. Your wonderful reviews made up my mind.
Special thanks to SnapeJuice for her invaluable help and advice.
Summary: The war is over. Unlike in fairytales, good did not win. Just a cell like any other. A caged Ginny wanting to set her captor Draco free.
*
"I try to believe what I feel these days
It makes life much easier for me
It's hard to decide what is real these days
When things look so dizzy to me."
Sly- Massive Attack
*
I wake up.
The greyness of the cell slowly comes to focus.
Time has passed. I don't know how long it has been since I came to this cell. Since he turned and left.
The smell of sand dust fills my senses whenever I think of time.
Food comes. But not at regular intervals that would allow me to mark the length in-between meals.
*
I wake up. It seems I fell asleep again. The greyness of the cell slowly comes to focus.
I lay on my usual spot; in the middle of the cell, on the floor covered by the sheets I took from the small cot in the corner.
I spend my time between sleep and wakefulness.
*
I wake up.
When I sleep I can hear the voices. Their voices. Telling me to run. That we lost. That there's no hope left. Run.
Images come to mind.
Battle images all have the same subdued colours. A vortex of greys and browns. Sad greens and melancholy blues all mixing together with the fine dust that rises from the ground and falls from crumbling buildings. Red is the only burst of colour here and there. But unlike in paintings, red does not make the characters lively.
I open my eyes. I yawn. The greyness comes to focus.
"SAVE YOURSELF!"
I think it was George who said it. But under the blood and the grime I can't be sure. I'm not sure of anything now.
I can't remember their faces. They are all a blur of white skin, freckles and ginger hair. I try to recall distinct features and I fail.
I roll in frustration and the sheets crumple, leaving my right side on the cold floor.
When I sleep I hear their voices. So I lay on the cold floor.
Deep sleep does not come when I feel the dungeon's cold seeping into my bones. Cramping my muscles.
I don't smooth the sheets back to their original position. The cold almost burns me and the pain makes the images disappear. The voices fall silent.
*
I wake up.
The greyness of the cell slowly comes to focus.
I watch the shadows play across the ceiling, the walls, the bars, the floor. Engulfing me in darkness. Engulfing me in unbearable light.
Silence.
Has the world outside ceased to exist?
Wouldn't there be some noise?
The faint buzz that can be heard wherever there are people living their day-to-day lives, an unnoticed mimicry of the mindless lives of insects.
Silence.
*
I wake up.
I can't remember my face.
Do I still have a face?
Panic takes hold of me as I urgently trace the contours of my face with my hands.
It's there.
I almost sigh in relief until I realize I don't need it anymore. I don't need a face.
There is no one to see it. What is its purpose now?
*
I wake up.
I thought I heard the ping of metal on metal.
I'm imagining things again.
Ping.
I turn my head towards the sound. I turn so quickly that I feel the play of muscles and straining tendons in my neck.
It's a cufflink touching one of the metal bars.
The thought that a cufflink is unlikely to be hovering in the air forces me to widen my field of vision.
Didn't these actions come naturally before?
It seems that when you have time to think you have to remind yourself to blink, order your ribcage to expand and your lungs to fill.
My vision widens more and more to encompass the whole figure.
It's him.
I startle. My heels kick the floor to push me back, away, but my arms fail and I fall on my elbows.
"I'm just looking at you. Nothing else."
I would never have thought those words could be anything if not reassuring.
But he manages to make them empty of significance.
It's the tired tone on his voice, like he's merely reciting lines from a paper that is not being held by his hands.
It's the bored look on his face, like he had been staring at me for some time and was displeased with what he saw.
"It's not fear. It's surprise."
I don't know why I need to assure him he did nothing wrong.
I'm doing it again.
Assuming too much. Assuming it would worry him how his actions make me feel.
When he also doesn't care.
He shrugs.
He is studying me. Trying to find something. I don't know what.
He searches and searches and finally gives up.
Shaking his head in frustration.
Silver hair shining and somehow making itself noticeable amidst the greyness that surrounds us.
"I can't remember my face."
I don't know why I tell him. I feel like crying.
He doesn't look surprised.
Doesn't smirk.
Doesn't tell me that my face is the least of my concerns right now.
"The rest of your family is dead."
He says it like he's making a remark about the time. Sand dust fills my nostrils. Fills my lungs. I order my ribcage to expand.
"I killed a few of your brothers myself."
His hand casually caresses one of the bars.
I imagine those well manicured fingers tracing my skin.
"I can't remember my face." I repeat.
He moves away from the bars.
His steel eyes are filled with disgust.
"You have brown eyes."
He tells me as if it were a crime.
I touch my closed eyelids trying to feel the brownness with my fingertips.
"There's nothing more common than brown eyes."
Disbelief is in his voice. He seems to be struggling with the idea of why anyone would have brown eyes. Like they were a choice I made because I didn't have enough sense to choose wisely. Choose another colour.
I don't answer him. I feel too guilty to answer him.
I feel like apologising. Apologising for having brown eyes when he is near me.
"I will come back." And he turns away to leave.
I sit up abruptly.
"Why?"
He turns to face me. Surprised that brown eyes dare to question him, looking at him filled with curiosity.
He smiles. Not a smirk. A real smile.
"Toy-like people make me boy-like."
And then he leaves.
But I don't want him to go.
by: Isa
PG-13
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise either belongs to J.K. Rowling or to Massive Attack.
A.N.- Thanks to all my reviewers. I wasn't sure about going on with this story. Your wonderful reviews made up my mind.
Special thanks to SnapeJuice for her invaluable help and advice.
Summary: The war is over. Unlike in fairytales, good did not win. Just a cell like any other. A caged Ginny wanting to set her captor Draco free.
*
"I try to believe what I feel these days
It makes life much easier for me
It's hard to decide what is real these days
When things look so dizzy to me."
Sly- Massive Attack
*
I wake up.
The greyness of the cell slowly comes to focus.
Time has passed. I don't know how long it has been since I came to this cell. Since he turned and left.
The smell of sand dust fills my senses whenever I think of time.
Food comes. But not at regular intervals that would allow me to mark the length in-between meals.
*
I wake up. It seems I fell asleep again. The greyness of the cell slowly comes to focus.
I lay on my usual spot; in the middle of the cell, on the floor covered by the sheets I took from the small cot in the corner.
I spend my time between sleep and wakefulness.
*
I wake up.
When I sleep I can hear the voices. Their voices. Telling me to run. That we lost. That there's no hope left. Run.
Images come to mind.
Battle images all have the same subdued colours. A vortex of greys and browns. Sad greens and melancholy blues all mixing together with the fine dust that rises from the ground and falls from crumbling buildings. Red is the only burst of colour here and there. But unlike in paintings, red does not make the characters lively.
I open my eyes. I yawn. The greyness comes to focus.
"SAVE YOURSELF!"
I think it was George who said it. But under the blood and the grime I can't be sure. I'm not sure of anything now.
I can't remember their faces. They are all a blur of white skin, freckles and ginger hair. I try to recall distinct features and I fail.
I roll in frustration and the sheets crumple, leaving my right side on the cold floor.
When I sleep I hear their voices. So I lay on the cold floor.
Deep sleep does not come when I feel the dungeon's cold seeping into my bones. Cramping my muscles.
I don't smooth the sheets back to their original position. The cold almost burns me and the pain makes the images disappear. The voices fall silent.
*
I wake up.
The greyness of the cell slowly comes to focus.
I watch the shadows play across the ceiling, the walls, the bars, the floor. Engulfing me in darkness. Engulfing me in unbearable light.
Silence.
Has the world outside ceased to exist?
Wouldn't there be some noise?
The faint buzz that can be heard wherever there are people living their day-to-day lives, an unnoticed mimicry of the mindless lives of insects.
Silence.
*
I wake up.
I can't remember my face.
Do I still have a face?
Panic takes hold of me as I urgently trace the contours of my face with my hands.
It's there.
I almost sigh in relief until I realize I don't need it anymore. I don't need a face.
There is no one to see it. What is its purpose now?
*
I wake up.
I thought I heard the ping of metal on metal.
I'm imagining things again.
Ping.
I turn my head towards the sound. I turn so quickly that I feel the play of muscles and straining tendons in my neck.
It's a cufflink touching one of the metal bars.
The thought that a cufflink is unlikely to be hovering in the air forces me to widen my field of vision.
Didn't these actions come naturally before?
It seems that when you have time to think you have to remind yourself to blink, order your ribcage to expand and your lungs to fill.
My vision widens more and more to encompass the whole figure.
It's him.
I startle. My heels kick the floor to push me back, away, but my arms fail and I fall on my elbows.
"I'm just looking at you. Nothing else."
I would never have thought those words could be anything if not reassuring.
But he manages to make them empty of significance.
It's the tired tone on his voice, like he's merely reciting lines from a paper that is not being held by his hands.
It's the bored look on his face, like he had been staring at me for some time and was displeased with what he saw.
"It's not fear. It's surprise."
I don't know why I need to assure him he did nothing wrong.
I'm doing it again.
Assuming too much. Assuming it would worry him how his actions make me feel.
When he also doesn't care.
He shrugs.
He is studying me. Trying to find something. I don't know what.
He searches and searches and finally gives up.
Shaking his head in frustration.
Silver hair shining and somehow making itself noticeable amidst the greyness that surrounds us.
"I can't remember my face."
I don't know why I tell him. I feel like crying.
He doesn't look surprised.
Doesn't smirk.
Doesn't tell me that my face is the least of my concerns right now.
"The rest of your family is dead."
He says it like he's making a remark about the time. Sand dust fills my nostrils. Fills my lungs. I order my ribcage to expand.
"I killed a few of your brothers myself."
His hand casually caresses one of the bars.
I imagine those well manicured fingers tracing my skin.
"I can't remember my face." I repeat.
He moves away from the bars.
His steel eyes are filled with disgust.
"You have brown eyes."
He tells me as if it were a crime.
I touch my closed eyelids trying to feel the brownness with my fingertips.
"There's nothing more common than brown eyes."
Disbelief is in his voice. He seems to be struggling with the idea of why anyone would have brown eyes. Like they were a choice I made because I didn't have enough sense to choose wisely. Choose another colour.
I don't answer him. I feel too guilty to answer him.
I feel like apologising. Apologising for having brown eyes when he is near me.
"I will come back." And he turns away to leave.
I sit up abruptly.
"Why?"
He turns to face me. Surprised that brown eyes dare to question him, looking at him filled with curiosity.
He smiles. Not a smirk. A real smile.
"Toy-like people make me boy-like."
And then he leaves.
But I don't want him to go.