Disclaimer: Harry Potter, of course, belongs to J.K. Rowling. Duh. I don't really understand the point of these disclaimers anyway; this is FanFiction.net for Pete's sake! Everyone knows perfectly well I don't own it! And if someone really really wanted to sue, a disclaimer probably wouldn't do diddley squat. But it seems the proper thing to do. So I don't own Ginny, which is very unfortunate, because she's one of my favorite characters…anyway. Sorry for rambling.
Additionally, the song "I'm going down," which is liberally quoted in this piece, belongs to Mary J. Blige and probably some company. On with the story.
And The Rain
I am not going to cry. I refuse. I used to silently weep in my bed at night, searching for a cooler spot on the pillow. I hated it; I hated the vulnerability he brought out of me.
I used to love him with the fire of a true redhead, completely and utterly. He, unwittingly perhaps, controlled my tears. A single word, a quick glance, a hesitant smile could raise my spirits the whole day. I'd be wreathed in smiles until the dark pall of night settled over me again, reminding me that he would never love me the same way. I was hopelessly in love with him, but I was still 'little sister.' People knew me as 'that youngest Weasley.' Hardly anyone knew my first name, or even cared to.
Until Tom.
Looking back, I can see what a scared, naïve child I was, to put so much trust in the rough parchment. It was safer that way. Paper couldn't hurt me the way Harry could. Tom cared about me. He asked how my day was, and when I'd cry to him about Harry, he'd be sympathetic and understanding and a little curious about Harry. When I asked him why, he said he wanted to know more about the boy who so had my heart.
I was safe with Tom.
Later, when the whole story had spilled out like blood, I knew my confidence that Tom loved me was really what brought about all the horror. And yet, in a sense, Tom did help me with Harry – he came to my rescue. Much as I resented being the damsel in distress, my knight was anything but typical.
I could barely face him after that. I felt guilty. Harry had nearly died, and it would all have been my fault. I still wake some nights, bathed in sweat, memories of the deathly cold Chamber and snakes and hard stone flooding my head. And Tom.
Tom's always in my nightmares.
'…sleep don't come easy…'
But that whole mess somehow united Harry and me – we both had experienced to the fullest Voldemort's staggering capacity for evil. Sometimes, here at Grimmauld Place, I hear him pacing outside his door, and I know how it is to be plagued with nightmares. Time doesn't oblige to slow down for love, and the fire I constantly felt slowly fizzled to a low burn, still smoldering, but not as piercing. I can act normally around him now, and my elbow, mercifully, has stayed relatively unbuttered. But there are still some days when I feel the old longing rising up, almost too much to stand, but I refuse to cry.
'…look what you've done to me…'
I've shed enough tears.
But leaning on the window sill, a steady, monotonous drizzle sliding down the pane, my eyes began to sting anyway.
'…and the sound
of the rain
against
my window pane
is slowly,
slowly drivin'
me insane
boy
I´m goin'down…'
'…I can´t stop
these tears falling
from my eyes…'
It was here that Harry found me, almost at midnight, sleeping on the couch. I hadn't cried fitfully, only a slow melt of saltwater sliding down my cheeks, much like the rain still coming down outside.
He hadn't awoken me, just sat by my side until I stirred. Still half asleep, I stumbled up to bed, his arm supporting me. Nothing seemed different. He was helping out his best friend's little sister.
But had I looked outside, I would've seen that a patch of night had broken through the stormy gray.
I would have seen the stars scattered in the dark, embedded in the deep black blanket, each shining pinprick achingly perfect.
'…my whole world's upside down.'
[The End]