Act Two: Happy Feet- Sexual Love
"Cosa leggerai?
Con che libro affascini il tuo cuore?
E se ti perderai
Nel labirinto di un amaro autore?"
-Paolo Conte "Happy Feet"
(Translation: What will you read? / With what book will you enchant your heart? // And what if you lose yourself / in the maze of an embittered author?)
Her life, she thinks, has been a molasses slow, infuriating plod to the realization that she does not like herself. Today that seems especially apparent. She sits ten meters up in the oak tree, the wind swaying her unwashed hair, contemplating whether it would be worth the trouble to fall out, maybe break her neck, and see what would happen. Would it hurt, she wonders? Would she die instantly, or would there be a moment where she would see her broken body and see the black blood stain the ground? Her father and brothers and Harry and Dean would insist that it was accident, of that she was sure. She must've slipped… She's climbed that tree so many times, I can't believe she fell…Maybe the limb shifted…Her shoe must've been loose… Her mother, however, and Hermione… They would suspect, but they wouldn't speak of it. They'd wonder forever, but never be entirely certain.
Sometimes she wonders why she is a Griffindor. She is far from brave. She remembers the first time after the Chamber that Harry came. She saw him, saw the dark hair, and her hands went cold as ice. She spent a terrible, maddening breakfast, face aflame and stomach churning. When it was finally over she ran to her room and shuddered for hours, soaked with a cold sweat. Whenever she looked at him that summer, she remembered. Felt the hands again, sweeping over her body, the shivery soft voice caressing her ear. She rages with disgust at herself as she recalls how the first time she had liked it, urged him on. It had been freedom, revolting, violating freedom. Every time she remembered it, in those unbearable summers after the Chamber, she would run to her bedroom, lock the door, and throw the covers over her head, trying to forget how he had praised her body, how she had glowed under his fingertips, how he forced it when she realized what he was, how she almost longed for his intruding, intoxicating tongue to touch her just one more time.
For years after the Chamber, she would watch Harry from afar. Her friends noticed, Hermione noticed, her brothers noticed that she stared transfixedly at him. So she pretended. She would squeal rapturously about his eyes to her friends, hiding what she really wanted to see. She would blush girlishly, innocently when Hermione gave her knowing looks. She would cry worthless tears when her brothers teased her about him, trying to forget how she wondered whom he thought of when he was alone, his sheets twisted wet and hot beneath him. She hated it, hated pretending, hated lying, hated feeling dirty.
The sound of voices below startles her and makes her wildly grasp the tree. Cursing her balance, she looks down and sees a shock of red, a cloud of brown, and withdraws into the leaves. Ron and Hermione... Peering through the foliage, she watches them together. It has been obvious to everyone that they have been seeing each other, despite their foolish attempts at secrecy. Her mother has been happy. She's always loved Hermione (excepting when she thought she was a slut, courtesy of Rita Skeeter) and is happy that Ron loves her too. Only Ginny is unhappy. She does not know why.
"Harry's in a bad way, Ron, I just know it," Hermione was saying tearfully, wringing her hands. "He's taking S-sirius's death hard."
"Of course he is, Mione. D'you expect him to be perfectly fine after he loses someone that close to him," asks Ron wearily, slumping against the tree trunk. The hot wind rustles the dry leaves and tears one loose. It flies away, over the hill and out of sight.
"No, but…" She pauses and searches for words. "He- he's written me, told me that Dumbledore has forbade him from receiving the Prophet. He's scared that something's happening, that Dumbledore thinks he isn't ready to handle bad news or that he'll fly off the handle if he hears anything."
"Well, he's right, isn't he?"
"Harry or Dumbledore?"
"Both." Ron pulls Hermione down into his lap. They sit together in silence, Ron absently winding a strand of her hair around his finger.
"Ron…" she says after a moment. "Ron, what if he does hear how many people are dying? What if he doesn't? Oh God, Ron…" She looks down fearfully, biting her lip. "I… I'm afraid he's going to kill himself."
Ron is silent. Ginny leans down further into the leaves, watching even more intently. Hermione's hair catches the afternoon sun and flashes, momentarily blinding.
"Ron…" Hermione says very softly, studying his face. "I know that Percy's…death… was hard… But you can't feel guilty about it... Please, please…"
"He was no longer my brother," Ron proclaims, but his voice cracks. He turns his head away and Ginny knows that he is crying. She scowls. Percy's suicide was a foolish thing. After all, Father and Mother would've accepted him back into the family after he'd been fired, and even Ron would follow their example eventually. Even though she never would. Never. She remembered how he doubted her, how he thought Harry had bribed her to make a story of being kidnapped by You-Know-Who. She hates- hated- him because his suspicion allowed small doubts to creep into her mind and overflow into her dreams. What she would have done at that age, if Harry had asked her, she wonders… What would she do now?
Hermione has wrapped her slim, white arms around Ron, whispering something into his ear too softly to catch from above. He abruptly pulls her close and kisses her. "Ron…" Ginny hears her murmur. "Ron…I'm scared…I'm so scared…" And a strangled sob into Ron's neck. He makes a strange sound in his throat, something low and frightened. His hands, Ginny notices, are very white as they work up into Hermione's baggy t-shirt.
Ginny feels an inexplicable stab of jealousy. Why? She wonders. Is it because she longs for such intimacy? Because Dean's hands seem to be tethered within two inches of his pockets? Because she is lonely? Or maybe, she thinks, neck prickling as she watches Hermione's flushed red lips, because she wishes Ron's hands were hers? Ginny tries to tear her eyes away from the other girl's chest that has become exposed, silently and hysterically scolding herself. All you ever think about is sex… You're so dirty… It's wrong, it's disgusting… But she cannot stop. She watches the awkward movements of flesh on flesh, lets the strange, animal sounds and moans float up to her through the leaves as she sobs with fear and self-recrimination and desire and disgust.
A/N: Okay. This is chapter was a bit explicit, more so than I usually write, so I feel must explain. It was an attempt to delve into the mind of someone who has been sexually abused. I think that more went on in COS than we know about from the books, or maybe that was even meant to happen in the books (if that makes sense). It fits with Tom Riddles generally f***ed up, evil personality. I put myself in Ginny's proverbial shoes and read some psychological articles about abused children. When some (only some) hit puberty, the general gist is, they feel that all sexual longing is bad or dirty yet can't escape the wages of coming maturity. This can result in suicidal thoughts. Ginny wants sex on one level, and therefore has many relationships (as shown in OotP). However she is frightened and disgusted on another, so cannot initiate anything herself. She hates these conflicting feelings and starts to hate herself for having them. So. That's my little story about this chapter, if it disturbed anyone.