Disclaimer: I don't own.
...
melodrama
Ever since you told me about Him, I haven't been able to write a thing. I put my quill down on the page, but the words i'm trying to form into sentences just refuse to fit together. Like a puzzle missing a few too many pieces.
The Professors have noticed - They've told me my standard appears to be dropping, is there anything I'd like to talk about?
No thankyou, Professor Flitwick, there's nothing the matter.
But of course, there is. I just... Can't talk about it. I can't believe it still hurts even now -- it's been so long! --- but it does.
...
You were so completely happy that day. I could tell by the way even your chocolate-brown eyes smiled instead of just your mouth, and the way your usually clumsy feet danced as if they simply couldn't bear to stay still for a moment.
You couldn't hide it from me for long.. We didn't really ever feel the need to keep secrets from one another. Eventually you bubbled over with your fantastic news - That handsome Ravenclaw boy had finally asked you out.
If you'll excuse the melodrama for one moment (I know how much you hate people who exaggerate and dramatise these things)... My stomach felt as though it would drop out of my body, at the exact same time the bottom dropped out of my world.
...
I can't write my essays for Potions Class any more, or my poems. You always loved my poetry. I never wanted to show them to anyone but you. They were special, private, just for us. And now I can't write them at all. My mind is filled with nothing but you and.. that boy. And I just hate it, you know I do.
...
I choked down the inevitable tears -- more drama, to you, I suppose -- and told you how completely happy I was for you. And that I thought you two would make a lovely couple, that you absolutely perfect for one another.
I don't think you truly believed that I was really pleased for you -- I could never lie to you, you know that -- But you were far too excited about Him, I suppose, to press the matter. At the time, I was rather relieved.
But now, I almost wish you had.
...
I used to write all the time. I loved it with a passion, and my little stories were almost as important as my poems.
The only stories I can dream up now are crazy; all about Him and you.
I tell myself that He is using you, that you are trying to make me jealous, that you only chose him because you're scared of me rejecting you. All, I know, are as fictional as my one story about the talking hippogriff, the one that we laughed over in front of the fire together one night just before the Yule Ball.. I wonder if you remember that evening, and if it brings a smile to your face like it does to mine.
We never spend time like that any more, and I haven't written any more about.. what was the hippogriff's name? Oh yes. Herbert.
I can't write my stories any more.
...
That day, I sought refuge from my swirling thoughts outdoors. I stepped heavily on the fresh snow, the crunching noise of it beneath my feet was blocking out the sound of my screaming mind. You came outside, too, and called out to me, asked me to walk with you. I pretended not to hear.
I came back hours later, cold and damp and no less confused or hurt. I saw you in the Common Room, but I ignored you, hurrying upstairs to my dormitory.
...
I wish I could think straight again, I wish my thoughts would be quiet for just a few moments, I wish I could hurriedly scribble stories on scraps of parchment again, I wish I could compose poems to show you, but you're my writer's block, and I can never seem to make you move. You're always there, always affecting me, and I just can't seem to make it stop.
...
Later that night, you came upstairs to my dormitory. You sat on the bed and stared at me with those dark eyes. You asked what was wrong, had you done something to upset me?
I said that you had done nothing wrong.
If you hadn't done anything, you said in a hurt tone, then why was I acting as though you had?
I closed my eyes. I didn't want to talk about it.
I didn't want to talk about anything lately, it seemed, you said, voice raised.
...
My parents keep sending me owls, wondering why I never write to them any more. What can I say? That a girl has stolen the part of me that wants to hear my quill scratching the parchment, the part that loves stringing words together? That I'm too consumed with silf-pity to want to write a thing? Or that my thoughts are so tangled that I simply cannot write anything.
...
I don't see why you care, I snapped, you had Him to talk to now.
What has he got to do with this?
Nothing, I lied. He had everything to do with it, of course. Everything.
You sighed, I'm sorry you don't seem to be able to trust me any more, and slowly got up and left the room.
I wanted to call for you to come back.
...
Maybe it's guilt that won't let me write any more. I treated you badly and didn't tell you why. I wish I could take it back, but I know it's too late now.
...
We haven't talked as much since then. It has never been the same. I can't pretend that everything is like it used to be... I'm a writer, not an actress -- At least, I was a writer. You've always known that. And I'm too old to play make-believe games.
...
I need to break through this writer's block. There's only one way I can think how..
'Dear Ginny,
Ever since you told me about Michael..'
...
fin.
...
melodrama
Ever since you told me about Him, I haven't been able to write a thing. I put my quill down on the page, but the words i'm trying to form into sentences just refuse to fit together. Like a puzzle missing a few too many pieces.
The Professors have noticed - They've told me my standard appears to be dropping, is there anything I'd like to talk about?
No thankyou, Professor Flitwick, there's nothing the matter.
But of course, there is. I just... Can't talk about it. I can't believe it still hurts even now -- it's been so long! --- but it does.
...
You were so completely happy that day. I could tell by the way even your chocolate-brown eyes smiled instead of just your mouth, and the way your usually clumsy feet danced as if they simply couldn't bear to stay still for a moment.
You couldn't hide it from me for long.. We didn't really ever feel the need to keep secrets from one another. Eventually you bubbled over with your fantastic news - That handsome Ravenclaw boy had finally asked you out.
If you'll excuse the melodrama for one moment (I know how much you hate people who exaggerate and dramatise these things)... My stomach felt as though it would drop out of my body, at the exact same time the bottom dropped out of my world.
...
I can't write my essays for Potions Class any more, or my poems. You always loved my poetry. I never wanted to show them to anyone but you. They were special, private, just for us. And now I can't write them at all. My mind is filled with nothing but you and.. that boy. And I just hate it, you know I do.
...
I choked down the inevitable tears -- more drama, to you, I suppose -- and told you how completely happy I was for you. And that I thought you two would make a lovely couple, that you absolutely perfect for one another.
I don't think you truly believed that I was really pleased for you -- I could never lie to you, you know that -- But you were far too excited about Him, I suppose, to press the matter. At the time, I was rather relieved.
But now, I almost wish you had.
...
I used to write all the time. I loved it with a passion, and my little stories were almost as important as my poems.
The only stories I can dream up now are crazy; all about Him and you.
I tell myself that He is using you, that you are trying to make me jealous, that you only chose him because you're scared of me rejecting you. All, I know, are as fictional as my one story about the talking hippogriff, the one that we laughed over in front of the fire together one night just before the Yule Ball.. I wonder if you remember that evening, and if it brings a smile to your face like it does to mine.
We never spend time like that any more, and I haven't written any more about.. what was the hippogriff's name? Oh yes. Herbert.
I can't write my stories any more.
...
That day, I sought refuge from my swirling thoughts outdoors. I stepped heavily on the fresh snow, the crunching noise of it beneath my feet was blocking out the sound of my screaming mind. You came outside, too, and called out to me, asked me to walk with you. I pretended not to hear.
I came back hours later, cold and damp and no less confused or hurt. I saw you in the Common Room, but I ignored you, hurrying upstairs to my dormitory.
...
I wish I could think straight again, I wish my thoughts would be quiet for just a few moments, I wish I could hurriedly scribble stories on scraps of parchment again, I wish I could compose poems to show you, but you're my writer's block, and I can never seem to make you move. You're always there, always affecting me, and I just can't seem to make it stop.
...
Later that night, you came upstairs to my dormitory. You sat on the bed and stared at me with those dark eyes. You asked what was wrong, had you done something to upset me?
I said that you had done nothing wrong.
If you hadn't done anything, you said in a hurt tone, then why was I acting as though you had?
I closed my eyes. I didn't want to talk about it.
I didn't want to talk about anything lately, it seemed, you said, voice raised.
...
My parents keep sending me owls, wondering why I never write to them any more. What can I say? That a girl has stolen the part of me that wants to hear my quill scratching the parchment, the part that loves stringing words together? That I'm too consumed with silf-pity to want to write a thing? Or that my thoughts are so tangled that I simply cannot write anything.
...
I don't see why you care, I snapped, you had Him to talk to now.
What has he got to do with this?
Nothing, I lied. He had everything to do with it, of course. Everything.
You sighed, I'm sorry you don't seem to be able to trust me any more, and slowly got up and left the room.
I wanted to call for you to come back.
...
Maybe it's guilt that won't let me write any more. I treated you badly and didn't tell you why. I wish I could take it back, but I know it's too late now.
...
We haven't talked as much since then. It has never been the same. I can't pretend that everything is like it used to be... I'm a writer, not an actress -- At least, I was a writer. You've always known that. And I'm too old to play make-believe games.
...
I need to break through this writer's block. There's only one way I can think how..
'Dear Ginny,
Ever since you told me about Michael..'
...
fin.