Title: Broken Silence
Author: Katy
Rating: PG13, nothing really happens that is high rated, it is just a bit
dark
Pairing: Ginny/Another girl, I don't think I'll tell you quite yet if you
don't mind.
Warnings: Dark, suicide and femslash. Gosh that is a hell of a lot of
warnings for my first fic.. What ever happened to me being a 'nice girl'?
What would my mother say now!
Disclaimer: If you are under the misapprehension that this could possibly
be mine then you are not only wrong but extremely misguided.
Author's Notes: As I said, this is my first ever finished fic. So I am a
tad nervous.
I need to give my undying thanks to Enismirdal for her wonderful expertise, she managed to correct my grammar, point out when I wasn't making any sense, make me actually write this and then actually let it out to annoy all you lot with! Not only that, but she also kisses me lots (so under- rated darling!) and eats Bailey's ice-cream with me when I feel sad.. So lots and lots of kisses for you, not like I wasn't going to kiss you anyway. but there we go. Can never kiss too much, that's my philosophy. Thanks sweetie
/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/
Sacrifice
Ginny searched, she did not know what it was that she looked for, not a cure; she knew she was too far gone for that. She didn't want revenge, she understood that it was unnecessary, the very fact she could exist was her revenge. She did not hunt for a weapon, well, not for one that would work against anyone else other than herself. She hunted with a fervour approaching insanity; she had to have something to live for, other than the vague sense of guilt that kept her hidden. Sleep, she realised, was only required by the weak. It could be exchanged for other things; of course it was an exchange both ways. It took power to keep her going, but it took power to stop with her knife too. Power she had.
At night then the dark ruled; this was, Ginny reasoned, the time it should rule. The nightmares of the innocent, feeding it as though it were some unnamed, ancient being, which was, she discovered, not so very far from the truth. She found that this was where her talent lay, she was entirely unremarkable in every other way, but here she could have been amazing. Hogwarts was now to her fraught with danger, the danger of discovery and expulsion; it provided her with the thrills that others got in foolish, childish pursuits. She lived her life well, she could control it. This was what in essence she was searching for, control. Not power, that was the lure of the weak. She read ancient texts and learnt new languages; she absorbed them all, and sometimes an attentive observer would have seen the sparks of power as she grew in strength.
Hatred ran through her veins of what she did not know, but it grew and ate her from the inside out. Her path began to open out in front of her, her knife began to dig deeper and she began to understand. She could no longer love, of that she was sure, but she could remember the idea of it and that [is] {was} what drove her. That is why she knew that control was not the ultimate, why she did not want to become another Lord to rise above them all. That was why she realised that she was all there was left. Her clarity could not be seen by the others, they were blinded by their petty lives. Ginny had determination. She saw that the only way to fight the dark was not to outshine it with a paltry and pathetic glimmer of light; even though that was far more poetic, she knew and she understood.
Sacrifice. That was what it was about; you could not get anything for nothing, and she knew now what she had to do. She was too damaged to succeed, the rot had set in, and she could feel it creeping, advancing and corrupting her. Taking her and making her into something that she was not. She would give all that she had left, that was the only way left to make amends. She was wrong and dark inside, and this would be her saving grace. The pain in her could no longer be contained blood was becoming her waking, dreaming life. But after all this she would sacrifice for the ultimate of outcomes. When he had been young and happy, before her heart had been destroyed, she remembered, though she could no longer recall the actual emotion that she had loved in an innocent and real way. And he was unaware that he would in the end die, and would be sacrificed. So the only alternative was for her to sacrifice herself.
The pain of existing was too great, she had tried and she was failing; so as not to fall she was paying higher and higher prices. The effort to live became a need to die, a physical need. It enveloped her and consumed all her strength; some nights she could not breathe. Her lungs would hold themselves closed in a desperate search for peace. Ginny had not cried since it all began, but now with this all-encompassing ache she could not hold back the heave of her chest as she struggled against tears she could not shed. There was no way she could continue; her mask was slipping.
I need to give my undying thanks to Enismirdal for her wonderful expertise, she managed to correct my grammar, point out when I wasn't making any sense, make me actually write this and then actually let it out to annoy all you lot with! Not only that, but she also kisses me lots (so under- rated darling!) and eats Bailey's ice-cream with me when I feel sad.. So lots and lots of kisses for you, not like I wasn't going to kiss you anyway. but there we go. Can never kiss too much, that's my philosophy. Thanks sweetie
/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/
Sacrifice
Ginny searched, she did not know what it was that she looked for, not a cure; she knew she was too far gone for that. She didn't want revenge, she understood that it was unnecessary, the very fact she could exist was her revenge. She did not hunt for a weapon, well, not for one that would work against anyone else other than herself. She hunted with a fervour approaching insanity; she had to have something to live for, other than the vague sense of guilt that kept her hidden. Sleep, she realised, was only required by the weak. It could be exchanged for other things; of course it was an exchange both ways. It took power to keep her going, but it took power to stop with her knife too. Power she had.
At night then the dark ruled; this was, Ginny reasoned, the time it should rule. The nightmares of the innocent, feeding it as though it were some unnamed, ancient being, which was, she discovered, not so very far from the truth. She found that this was where her talent lay, she was entirely unremarkable in every other way, but here she could have been amazing. Hogwarts was now to her fraught with danger, the danger of discovery and expulsion; it provided her with the thrills that others got in foolish, childish pursuits. She lived her life well, she could control it. This was what in essence she was searching for, control. Not power, that was the lure of the weak. She read ancient texts and learnt new languages; she absorbed them all, and sometimes an attentive observer would have seen the sparks of power as she grew in strength.
Hatred ran through her veins of what she did not know, but it grew and ate her from the inside out. Her path began to open out in front of her, her knife began to dig deeper and she began to understand. She could no longer love, of that she was sure, but she could remember the idea of it and that [is] {was} what drove her. That is why she knew that control was not the ultimate, why she did not want to become another Lord to rise above them all. That was why she realised that she was all there was left. Her clarity could not be seen by the others, they were blinded by their petty lives. Ginny had determination. She saw that the only way to fight the dark was not to outshine it with a paltry and pathetic glimmer of light; even though that was far more poetic, she knew and she understood.
Sacrifice. That was what it was about; you could not get anything for nothing, and she knew now what she had to do. She was too damaged to succeed, the rot had set in, and she could feel it creeping, advancing and corrupting her. Taking her and making her into something that she was not. She would give all that she had left, that was the only way left to make amends. She was wrong and dark inside, and this would be her saving grace. The pain in her could no longer be contained blood was becoming her waking, dreaming life. But after all this she would sacrifice for the ultimate of outcomes. When he had been young and happy, before her heart had been destroyed, she remembered, though she could no longer recall the actual emotion that she had loved in an innocent and real way. And he was unaware that he would in the end die, and would be sacrificed. So the only alternative was for her to sacrifice herself.
The pain of existing was too great, she had tried and she was failing; so as not to fall she was paying higher and higher prices. The effort to live became a need to die, a physical need. It enveloped her and consumed all her strength; some nights she could not breathe. Her lungs would hold themselves closed in a desperate search for peace. Ginny had not cried since it all began, but now with this all-encompassing ache she could not hold back the heave of her chest as she struggled against tears she could not shed. There was no way she could continue; her mask was slipping.
