She didn't know, would never know. And maybe that's what hurt the most. As
broken eyes stare across the Great Hall, only one destination is worth the
travel. Red locks obscure Ginny's vision as she tears her eyes from the
body she knows she'll never hold, the curled locks she knows she'll never
run through her fingertips. A single, perfect tear spills over her lid and
makes a salty river down her delicate features, playing connect the dots
among her scattered freckles. With a trembling cloak covered hand she wipes
it away furiously, and steals herself one final look of the girl she knows
she'll always love.
And as she leaves the Great Hall, she does so with confidence, a mask for the heart that has shattered inside. Its shards tearing her to pieces, as she bleeds another crystal tear. She tears open her drawer, anger fighting through the pain, and searches for the bundle of secrets she keeps well hidden from prying eyes.
The Lake, were Ginny had written many letters to Hermione, spilling out her emotions onto each delicate piece of parchment, before she folds them gently and tucks them into the pile. Just another that would never be seen. But she has spilled too much of herself onto the pages, so much that the effects were worse than Riddle's diary. She has mastered the art of pretending nothing's wrong, but inside she is empty. She's given every inch of her soul to Hermione, and had forgotten to save a piece for herself. She stands silent, grasping the bundle, tied by a ribbon so red Ginny imagines it so be the colour of her tattered heart. Winter is as ruthless as her unrequited love, it laps at her robes with ferocity, yet she's to far gone to notice the cold. With a softly spoken whisper, the last spell she would ever cast, she lights the bundle with a small flame and watches as the ashes are cast into the wind.
And she observes from now-empty eyes, her soul dance across the snow covered hills, chasing each tiny grey speck.
And as she leaves the Great Hall, she does so with confidence, a mask for the heart that has shattered inside. Its shards tearing her to pieces, as she bleeds another crystal tear. She tears open her drawer, anger fighting through the pain, and searches for the bundle of secrets she keeps well hidden from prying eyes.
The Lake, were Ginny had written many letters to Hermione, spilling out her emotions onto each delicate piece of parchment, before she folds them gently and tucks them into the pile. Just another that would never be seen. But she has spilled too much of herself onto the pages, so much that the effects were worse than Riddle's diary. She has mastered the art of pretending nothing's wrong, but inside she is empty. She's given every inch of her soul to Hermione, and had forgotten to save a piece for herself. She stands silent, grasping the bundle, tied by a ribbon so red Ginny imagines it so be the colour of her tattered heart. Winter is as ruthless as her unrequited love, it laps at her robes with ferocity, yet she's to far gone to notice the cold. With a softly spoken whisper, the last spell she would ever cast, she lights the bundle with a small flame and watches as the ashes are cast into the wind.
And she observes from now-empty eyes, her soul dance across the snow covered hills, chasing each tiny grey speck.