Name: Courtney Kathrys

Title: Desecration

E-mail: Faeriedeathhotmail.com

Summery: Ginny may have sorted out her love life, but often one when aspect goes right, another goes horribly, horribly wrong...

Notes: Don't ask... I have no idea where I came up with this. It takes place during the summer before Ginny's seventh year. If you're a stickler for detail, you think of a way Sirius came back.... that's not the center of this story.

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters are by JK Rowling. I only own the plot.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

De-sec-ra-tion: noun – the act of violating the sanctity of something of importance
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

She was studying for her NEWTS. Her room was silent, the small fireplace dark and empty. Books were tossed haphazardly on her bed, floor, desk, and dresser. Quills stained stray pieces of fabric with the remnants of ink left on their tips, and half eaten sugar quills stuck like a permanent sticking charm to parchment long since tossed away, crumbled and forgotten. The clock on her wall, charmed to wake her early enough to be prepared for her next day NEWTS, was pointing with force to 'Go to Bed, You Moronic Girl You.'

So she listened, and organized her books as much as she could; or enough to clear off her bed before changing into her nightdress and falling into the soft mattress of her small bed. Her eyes began to close, and the dreams were just beginning when a sudden fire roared in the empty grate, and a voice boomed "Ginny!"

What followed was only remembered by her in flashes of color, a wordless voice, a touch of a hand. Falling through the grate into St. Mungo's. Standing unnoticed in the hospital while redheads milled around. Being noticed. A shout. Hands in her hair, hands on her arms. Arms holding her tightly, arms holding her at length. Lips kissing her forehead, her cheek, lips moving in words she suddenly forgot. Tears that weren't hers on her cheeks, on the cheeks of everyone in the room. A bed lay in the furthest corner. White sheets. White walls. White floors. Red hair. Ample bosom. Warmth, comfort, clarity. Mum. Death. Denial. No, no, not true, can't be true. Mothers are steadfast, rocks in time of storms, and this was certainly a storm. Rocks were not allowed to crumble beneath her fingers. Won't believe it. Can't be true.

She refuses to cry; at least that's what she claims. The truth is that she can't cry that tears won't come. The patrons of the room have stolen all of her tears and cried them mercilessly. Everyone else was there when she was still alive; everyone else heard her last words as she was left unceremoniously on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place after a quick tip home for some essential needs. Her clock was something essential to her, and if home was unsafe, and she had to be forced to live at Grimmauld Place, then by God her clock would as well. Molly Weasley's clock hand had moved from Mortal Danger hours ago, and rested unmoving at Death.

So her daughter, her only close female companion in seventeen years sat outside the door to the hospital room, refusing to look. No one even dares to call her unfeeling. No one can presume to be in her place, not even her brothers who have lost a mother as well.

Please Outside Take Can Sirius Ginny You. She can't recall what order the words go in, or even who says them. It isn't important. Firm hands on her back, too low on her waist to be completely platonic, too natural and unthought-of to be completely new. No one notices. Neither do they.

The sun is bright, and she hates it for it. How dare the sun be bright while she feels so dark. Dark. Dark hair. Dark eyes starring into her own. Sirius. Oh how can she have forgotten Sirius? Beautiful, reckless, passionate Sirius. She can hear him talking, his low voice in her ear, but she can't bring herself to understand the words. She is in his arms and all she wants is to be held. Be anchored. She no longer wants to be that strong independent woman she has always sought. She no longer wants to be treated as a grown up, an adult. She wants to be a child. She wants to be young, and fragile, and selfish and impetuous. She wants to be rocked, and sang to with whispery kisses left on her forehead after being tucked into bed. She wants her brothers to defend her honor, shield her from the world. She no longer wants what Tom had done to her. No more pleasure and pain. No more destruction and death.

"Take care of me Sirius."

"Always my love."

And in those words are all they need. The I Love You's, the Be Mine's aren't sufficient for her. She wants to be taken care of, something she has never wanted or admitted before. He knows the gravity of her words. She knows the implications of his answer.

So they sit there in the bright cheery sunlight in the garden of St. Mungo's. He holds her in his arms, rocking her gently, kissing her forehead, and singing to her softly. She cries. Her shoulders shake as she lets out all of the tears she's been keeping in since she stopped crying for Tom. And for this moment the passer-byers see them not as Sirius Black the crazed Murder taking advantage of Author Weasley's Mourning Daughter. They see a heart broken girl crying in the arms of a man who loves her, and wishes his heart could have broken for her instead.

-=fin=-

Thanks to:

Terriah – Yey! Go me!