COATLAXOPEUH
DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, JK Rowling does.
SUMMARY: "This is not her world, she knows, for she has seen how Muggles live, and is this any different?" Ginny POV.
SERIES: Fifth in 'The Ceremony of Innocence'.
PAIRING: Severus Snape/Sirius Black for the series, Ginny Weasley/Draco Malfoy, Ginny Weasley/Tom Riddle.
RATING: R for underage m/f sex.
ARCHIVE: Nope.
Revised 16 May 2004.
NOTES:
Coatlaxopeuh (pronounced cuatla-supe): the Nahuatl word for "the one who has dominance over serpents". The snake-skirt goddess of Mexico was eventually metamorphosed into the Virgin of Guadalupe to suit the needs of the RC church.
Obsidian: a black, volcanic glass-like rock that splits to give a convex surface.
General kudos to 'La Frontera' (Anzaldua) and 'Gender Trouble' (Butler).
(YEAR FIVE: JANUARY)
Sometimes, when no one is looking, she steals a hand into her pocket and fingers a smooth glass bauble. Though she knows it is sinful and wicked, its glossy surface comforts her. Obsidian; obsidianus lapis; the mirror of the snake. It is where He resides.
Nobody notices her now. She is small and quiet, the beast within her trammelled, gagged, purged from her soul. She is in control; no remnant of Him here. No snake in her breast.
Oh, but there is...
She reads about snakes, now, every night when her Housemates are asleep. She reads red-clothed books in the dark, and her eyes glow hotly – or maybe you just think so, because you want it to be so. You want to be normal... – because there is magic here.
Her eyes glow, or, she thinks they do, so she hides them under her hands. She covers mirrors when she sees them, to stop her soul escaping. She reads books on snakes and women and waits for her Time, to dip fingers in the bright brown blood. Don't worry, Ginnydear, her mother says. When it's your Time, I'll teach you the charm to take care of the mess, Ginnydear; I'll do it when it's your Time.
The words run together, all in a rush. Ginnydear, Ginnydear, you mustn't, Ginnydear. Be a dear, Ginnydear, do as your told. Be a darling, Ginnydear, write home more often. Just to make sure you're well, dear, Ginnydear, just to make sure you're safe.
Don't walk alone, Ginnydear, or the snake might get you. He might take you away, Ginnydear, and have his wicked way. You wouldn't want that, would you, Ginnydear? Not to fall on your back on that cold stone, feel the blood seeping from you, Ginnydear, you musn't.
Her mother says something, maybe some words, maybe others. It doesn't matter. She hears them all like a waterfall in her head, like a slither across cold stone. Ginnydear, Ginnydear, never walk alone, Ginnydear, don't stay in the same room with strangers, Ginnydear, don't waste your time in diaries, Ginnydear, remember what happened?
No, mum, no, I don't remember, but she doesn't say it. Doesn't want to be told, doesn't want to hear it once more. It wasn't like that, not what you think, mum, it was awful, but it wasn't like that.
Because you liked it, Ginnydear, you liked it...
Oh, no, she had not. No, not to lose herself through fear and youth. Just a little girl, she had been, and her innocence had seeped out on that cold stone floor those many months in His embrace, and no one had known. Just a little girl, and look what she had done.
Just think what you could do now, Ginnydear, when you are no longer dear. Just think.
She does not think of it. It is all she can do to keep a small glass bauble in her pocket to stroke when she is frightened.
Don't make me angry, she wants to say when she sees the boys push and shove each other in the corridor. Pale boy, dark boy, many boys with red hair like her own. Don't make me angry, but she doesn't. Ginnydear, Ginnydear, because everyone still calls her Ginnydear. Still pets her hair, or pulls it, or puts beetles in it while she's not looking at them. Ginnydear, all except one, who still calls her Miss Weasley in those same low tones. No pity from him, no, she feels her chest tighten whenever he is around. No pity in those black eyes.
She wraps fingers around the glossy ball in her pocket, fingertip over where the pupil would be if it were His eye. Why does he look at you like that, Ginnydear? Why does he look at you like you're not dear? He is speaking, words words words in some sort of order, all coming together in her mind to form Ginnydear, Ginnydear, Ginnydear, like scales over stone. She beats a tattoo on the tabletop and waits for him to turn around.
Pay attention, Miss Weasley, he says, and Ginnydear, Ginnydear, she smiles. Pay attention, he says once more, before deciding she's mocking him. Pay attention after class, Miss Weasley, in detention, Miss Weasley, scrubbing cauldrons, Miss Weasley, and she's still smiling when the class is over and they're alone in the room.
Her fingers are still wrapped around the bauble in her pocket, eye unseeing against black cloth. I see things, Professor, she says, but cannot push the words past her lips.
She scrubs cauldrons and walks away unsatisfied, fingers tapping on that unseeing eye and wondering why he would not look at her.
It is not my Time, she decides, later, when the prying eyes have gone. It is not my Time. That is why he treats me so - it's because when you're ripe, full, like a peach, Ginnydear, like the egg before the birth, he will see his death between your legs.
She looks in the mirror and watches her breasts fill out and wonders when her Time is. When she will see the life she could have made spill on to that stone floor and wonder, if she had been but a little older, if He a little more real, what terrible things he could have done to her.
It's enough what he did do, her mother thinks but does not say, no, will never say. It's enough what that monster did without interfering with my little baby, Ginnydear, spoiling her for others.
The yoke of respectability, of society, tightens on her neck. This is not her world, she knows, for she has seen how Muggles live, and is this any different? Her arms are still wrapped in cloth; her belly covered. Her breasts are still hidden under gauze and cotton and lace, and all her friends will talk about is boys boys boysboysboysboysboys, like boys and boys' toys and serpents in transparent scales are all that exist, and be careful, Ginnydear, or that serpent will ruin you, spoil you, that terrible serpent between their legs.
Her mother sat her down one night and explained it all, about boys and men and what girls were to do for children. It won't be so terrible, Ginnydear, her mother laughed, seeing her blank face and mistaking it for fear. It's not terrible, don't be afraid, you'll want to.
An almost imperceptible pause, then, no, but even if you want to, you mustn't, do you understand? Ah, Ginnydear, you're a good girl.
She does not say anything.
That night, she held the lapis against her belly and wished to form a child without the need of serpents.
My body is not my prison, she says to the mirror. If she splits the lapis open, two small mirrors will be formed, just large enough to see her eyes. If she splits that bauble open, if she looks inside, it is not your prison, Ginnydear, it is the soul that imprisons her.
I am a wild thing, and my soul is my prison. It traps my flesh. It forces the stink of mortality, of incorporeality on me, on my body, my body that it has formed to keep its prisoner here.
When she woke up one morning, things had changed. The waiting did not make her any more prepared for the change, not for the blood or for the spells her Housemates immediately showed her. No, nor for the titters of the older girls or her Housemistress's kind words. Ginnydear, Ginnydear, you're a woman now, Ginnydear, let me show you what to do, let me show you how you must live from now on.
Her arms are still covered, her ankles hidden under white socks, but they still know. They know. Walking into class that morning, they knew. Everyone looked at her; girls because they could see the change; boys because they couldn't. Everyone looked at her, because you're a woman now, Ginnydear, and think what a woman could do, Ginnydear, Ginnydear, and she's still Ginnydear.
She washed her hands clean, scrubbing her nails red-raw while her Housemistress explained all the wonderful things she'd be able to do now, Ginnydear.
That night, she put the lapis in her mouth. She did not swallow.
A taste was enough.
There is something wrong with Miss Weasley.
I beg your pardon?
Minerva. There is something wrong with Miss Weasley. She is different.
Well! I should think so. Or did you miss her menarche? Really, a little attention wouldn't be remiss -
Minerva.
Yes?
There is something wrong with Miss Weasley.
There is a beast inside me, she wants to say, but cannot form the words. He – a snake, too, if only in name – waits patiently, because he knows that she will agree. It is what is expected. Hardly a fairytale, but it is what is expected. Everyone knows it, even her brothers, myriad red-headed boys resigned to the fate of accepting a snake into their midst. There are so few with good blood, she can hear his father say, so very few. This girl's family may be objectionable, but she is now of age. Of age, Draco, she will bear strong, pure-blooded children soon. And her parents may not agree, may not want this, but it will happen anyway, just for a little while.
She will agree. It is what is expected.
He spends the moments waiting for her to say it thinking of what she will look like without that uniform on, though it may never come to that. Her breasts, he thinks, and cannot form any other thought for the mere idea stumps him. Her breasts, he tries again, then moves on to something he thinks he will understand, to her naked thighs, so much like his own.
She is smiling now, for his eyes linger on her hips and he imagines that terrible place between her legs from whence power comes.
Do you think your soul would trap me? She wonders. Do you think yourself strong enough? That pitiful serpent you would have me worship as the bringer of life, when we know, we know, we know he bows and slithers on the ground before me. Would you have me praise its paleness, the delicacy of its skin, the life it could bring? Yes, oh virile one, oh spoiled, stupid, pampered little child, slave to your soul and to that scrap of flesh the world revolves around, is this what you would try to conquer me with?
There is darkness beside her as she turns. Black eyes are watching them, measuring her, fixed on the black eye she holds in her hand.
I have to know, the boy says suddenly. He can feel the darkness approaching and is angry that what he wants might be taken away. He can't have her, so he'll stop me from having her, he thinks spitefully, and she cannot help but smile. This is what your soul would have me become, she wants to shout, and the eye laughs. This is what you would bind me to, this pettiness, worship the pale worm, the maleness of you, wondering if another would take away your pleasure out of spite. As if I could belong to you!
Minerva. There is something very wrong with Ginny Weasley.
Dark eyes are fixed on her now, and she is laughing, laughing, opening up her palm to see the vein through the stone, black as spilled blood. It is her Time, her power in bloom, and she knows that those eyes would stop her, if she lets them. They'd stop her, both of them, call her Ginnydear and strap her down back inside her body, Ginnydear, Ginnydear, Ginnydear, until the end of her days when beetles nest in her hair and flies feast on her flesh, Ginnydear, Ginnydear, locked by her soul when she could be so much more.
The boy steps forward and plants awkward lips against hers, tongue pushing clumsily into her mouth. She can feel her teacher's gaze, her brother's gaze, the eyes of all those walking in, fixed on her, hear them chanting, whorewhorewhorewhore slytherinwhore, words without end. She puts her arms around the boy's neck, hands open in supplication, eyes staring. The lapis is hot in her palm, flesh on flesh.
You almost beat Him. Think what you could do with this little one.
If she splits it open and looks inside, what will she see?
Come on, little snake...
fin