(Bites lip guiltily) Okay, you know when I said I'd never ever write angst again? Remember? Oh well... I lied. I wanted to put this up, not because I particularly like it, but I did love writing it. It was good fun. Anyways, I'm sorry if you don't like this. I promise I am also working on my other, fluffier lighthearted fics.
Anyways, I hope you enjoy this. Please press that lovely review button and tell me what you think!
There are days when she does not feel anything. She goes through her daily business with a happy, well-adjusted facade, a soft smile that hides what she truly feels. I still remember, she wants to tell them. How it felt to be so hollow, so hollow and empty. But she doesn't.
There are days when she sees him, and that little nagging ache comes back. Back from days when she was a silly young girl who fantasized about a pretty house with a garden and a white picket fence. Back in the days when she had blushed madly in his mere presence, when she had spent hours in front of the mirror, tugging on that one stray lock of fiery hair, wishing that she didn't have so many freckles, that her robes weren't so worn and frayed. She remembers the day she came down for breakfast and saw him. She had been so flustered, so distracted that she had promptly landed her elbow in the butter dish. Oh, but she was so mortified back then. She spent days wondering what he thought of her, berating herself for being so clumsy and awkward.
These days, it doesn't matter anymore.
She stopped her silly infatuation when she had met Tom. Yes, Tom had taught her so much, ripped away her innocence and exposed her to evil, pure evil that she had never thought possible. Sometimes she looks at her blissfully naïve classmates, laughing as they chatter over trivial matters. When they pick up the newspaper and see news of the Dark Lord's return, news of innocent people dying, they frown momentarily. But they will never understand, and she knows this. She watches them as they glance over the newspaper uncomprehendingly, briefly feeling- if you could even call it feeling –some remorse, some sadness for a moment. Then all is forgotten as they go back to their blissful ignorance, laughing away in their comfortable little lives as they think that it could never happen to them.
She sees the ones who do understand, and her mouth twists into a bitter frown. They see the reports of deaths- always more deaths – and darkness fills their eyes. She can see the anguish, the sorrow as the memories come to them, sometimes of a family member, other times of a close friend or classmate. Death.
They are so sad, so jaded, and she finds herself screaming inwardly with outrage as she watched them. No child should have to know death so personally. No child should have to look evil right in the eye. No child should have to be betrayed and have their innocence stripped away from them.
Yet she remembers so vividly.
No Tom, no, I didn't do all that did I? Am I bad Tom? How come I don't remember anymore? What's happening to me...?
Don't worry, Ginny. I'll take care of you. You do trust me, don't you?
Of course, Tom. You're my best friend.
How naïve she had been. She had blindly trusted in her treasured journal, scrawled all her girlish thoughts into the book and delighted as the replies came back.
Tom cared.
She stood in the girl's bathroom, breathing erratic as she stared at her hands. Blood red. It was paint, only paint. She frantically rubbed her hands in the sink, tears coursing down her cheeks as the water, tainted crimson, drained down the sink. Her hands... she stared at them in horror. They were still tainted red. They were still dirty.
What have I done?
She had feared for her sanity, hidden her secret from everyone else in fear that they would find out and tell her that she was bad.
Oh Tom, what have I done? I'm not a bad person, am I? Tell me I'm not bad... Oh Mum will be so disappointed in me. Tom, I don't want to be bad.
Don't worry Ginny. Trust me. Just close your eyes...
And she had. She had closed her eyes, and the darkness and enveloped her each and every time.
Sometimes she remembers too much, and suddenly, she feels like the little girl she once was. The little girl who clung desperately to her diary, writing down her fears and worries to the only true friend she had. The little girl who had been so afraid that she was bad.
I'm not bad, am I? I didn't know, I didn't know he was evil.
But then she remembers, remembers the boy who saved her from Tom, and somehow that helps. He saved me, she sometimes muses, and then hopes, perhaps childishly for a moment that he will save her again.
She's wandering the halls again. She thought she had forgotten, that it would go away with time and become just another bad memory, but with the war raging on now, she cannot help but think of Tom. And thinking about him makes her want to cry every time.
I'm not bad, am I?
But she will be strong and has been strong. The others do not notice the nights when she stays awake, clutching the covers to her chin, afraid of going to sleep. She hates the dreams the most, hates to see him, hates to hear his taunting voice as he tells her how stupid she was, how everyone would be so disappointed in her...
She vows, more than ever, that she will fight this battle, because it is her battle. She wants to get it over with, to put the past behind her, because no matter how much she tries, when he's still out there, she doesn't feel safe. Not at the Burrow, and not even under the watchful gaze of Dumbledore. Except, that nagging voice of hers, that silly childish conscience returns, when you're with him.
And she does feel safe when she's with him; a fact that makes her blush and spend more time in front of the mirror than necessary. And sometimes, she thinks, he is a welcome distraction. He makes her feel like an innocent little girl again, and when he smiles at her, she forgets that she ever did anything wrong.
It is night, and she walks down the stairs and into the Common Room. It is one of those nights again; the nights when she can hear Tom's voice mock her. She tiredly sits in one of the plush sofas, staring into the fire as she wills herself to stay awake.
"Ginny."
She jumps slightly and looks over. He is standing there, his black hair unruly as always, his glasses slightly askew, and for some reason, she finds herself softly smiling, genuinely smiling.
"Couldn't sleep?"
She shakes her head mutely, biting her lip as she turns away from him. He sits down beside her and they fall into a comfortable silence for several moments.
"I'm afraid I'll have nightmares," she finally whispers, unsure of why she would tell him that.
He looks down at her and replies, after a moment, quite evenly, "Me too."
Slowly, he puts an arm around her, and she leans against him awkwardly, deciding after a moment that maybe it's not so awkward after all. They sit, and in the lonely darkness, and all around them the war rages on, and though they do not forget about it (they never could), for a moment, it seems far away.
"I'll have to go in the morning," he suddenly says, and she suddenly feels sick as the reality of the war comes back to her with sickening clarity.
She knows what he is talking about, knows about the seventh year students who are being recruited this year to fight. Too many grown wizards have fallen, and now the children must defend all that is good. She unconsciously shudders as she briefly remembers the first battle that Harry, Ron and Hermione came home from. Harry had promptly shut himself in a room, hiding away rather than showing his true emotions. Ron and Hermione however, had collapsed before her very eyes. She remembered being afraid, oh so afraid as they crumpled to the floor, heaving sobs, choking out the words with anguish and guilt and self-loathing. Ginny, I killed someone.
She takes his hand in hers, and squeezes, trying to calm herself. "War is horrible," she bursts out bitterly, hissing with vehemence. "I hate it. I hate all of this."
He nods in assent, slowly, tiredly."I hate Tom," she finally says, her voice lowering to a whisper. "I can't stand what he's doing to our whole world. I'm," she voices the decision that she made long ago, the decision that she never told to Ron for fear that he would explode and lock her up forever, "I'm going with you, Harry."
He scoots backward in shock, shaking his head as he stares at her imploringly. "Don't, Ginny. You can't; it's dangerous. And besides, you're a sixth year..."
He does not finish, because at that moment, she cuts him off, glaring fiercely.
"I can, and I will, Harry. You're risking your life, and you're only a year older than me. So don't tell me any of that nonsense," she finishes, crossing her arms over her chest as she dares him to challenge her.
"Don't," he says again, pleadingly.
She looks into his eyes, willing him to understand, willing him to realize that she needs to do this in order to go on with life. "I have to," she responds softly.
He opens his mouth to respond, but something flickers in his gaze as he looks at her, and he closes his mouth again because he understands. They settle back into the couch, his arm around her again as her head rests against his shoulder.
"But Ginny," he says, more to himself than to her. "You're too good, too pure to be fighting."
She smiles at his choice of words, because when he says it, she believes him.
I'm good; I'm pure.
And hours later, as the fire slowly burns out and the sun begins to rise, two figures still remain seated in the Gryffindor Common Room. Because in these silent moments, these times of perfect tranquility and calm, the inner turmoil of these two students is temporarily soothed.
And if you look close enough, you'll realize that they are both peacefully sleeping, his arms wrapped around her slender shoulders, and their lips are turned upwards in small smiles.
The nightmares are gone for now.
The End.