Disclaimer: I am only autumn. Then I will thrive and flourish, but after that, I must wither. I cannot own anything, cannot own something so pure.
a/n: The Remus and Hermione is not a large part of the story but it is there, nonetheless, although not in the way one may think.
leafsgurl- it is rather difficult. he won't- hold- still!
Monikka: Sense is not always a good thing, dear.
Herentas: Even your reviews sound better than the tale and I know those weren't betad.
Angela- Wait no longer, I am back to being faithfully a writer.
Riddled-Slytherin-Detailed, but illogical.
Kittybro- Tragedy's imperfections are quite perfect, no?
Eowyns elixure- I shall indeed. bows
Pippinfan25- Oh no, not you again. (snickers)
Spasstik Gurl- Unfortunate is one of my favourites, too. The phrase, however, is made from two very common words that I strung together for the song a while ago, for I wrote the song long before the story, which I came up with before I discovered this site. Sadly, I have discovered that I am not alone in this comparison, and not everyone is so kind about it, as you reminded me.
Ebony Moonlight- It's astounding how you use everyday, trial, trivial words like 'braided' and 'dark' in your reviews and make them take on a knew and better meaning that I would like to snatch up and put into a lantern to light my way during the hard, crisp autumn nights when I wander. I like to read your reviews because you always point out the things I am quite proud of that most people seem to overlook. You have an eye for detail that far surpasses my own. Thank you.
One night you will die
That is not tonight
You won't see the day
But that's not now, I pray
That's not now I pray.
When you gamble with the devil, you lose. What you lose, I don't know. Your life? Maybe. Your virginity? Perhaps. Your soul? That sounds more like it.
When you step into a circle of toadstools and dance with the faeries, it's said that you'll be stuck there till dawn.
I tried to save Ginny from Tom Riddle....I tried to stop her from dancing with the Devil.
In doing so I fear I shall bring about her ruin.
I can just picture it now; the Prince of Darkness, of Night and the New Moon, polished black shoes and black tuxedo, his hair blown into his eyes, his gaze downcast and his milk-white face unreadable. In his hands, a single white rose. He'd twiddle it like a baton in his fingertips, managing never to prick his fingers on the thorns.
Then the Swan Princess with her Full Moon complexion will hurry in, her dress barely on and urge me to help her. "Hurry!", she'll say.
My fingers will fumble as I lace up the bodice. She'll stand in front of a mirror and I behind her shall see her reflection and mine, pale as well.
She'll have stars in her eyes and cherry-red lips, and I'll tug at the laces, pulling until my fingers bleed.
"Tighter!" she'll insist, and I'll pull harder and tie it up.
She'll spin around in her glory, her layered skirts and petticoats frothing like seafoam. I'll take out a poisoned comb and pick carefully through her autumn hair.
She'll slip into her white silk dancing shoes and run out breathlessly, eager to join him and transform from Late Autumn to Winter. she used to love late autumn, I 'll think mournfully, but now she rushes to greet him. How I hate him for doing this to her.
"Wait," I'll call, and pick up a black rose from the table. Before she takes it and tucks it into her hair, I've pricked my finger on the thorn. How she manages to not pierce her skin, I'll never know. The black rose, she holds, is Tom, and only she may hold him without pain, I suppose.
She'll rush out and I'll follow; I'm her last Lady-In-Waiting, for he has killed all the others.
She'll leap into his arms and he'll clasp her fingers with his left hand, his right dropping the rose and brushing her hair out of her eyes. The rose becomes untangled from her hair and falls beside his and his hand will come to rest lightly on her waist. The fingers on her left hand will run through his hair and settle on his neck, and he'll nod at he coldly to start the music.
Picking up my own skirts I'll quickly run to the roses and pick them up. At my touch they transform into a viola and a bow- the black one is the bow and the white one, representing Ginny, is the white rose, Ginny. None of those thorns touched me. I smiled briefly, knowing she still loved me, for she would not harm me. Naturally, Ginny'd make the music y Tom's commands, like the viola and bow. I lift them and play- but roses don't lose their thorns and my finger's clutching the bow are soon bleeding. I look at Tom, who looks away, towards Ginny. He does not forgive.
Tom and Ginny are dancing to the sickly sweet music I create. Clouds and mist and sparkles surround the fair crescent moon against the lush black crushed velvet sky.
When the soft light of the moon illuminates his eyes, there are unshed tears in them. I almost drop the roses in shock. Ginny's tears slide down her face freely, and suddenly Tom kneels on one knee in front of her. The clouds part and light falls on the pair of them as I watch in envy from my place in the shadows, unnoticed.
Tom extracts a black silk scarf from his jacket and waves it in front of his hand, pulling from the air a diamond ring, twinkling, glittering, reflected in Ginny's hopeful eyes.
He'll put it on her finger and I stare at her in fear. But-no, Ginny!- she accepts, holding her hand up before her face, staring at it in awe.
Then I'll know to play a lilting, happy tune so that they can dance quickly around and around and beat a circle into the grass like the children of night that they are. And I will open my mouth, my voice gone, and I will reach for Ginny, helpless as my hands go through her. I can picture myself in my minds' eyes...all that they can hear is my music, so I must keep playing. I will stand. I will see the end before it comes. I will alone survive it as Ginny falls. And I will do nothing.
Oh, Ginny...forgive me!