Ch1. The beginning

Every story has a beginning. Time itself is a beginning. From the formation of space and galaxies, to the formation of the universe, to the puddle that evolved into micro-organisms and from thus on into human and animal kind. Or from the first seven days that God created earth and the light and Adam and Eve. Every story has a beginning. From the first civilization of Rome to the twenty-first century, from the beginnings of science with Aristotle and Plato to Marie Curie and onto scientists of our day.

From the first literary writings on stone walls to the scriptures of the churches in England during the renaissance and enlightenment to the books we read everyday. With every beginning there is a middle. Where the story unravels until we can interpret what has happened and even predict what will happen through patterns of past experiences and advances though the story itself.

Until we eventually reach the end. Every beginning must have an end. As people and history. But it is always the end that reveals everything we either anticipated or were threatened by. But it is always the end that is bittersweet, it is always the end that have us on our toes, not able to read the last page because it is the last page. Like the end of a book. Where it is so good it should never end but it does and you hate how it is always bitter sweet.

It was the last morning of summer vacation and It was only two in the morning by his clock, but two in the morning isn't that long of a time till dawn. He looked out the window, black, as always at this time.

A few stars shone through the night sky, not many though. Dark clouds gathered by the moon, a bright haze encircling the spherical rock. He smiled, he was pleased by the night. It never judged like the day time did. Always showing your flaws and features. The night just showed a silhouette, like a shadow that's cast from the sun.

He was never judged by the night, the night was fair to him. He looked at the other bed occupying his room. Of course there was a lump in the bed. Another person. A snoring person, a happy person, a nonchalant person. A person who didn't care about who judged who, or the surroundings of them.

He slid easily out of bed. So as to not make a creaking sound when the springs came back up. He walked weightlessly across the floors so they wouldn't creak and howl. Plus he didn't need the attic ghost to wake everyone up.

He opened the window and felt a warm breeze flow through his hair. It was summer. The best part, not the hottest but certainly no where near cold. The blue curtains flowed in the quick gust of wind, the holes letting light shine through it from where the moths had eaten their fill. No one was awake, he knew that, he climbed out of the window and onto the second story roof.

Sitting on the hard shingles he felt at peace. As the wind showered through his long shaggy red hair he closed his green eyes and listened as the wind blew through his ears making a hollow screech. He was on the rooftop in just a tank top and gray boxers. He wasn't cold, he was never cold, he would wear the same thing in the middle of winter when England was at its coldest. He didn't care, because it was the night.

He didn't understand why he was the one picked out of the bunch, he had so many other siblings they could have chosen, but they chose him, he was the ugly one in their eyes. Or he thought they were. He didn't understand, his twin was just the same only he was handsome. He heaved a sigh and rested his head in his hands. His long hair in his eyes. His lips were chapped, he licked them, he shouldn't, he remembered what his mother always said. 'Like your lips when they're chapped, only leads to rashes and red bumps, and your lips will still be chapped.'

He smiled, his mother, he loved his mother. He still does. Why wouldn't he. She was the only one other than his twin, who did understand him. She is still around, He is thinking as if she is already dead. But she isn't not just yet. 'She will get better' he thinks, he hopes. He doesn't let anyone see his pain. It is almost like no one else sees it. Not even his twin can read his mind anymore. He ahs shut out everyone. And everyone ahs done the same to him. He remembered an old muggle move quote. 'Turn your back on the world and the world turns it back on you.' or something of that matter.

Ron doesn't see it, neither does Percy, Charlie, Bill, Dad, no one saw it. They talk about her like she inst living anymore. He hates them for it. He stopped talking to them for it. She will live, he will make sure she does, but they have already stopped talking about her. They do this to keep the pain away but it tightens the pain, and only he sees it.

Ginny, Ginny knows what he is feeling, but is too scared to talk about her mother. Is too scared for the reaction from her father, is too scared, she is only in her third year, he in his seventh. His last year, and what a horrible year, he thinks. A horrible, horrible year. But he is ready to face it.

'On the bright side, no howlers this year.' he chuckles to himself. 'Mum loves to send those damned things' He sighs again. 'Mum………mum' He lets a tear slid, but what Is a tear anymore, its not sadness, no, he has cried his tears of sadness. He is emotionless now. 'Why be happy, sad comes later to take it away' He didn't always think this way, oh no, he was once very, very happy. Like his brothers till is. But how can he be happy anymore. There is no such thing as happy anymore.

He listens to the wind, he thinks its talking to him. He wishes it was, someone to listen to him, to comfort him, no one comforts him, they don't baby him, he is after all eighteen now. Only his mother babied him. His mother. He couldn't stop thinking of her.

Nothing could help him. The wind brushed against his ears 'Suicide? No, not that, that will only bring more pain. More pain, they are already dealing with enough, no, not suicide.' he thought to himself as if he were responding to the wind. 'No, that wont help mum either, might worsen her, no not suicide, never suicide.' He looks at his watch, two thirty, 'Only thirty minutes?' he thinks to himself again. 'Damn'

He looks in the sky, he sees a few midnight flyers. Juvenile witches and wizards most likely. He hopes they don't get caught. He remembers when he and his brother would do stupid shit like that. But that was all before his mother's near fatal tragedy.

He doesn't like to think about the tragedy, just the memories of beforehand. He thinks about when he and his twin were little. When the whole family still lived under the same roof. He was about five, making Ron three and Ginny two. Bill and Charlie were at Hogwarts but that was okay since they were only first or second years.

He remembers playing with his mother in the kitchen, making bewitched cookies, with his twin. He remembers playing with Percy and his twin and bill and Charlie when he rode on his first broom. He fell face forward and broke his nose. Everybody laughed. Everyone laughed back then, back before his mother. Before… in the beginning.

Two forty. How time slows down when you don't want. He would have to wake up everyone, or at least make sure he is 'awake' by six. So in about three hours. He didn't want to sleep. He doesn't sleep anymore. Why would he. There was nothing to refresh himself for.

He tries to get his mind off of the tragedy and bull shit around him. He hates the drama. But it creeps up on him and surprises him every time it possibly can. He decides that it's time to go back inside, inside the hell hole, inside the drama, inside to where everything collapses for him, inside, where tomorrow begins. Where everything starts new but still feels old, old feelings reborn, old clothes packed, old everything. In the beginning… the beginning.