owl post

(a harry potter story)

Ginny was so happy to be friends with Corey again, but it came with serious consequences.

Seamus had stumbled into her empty dormitory and screamed about Corey, but did what he normally did and then kissed her, muttering how much he loved her as he went.

She had sat on her bed, pulling her socks on—or attempting to, but her hands shook so tremendously that she ended up flinging it across the room, erupting into ugly, choking cries. She hated herself. She hated herself for falling into Seamus's trap. She hated herself for being helpless.

But at least she had Corey back.

After about a week of being friends with Corey, her days had perked up. Plus, the Hogsmeade trip was only two days away. She was counting down the days til she could actually meet Harry.

Seamus was ruining her life, though.

She needed to get rid of him. She needed to tell someone, but Seamus was everywhere—when she tried to tell Angie about what was going on, Seamus slithered his arm around her. When she attempted to talk to Corey, Seamus pecked her cheek. When she had stopped in the hall to chance a word with Ron, Seamus had run his fingers through her hair.

Nothing worked.

What disgusted her was that he lived with it. He showed up to class smiling and bubbly, a mask of serenity and happiness painted on his face. Perhaps he was serene and happy—perhaps he could actually be happy while hurting Ginny so terribly.

Harry was her escape, though.

She could talk to him in Hogsmeade. She could finally pour out her troubles to him. She could finally get things off her chest.

A letter arrived on the day before her Hogsmeade trip. Ginny felt panic strike her, seeing as Harry stated that he would not be writing her before the face-to-face meeting.

Dear Ginerva,

Oh my god, I'm so sorry.

I can't make it to Hogsmeade tomorrow.

I can't do it.

I'm sorry.

I'm such a mistake, aren't I? I'm sure you were excited. I was excited. God I hate myself. I hate myself.

Don't go looking for me. I can't make it. I'm so sorry. You hate me, don't you? I hate me. I hate me a lot.

I would hate me.

I'm drunk and I'm pissed. I'm just a mistake. I'm so sorry, Ginerva. You deserve a better pen-pal. God, I make so many promises. I promise myself not to drink and I drink. I promise myself not to cut and I cut. I promise myself not to scream and I scream. I'm sorry, Ginerva.

I'm just really sorry.

First, there was numbness.

Ginny felt as though she had been struck in the chest. She couldn't breathe. She forgot how to breathe. Her lungs were collapsing. Her heart was the only thing that reminded her she was alive, and it clattered around her ribcage. Blood pounded in her ears.

Then, there was absolute pandemonium.

Ginny wanted to scream, but she couldn't. She wasn't even mad about Hogsmeade—disappointed, yes, but not mad—it was that Harry was hurting himself and that he hated himself and THAT WAS HOW SHE WAS FEELING.

SHE UNDERSTOOD WHAT WAS GOING ON

SHE GOT IT COMPLETELY

Words could not describe how Ginny felt. It was as though lightning was crackling around inside of her. She was full of this strange rush to see Harry.

She needed to see him.

Her breath hitched in her throat and she felt like running a mile. She got what he was thinking. Finally, the moment not of sympathy, but empathy. She was excited, in a very, very depressing sort of way, and it electrified her.

She had to scream, she had to scream.

Dear Harry,

I GET WHAT YOU'RE GOING THROUGH, DON'T YOU SEE?

I can't explain through a simple, twenty-six character alphabet because even the most beautiful combinations of these paints cannot create the picture I want to show you.

Please, Harry, we need to meet. We need to.

I understand you.

PLEASE DO NOT CUT HARRY I CAN'T LOSE YOU.

I love you so much, Harry. You're one of my absolute best friends. You know so much about me. I love you so much, Harry, you're my best friend. You can't leave me.

DO NOT CUT

Come to me. I'll be there instead of the pain. Let me help. When you feel like cutting, write to me—or just write my name over and over again. Just do whatever you need to—whatever to keep you from hurting your wonderful self

xx,

Ginny

Harry took a deep breath.

It felt so good to be free of Durmstrang.

Yes.

He had broken out.

He was so glad Ginerva hadn't gotten what he had accidentally let slip. He didn't want her to panic.

But now she was, of course she was. She had to be. She had to be nervous because of him—oh my god how many times could he mess up

He loved Ginerva.

He was in love with a girl he had only written to.

He had never seen her face.

He had never uttered a word to her.

He had only put his thoughts on a paper, trusting her to read them.

And now he wasn't even going to show up to see her.

He took a long sip from his bottle. This alcohol was stronger—and he was glad. He needed to clear his head. He reached for his wand and carefully sliced his wrist, watching beads of blood gather on his wrist. Not bothering to seal up the cut, he set down his wand.

Suddenly angry, he seized it again. "I hate myself I hate myself," he muttered.

Harry! We're back!

Oh no, not you! Harry thought.

Every time Harry got like this—drunk and angry and sad and full to bursting with self-hate—the little voices inside of his head pounded. He always heard them, but especially when he was lying on rock-bottom.

Oh yes! We missed you. Did you miss us?

No no no no go away go away

Harry smacked himself so hard that he thought he knocked out his tooth. "Get out," he whispered, putting his hands over his ears.

Haha, funny joke! We're a part of you, Harry. We're not going anywhere!

Leave me the hell alone you bastards

Calling yourself a bastard, eh? Nice one, you drunkard!

Go AWAY

No, and you're a shitty negotiator, you know that?

Harry screamed. He screamed inside the old abandoned apartment building that was his home now. He screamed for every drink he'd ever poured down his throat, every time he let Ginerva down. He screamed until his sore throat burned and blistered and it hurt to breathe.

Good, he thought, panting. You deserve it.

Harry woke up; his head feeling like it was full of cotton and his tongue bone-dry. Coughing slightly, he nearly passed out again at the sight of his bloody wrists. "Too many," he said to himself.

Harry talked to himself frequently. It kept him from going insane from loneliness.

"I need to start cutting somewhere else," he said. "Maybe legs? No, they're already scarred. Stomach. Yes, stomach. Just not too deep. You have to keep writing back to Ginerva."

"No, just stop writing to her altogether!" he moaned back to himself. "You're ruining everything for her. She's got a normal life and you're an utterly screwed-up mess of tears and alcohol and blood. You're nothing, Harry. You're nothing. Nothing."

Hedwig hooted softly. "Not now, Hedwig," Harry mumbled. "Not now, not now." She clicked her beak. "What?" Harry growled, and saw Ginerva's lovely barn owl pecking at the windowsill.

Not her. We don't like her.

"SHUT UP!" Harry bellowed, shoving his hands over his ears, screaming once. When he stopped, the voices were quiet. "Thank god," he muttered, stumbling over to the owl, who fluttered her wings nervously. "I'm stable," Harry told it, and then laughed. "I wish I was. I'm shaky as hell right now."

This is my worst day so far, he thought. His mind was slowly deteriorating from the alcohol. He had overindulged on drinks too many times, smoked his cigarette too frequently. He was, in short, going insane.

I'm so sorry, Ginerva, I'm normally so much better.

As if she could hear him.

As if she would listen.

He read the letter, her soft words sinking into his skin, clearing his head. Her. Her, Ginerva.

She was like the best anti-depressant out there.

Harry had sat there for awhile, reading and rereading her letter. God, he imagined her so beautifully. Striking red hair, piercing brown eyes. Who says brown eyes are boring? Harry found them so fascinating—deep and mysterious in the dark, sparkling and bright in the light. He loved brown eyes. She'd be slim, since Seekers are normally very small. She'd love pranks and strange Muggle things, like Ron. She'd be smart and love books like Hermione. She'd laugh a lot and love animals, like Hagrid. She'd wouldn't play games with you or hide things.

And Harry knew she was all of these things and more. He didn't care if she turned out to be bald with eighteen fingers—she'd be beautiful to him.

"Ginerva, Ginerva." Her name rolled off of his tongue. He wouldn't call her Gin—that was much too painful and would drive him crazy. Ginny didn't suit her. She was no longer a child. She needed a proper, lovely name. Ginerva was exactly the name that was right for her.

He felt an overwhelming urge to cut.

Sectumsempra was already coming out of his mouth, his fingers on his wand—

Sectumsempra doesn't belong on the lips you just spoke her name with, he thought angrily. She didn't deserve that. Harry would hang the moon for her if she asked. She deserved everything whole and beautiful.

She had also said she knew exactly how he felt. What did she mean? Realizing the full meaning of her words, fear smacked him across the face. He had to write back—but he was so dizzy, and so sleepy…his head was clear, and for the first time in a very long time he fell asleep feeling like he wanted to wake up in the morning.

"Harry! Harry, oh my god, it's you!"

Her voice was beautiful even when shrill.

"Ginerva!" he called. Everything was very dark. It was as though a sweaty palm had been planted over his eyes. "Ginerva, where are you?"

"I—I missed you! You're here! I can't believe it, Harry!" Ginerva started crying. "I—I love you, please don't hurt yourself! I love you!"

Harry felt his heart swell. He was so nervous that it might pop, that he would be left with a deflated heart and Ginerva would dissipate.

And then someone removed the hand over his face, and everything was bright and beautiful. He was sitting near the lake at Hogwarts. Everything seemed to be in sharper color—the lake's pale sky blue; the grass's rippling emerald green; the lovely warm orange of the tulips near trees that glittered, their leaves coated in shimmering dew.

The most beautiful sight, however, was sitting ride beside him.

Her eyes were the color of caramel: brown with flecks of gold, prying into his dull green ones. Her hair trickled down her back like a fiery scarlet waterfall. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, freckles painting the bridge of her nose. Her lips were a light pink, pursed slightly, her teeth and tongue just visible behind them. Her eyelashes framed those shining caramel eyes. Her smile made Harry's head spin more than any amount of firewhiskey.

"Harry," she whispered, and her voice drove him insane.

He seized her and she dissolved between his fingertips.

Harry woke up with a feeling of strange hope inside of him. He hummed as he cleaned up his room and he even combed his hair for the first time in awhile (it didn't stay flat). He showered and ate a good breakfast. Ginerva occupied his thoughts. She was the best thing to happen to him in a long time.

Hedwig seemed a bit more cheerful as well, not snapping her beak at him as normal. She was a good owl, and she was his only companion most days.

Harry put his quill to his parchment and begun to write, ignoring the nagging voices that were feebly whispering in his ear.

Put the quill down.

Put it down.

She doesn't care, you idiot! She hates you!

That dream, yeah? That dream was pathetic, you wimp.

Put the damn quill down and stop writing to her! Throw yourself off a bridge, you worthless, dirty—

Harry didn't hear a single word.

He was too busy scribbling a response to Ginerva.

Harry sucked his quill thoughtfully. "Hmm," he said aloud. "Hmm."

There was a gentle knock at his door. He stood, puzzled, and opened it cautiously, in fear of paparazzi.

"Harry!" Cho Chang shrieked, throwing herself into his arms. Harry, very taken aback, awkwardly patted the older girl's head.

"Um…hello?" Harry said, brows furrowed. "Why are you here?" He would not forget the previous encounters they had.

"I'm—I'm—I'm—" she wailed, beating her fists against Harry's back. The entire thing was very overdramatic to Harry. "I'm so s-s-sorry about what h-h-happened to y-y-you!" Tears spilled over her eyelashes.

"What, now that whatever boy you were with dumped you, you came running to me? If that's the case, go away."

Cho stopped crying abruptly and looked up at him. A slow, sly smile slid onto her face—sultry and (poorly) sexy. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"What do you want, Cho?"

"You," she said, her voice low. "I want you, Harry. I realized what I was missing out on. I really do find you attractive." Her smile widened, her eyes glinting dangerously. She sat down on the couch and patted the spot beside her. "Sit."

"No," Harry protested. "Leave. You're not welcome. I don't love you."

Cho laughed. "Yes you do. Poor wittle forf-yeaw Hawwy had a crushie on Cho. Don't deny it." She got up and sauntered over to Harry. Her perfume was dizzying. She ran a finger down his chest. "You've gotten so…dark. I love it." She grabbed his collar and yanked him closer. She attached their mouths, her tongue slipping inside of his mouth. She pushed him onto the couch. His numb fingertips brushed his wand and he gripped it tightly, pointing it at her.

"Stupefy!" Harry yelled, and Cho slumped to the ground, her hands halfway to Harry's shirt.

Breathing hard, Harry grabbed Hedwig, the little money he had left, his cigarettes, and his coat, turned on his heel, and left.

He took off running for Hogwarts.