A/N: Bit of a different writing style this time around, but I think I like it. I could use some feedback on it, though! (Okay, yes, that's a blatant grab for reviews, but I really would appreciate the feedback.) Written for The Hunger Games Fanfic Style III Competition. Prompts listed at the bottom.

Bitter Waters

"A bridge can still be built, while the bitter waters are flowing beneath."

–Anthony Liccione

I can still see his eyes.

Dark, cold...like the bottom of a lake, so far down not even the brightest ray of light can permeate the blackness. I can feel them on my neck, icy needles just barely brushing against my hair. They glitter malevolently, broken glass in moonlight.

When I close my eyes, I hear his laughter, the sound of rushing wind and riffling pages, and I am back in that chamber, the life draining out of me...

My chest constricts and my eyes fly open. I am sitting in the garden. Around me, a faint summer wind brushes past the trees, bringing a dry scent of smoke. My fists are clenched, I realize; I open them to find I have pulled up handfuls of grass, blades sticking to my hands. My palms are stinging from where my nails have dug into the skin. I absently run my thumb along the thin white crescent marks.

There is a flash of movement in front of me; my arms automatically fly up, forming a defensive X across my chest. But it is only a gnome, dashing across the yard, a torn-up daisy clutched in its fat fist.

I slowly lower my arms to my side. In my mind's eye, I see again that pair of dark, sinister eyes.

You ruined me.

There is some sort of commotion going on at the house—I can hear my mother chattering excitedly, and the sounds of doors opening, more voices joining in. I am glad to be outside; it means I don't have to pretend to be okay, I don't have to talk to anyone, I don't have to answer How are you? because I don't know what my real answer would be, and I don't want to have to figure it out.

I hear the door open behind me, and I hastily pretend to be enjoying the fresh air and sunlight. I stretch my legs out in front of me, putting on what I hope is a convincing expression of bliss.

"Hey, kiddo."

Someone ruffles my hair and plops down next to me. I turn.

"Bill?" I say. I am so surprised to see him that I momentarily forget about Tom Riddle.

Momentarily.

Bill smiles at me. It's not the same smile everyone else has been giving me, that smile that is half reassurance and half pity. This is Bill's smile, easy, warm, the one he gave me when I got my Hogwarts letter, the one that means everything will be okay.

I almost believe it.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, turning back away from him. I automatically tear up more grass, shredding it between my fingers.

"I came to see you, of course," says Bill lightly.

"Don't you have work?"

He shrugs unconcernedly. "I took a little time off."

"But we were going to see you in a week anyway," I say. "Didn't Mum and Dad tell you? Dad won the Daily Prophet prize draw. They want to take us to Egypt."

"I know, Mum sent a letter," Bill says. "Poor Errol, he was half-unconscious by the time he showed up." He chuckles; I manage a smile. Bill takes my hand. "Do you want to get out of here?"

I look at him; he's wearing that same smile, soft, comforting. But there is something underneath it, something that tells me he knows more than he's letting on. Slowly, I nod.

He pulls me to my feet and we set off down the garden path, winding our way past the tall, crooked house and onto the dusty road. He keeps my hand in his as we walk, talking of Egypt and cursed tombs and a goblin who'd accused him of stealing treasure. I let him talk; it's nice to hear about something far from home, something other than Hogwarts. He seems taller than I remember. Maybe it's just because the last time I saw him was before I started at Hogwarts. I feel so much smaller now.

We make our way through the little town. He's leading me; I don't know where he's taking me until I recognize a neat row of planted trees, marking the entrance to the children's park. Mum used to bring Ron and me here, letting us play on the climbing frame and swings as she went to the market. I'd gotten in trouble once—she'd come back just as I jumped from the top of the climbing frame. I remember the rush of adrenaline as I leapt, the feeling of flying for a moment before my stomach dropped and I tumbled back to earth. Mum had scolded me all the way back home, shouting about how I could have "seriously hurt myself" and "what was I thinking" and "have you got any sense at all," but all I remember thinking is how free I had felt, and how next time I ought to see how far I could leap, and how full of excitement I was at the thought of doing it again.

"Come over here," Bill says, leading me to the swings. I sit down on one; the seat is warm, baked and cracking under the June sun. My fingers curl lightly around the chain, and I automatically pump my legs, the swing squeaking as it sways back and forth. My toes skim the gravel beneath us. I must have grown since the last time I was here, I don't remember being able to touch the ground before. Ron had always had to lift me into the swing, I could barely reach.

The sun is setting, painting the sky in a gradient, coral to lavender to indigo. The park is deserted; it's just Bill and me, the only sounds the whispering of the wind in the leaves and the creak of the swing beneath me.

"So how have you been doing, Ginny?" says Bill softly. I feel the words like a blow to my stomach.

I shrug, kicking at a jagged stone. It skitters away, fetching up against the roundabout with a soft clank. "Fine."

"Ginny," Bill says. "You can be honest with me. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"I know you've had a tough year—"

I shake my head. It feels like someone is squeezing my throat. "Please don't," I whisper. "Don't make me talk about it."

"You don't have to talk about it," he says gently. "Not if you don't want to. But sometimes talking about this stuff can help, you know?"

I shake my head again, more violently this time. "I don't want to." I can feel his eyes on me, watching me as I swing a little faster, my feet coming off the ground with a spray of gravel.

Bill sighs. "Did I ever tell you about my first assignment in Egypt?"

"No."

"Well," he says, "I was supposed to scope out the pyramid first, find all the booby traps, things like that. Only it didn't quite go the way it was supposed to."

I have to slow down to listen to him. I scrape my heels against the ground, grinding to a stop. He goes on.

"I missed one, see. So when I led in the main force, we ended up getting attacked. All these mummified corpses were flying at us, their eyes rolling—don't tell Mum I told you any of this," he adds suddenly. "She'll have my head."

I giggle despite myself. He grins and keeps talking.

"Anyway. For a long time after that, I was really scared to go into another pyramid. I kept seeing those mummies. I'd wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. It was terrifying."

I watch him. He seems strangely calm, staring off into the distance.

"I was so mad at myself for not being able to just get over it. But I had to learn that these things take time. And that keeping it all in wouldn't help. I had to talk to my friends about it, hear that they'd gone through the same sorts of things. And eventually, I was ready to go into another pyramid. It took a long time, though." He looks at me directly now. "And I learned that it's okay to feel scared. And sad. It doesn't make you weak." He reaches out and takes my hand. "Feeling anything at all is a good thing, Ginny. It means you still care."

"Care about what?"

"Living," says Bill simply.

The sun has dipped below the horizon now; stars are beginning to wink into existence above us. I draw my knees up to my chest. The swing twists, almost unseating me, but I clench my hands around the chains, gripping tightly. The metal bites into my palms.

"I thought I was going to die," I blurt out. I try to swallow, but the words are pouring out of me, a torrential flood. "The whole year, I thought I was going mad. I didn't know what was happening. And then when I did, I thought he'd kill me. And when he took me—" My breath hitches, but I can't stop the words. "I thought I would die down there. And it was so cold…and I keep seeing him coming out of that diary, and I can't forget his eyes, and I was—I was really scared." The wind feels cold on my cheeks; I raise a hand to them to find that I've been crying. I wipe the tears away hastily, turning my back to Bill.

"It's okay, Ginny," he says gently. "It'll get better, little by little. I promise. You don't have to rush it. And you don't have to pretend everything's okay if it's not. It's okay to be honest."

I nod, exhaling shakily. "Thanks, Bill."

He smiles and ruffles my hair again. "Anytime, kiddo."

The last rays of the sun struggle to illuminate the sky. It's turned a deep blue-black now, with only thin streaks of pink at the horizon to show where the sun has been. I see a mixture of moonlight and sunlight reflecting off the metal climbing frame. Without conscious thought, I slide off the swing and start walking.

"Where are you going, Ginny?" Bill calls after me, but I don't answer. I reach the jumble of metal and begin to climb, pulling myself up hand-over-hand until at last I reach the top. I can see the tops of the trees from here, I can even see what I think is smoke coming from the Burrow. The wind gusts by me, but I don't feel so cold anymore.

I turn around, facing Bill, a true smile growing on my face. Then I stand. My toes curl inside my shoes, trying to grip the metal. I bend my knees, and without thinking—I leap.

And for a moment, I feel myself truly flying, and a whoop of laughter escapes my throat. I soar through the air, landing hard on the asphalt. I think I've scraped my knee, but I don't care. I don't remember the last time I felt this alive.

"You okay?" says Bill, grinning down at me. I flop onto my back, spreading my arms and legs out. I am breathing hard. The stars seem to swirl above me.

"I'm good," I say, smiling. "I'm good."

And it's the first honest answer I've given in a long time. And when Bill smiles at me again, I believe it this time—everything will be okay.

I believe it.

A/N: Written for The Hunger Games Fanfic Style III Competition (Day Four)

Prompts:

(Word) Ruin

(Emotion) Excitement

(Dialogue) "Please don't."

(Setting) A park