She dreams death in colour.
His is green, of course. Green light, green serpent, green eyes… All that sacrifice—and somewhere deep inside her is a jealous little voice whispering that she could never be enough even with such a gift. How did she ever dream to end up in his arms, in his life, in his future? She wonders, now, how she ever saw beyond this moment.
Ron and Hermione, "the couple," die always in red. In passion, in fury, in love. One weeps bloody tears for the other, holding a limp body in shaking arms. They plough their way through Death Eater after Death Eater brandishing wands that bring nothing but blood and pain as they search for each other in the midst of war. They fight and snarl and call each other impossible and pretend like their innocent hearts aren't full to bursting with love.
They eat crimson strawberries by the lake and kiss when they think no one is around. They smile happy little smiles as though they can't see the blood—all that beautiful life-giving blood—just draining away.
Ron, alone, dies in black. Ever since she is old enough to remember, he has been there. He picks her up when she falls over and scrapes her knees, he reads her bedtime stories in the dark, and he sneaks her cookies and milk when she's been naughty and sent to her room without supper. Ron, alone, dies in black. Rarely, because he has always been and will always be her saviour. She wakes from these black dreams with screams and tears, with her hair plastered to her damp forehead and hands fisted in the sheets.
She never dreams of her own death but she knows its colour. She dies in white. And in a white dream there are no tears or bright lights or feelings of never being enough for him or anyone. There is flying, but no Quidditch. And Peace. So much peace, and no more dreams.
For the first sixteen years of her life she doesn't dream. Well, dream she might, but in the mornings with the sun streaming through the windows at the Burrow, or the rain tapping its impatient fingers on the glass, her waking hours are frenzied with living and not remembering.
Harry, she pleads in a whiney little voice, always when she is alone and replaying the last real conversation they had, think. How can this be true? How can I be a prophet? I've never seen more than tea-leaves in the bottom of my cup…I don't even remember my dreams. I…
She learns the true meaning of irony the evening after the fight with him—the break-up, she thinks. It is after this confession that dreams become the things she can't stop remembering. After this conversation, tea-leaves mould themselves into intricate patterns that she might be able to read if only she knew the language they were speaking in.
Ginevra. Professor Dumbledore says her name in his dulcet tones and she doesn't dare move. Ginny. He tries again, and this time a flinch courses through her body. This isn't right; it is all too informal, whatever happened to the Miss Weasley who went to Hogwarts School and ate chocolate in the library?
Ginny, I'm sorry you had to find out like this. He paces the room slowly but her eyes don't catch the movement, they are too busy making patterns on the wooden floor. You see, the Seer gene usually presents itself long before the carrier's eleventh birthday. In fact, it is often one of the first signs of magical ability; we just assumed you hadn't inherited the trait from the Weasley bloodline.
He isn't making sense, but seems unaware of it and continues. Seeing is mainly linked with the female, it takes a very empathetic person to bind these abilities, and a powerful witch to control them for her own use. We believe you have the power.
She wants to scream Who the fuck is "we"? at the top of her lungs, but doesn't dare. If she just keeps still maybe this will all go away. Maybe this will all make sense. Maybe, she thinks with a smirk in her mind, she's dreaming.
Of course you are wondering about the prophecy and its solution. And of Harry. Her eyes lift at the mention of his name; Dumbledore's face tells her her fate.
It would've have been easy if only that stupid intuition in the pit of her stomach would give in for just a moment. She eats an entire tub of biscuits and drinks a gallon of milk under her mother's watchful eyes. She wants to tell her mum, but can't because having sex with a boy one isn't betrothed to is a terrible crime. It makes her a scarlet woman. It makes her weak and easy and broken.
If only it is as easy as giving him up. If only her body doesn't shake from missing his touch; if only she hasn't fallen in love with him. Because it's not all touching and making love and being breathless and giddy and begging him to never stop, ever.
She knows that the way she recalls it is as though their only moments together were lustful or passionate. But there was more. There were midnight chess in the living room and cups of hot chocolate in the kitchen. There were tears over Sirius's death and tears for all of those still to lose their lives in the final battle. There were talks of the war and fighting and all of those serious crosses he had to bear.
And then there were the other times, the mundane times. The eating of breakfast in a comfortable silence; how he would pass her the tomatoes, and she would give him the eggs, and they would laugh at the absurd comfort they had fallen into over little more than a year. There was the sitting side by side underneath her tree at Hogwarts, doing homework in the spring, and triumphant Quidditch matches, falling into the changing room aching and tired and freezing and covered in mud, but exhilarated. Feeling as though she was still high when he swooped down on her and gave her a congratulatory hug.
There was the feeling that friendship and love and lust and everything were so complicated and intertwined, that without him she was fading back into the little girl who was foolish enough to let the Dark Lord into her head.
Harry, Dumbledore speaks with a parental fondness as he addresses the boy – man – later, alone. I fear I am already too late to stop you falling in love with Miss Weasley. At the very least I can see you care about her greatly, I am not so old that I don't remember what it is like to feel consumed by the beginnings of a relationship. Know this however: it is her fate you now hold in your hands. Love can be a great weapon, but there are many types of loving relationship. Be aware, Harry, when you make your decision that love can also be a great destroyer.
He squares his shoulders and tries to appear taller and defiant, but the wise-ness of his mentor's eyes stops an adolescent outburst. Of course he wants to throw furniture and scream the house down, but the breaking part of him won't allow the movement.
You are the Boy Who Lived, Harry, and sometimes that means sacrificing your happiness for the well-being of others.
She runs frantically through the fields beyond the Burrow, neither chasing nor being chased, her face stormy with despair. Her fiery hair is streaming behind her, and she is nothing more than a blur from Ron's bedroom window.
He shoves his hands into his pockets to stop a finger from tracing her outline through the glass as she stops and doubles over with breathlessness. Determinedly, he turns from her image and squeezes his eyes together to rid it from memory. He knows he can't avoid her forever; he knows that it is too late for that.
He knows she is running away from something.
If only it is as easy as running through the fields or throwing his arms around the trunk of their tree and pressing his cheek against the bark. If only it is as easy as telling her he cannot love her and leaving it there.
He wants to sit with her and not talk, but that is impossible now. They were falling in love, and now they are sworn apart for the good of Wizard future. So many things remain unsaid, things that he thought he had a lifetime to speak. And even more things have been cursed in harsh whispers that there is no way of going back to just sitting and being comfortable.
The next day at breakfast she doesn't eat, rather she chases scrambled eggs and tomatoes around her plate with a slow fork. He is drinking black coffee and looking as though he hasn't slept for a week. She grimaces when Ron and Hermione insist on talking about her new "gift," as though it is the most normal thing in the world for her to be suddenly All-Seeing.
Hermione wants to know exact details so that she can do research, her mother wants her to be careful, and Ron wants to know if she can read his mind.
She wants to scream at him and Dumbledore across the table and ask them if they're happy? If they're proud of what they've done to her? She wants all of this nonsense to simply disappear and take her with it because it just isn't true.
How can she ever destroy him? He is the most important Wizard in the world and she is just a Weasley. She will never hurt him—that's what she wants to scream at them both, it is what she wants to shake into them until they look at her and understand. All she has ever wanted was for him to let her love him openly. She isn't even asking for love back. Just for companionship. Trust. Friendship. Being there for each other no matter what.
Now, acknowledgement will have been a welcome change.
The Firewhiskey's fierce hug is a welcome relief.
She sits underneath the tree with the bottle in her lap and a glass in her hand. She doesn't like drinking but she doesn't stop. All of her life it has been drummed into her that good girls get good things. Nice witches finish first. What a load of bollocks.
She notices a smoky line on the horizon and hopes it might rain soon. She can think of nothing more cleansing than being drunk in the rain, drenched to the skin and crying into the mud. Warm, clear evenings were for lovers, not the broken-hearted.
Ginny, what are you doing? His voice is tired and laced with something she doesn't recognise. She hopes it is remorse.
She wishes that her stomach wouldn't flip giddily when he is close, and wishes she could be stronger than him. If only she could be in charge, bring him to him knees; make him want to give up everything for them.
She tries to stop the sarcasm but it's out before it registers. Oh, if it isn't Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.
He visibly flinches and opens his mouth to retort, but closes it without a word.
He reaches for the alcohol and she surrenders, but rather than throwing it away or giving her a lecture, he pours another drink and swallows it in one gulp. They don't talk or look at each other, but they sit, backs against the bark facing out into the approaching storm.
Her screams link themselves in his memory.
One moment they are both quiet and it is intense, and in the next lightning flashes, thunder claps, and the heavens begin to weep. She is on her feet, empty glass and bottle left behind as she leaves the shelter of the tree.
Out in the pouring rain she spreads her arms and screams furiously, her little voice drowning in the hammering of water on grass and her body and the world. And then her mouth closes and her expression changes, but she is still screaming. This time it is laughter, and her shoulders shake visibly with it. Her clothes are rapidly becoming see-through, with her hair wet and dark and streaming down her back.
Without her glee, he gets to his feet, bringing the glass and bottle with him. The rain is icy and bites at his bare arms as though it is made of little teeth, and for a moment, the pair of them, illegally standing in the pouring rain with an empty Firewhiskey bottle is the most ridiculous thing he has ever witnessed.
It's raining, he tells her seriously, raising an arm to stop water splashing onto his glasses. She is still laughing and seems unaware in her drunken state that standing in the pouring rain is likely to make her sick. He grabs her wrist and pulls her with him.
They only make a few steps before she stops and he is jolted back.
What? she asks still giggly, eyes wide and shining.
It's raining, he repeats slowly in his best Hermione-voice, we'll catch our death.
She laughs and throws out the arm he isn't holding. Her right wrist and the bottle are held in his right hand so that when she moves to grab the glass from his left, their arms cross comically.
Let me see that, she whispers breathlessly. She holds it up to her eye and peers inside so that her pupil appears large and buggy. Ah, Harry Potter, she says sadly, shaking her head, you have the Grim. Her screams of laughter are covered by more thunder.
Ginny, it's raining! He lets her go, and they stand staring at each other, arms dropped to their sides, probably drunk and possibly still in love.
I know! Her voice comes out hoarse and more confrontational than she would've liked. He doesn't want to fight and makes a move to leave her there, looking like a drowned Ophelia in the darkness. Wait, she pleads. Isn't it beautiful?
Lightning forks across the sky, and before either have time to blink, thunder follows, but they don't jump. Her eyes are filled with more electricity than the storm above them, and he forgets himself. For the first time in over a week, they are actually looking at each other, right in the eyes, and it is unsettling.
Ginny… he murmurs and his eyes darken.
She sees it happening before it does, and knows she has exactly three seconds to step away. One… she takes a long shaky breath… two… she moistens her lips with her tongue… three… her eyes don't so much as blink. And then his mouth is on hers, crashing over her, and the feeling of being nothing and invisible are gone, and in their place is a calm contented buzzing.
When he pulls back, everything rushes in again: the rain is too loud in her ears and the whiskey has made her head dizzy. He is numb from cold and drink, and doesn't refuse when she takes his hand and leads him inside.
Sometimes words aren't enough. Sometimes there aren't any words to say sorry or love or I'm going to die without you. Sometimes talking isn't needed and only physical touch from another human being will do. Sometimes there are more important things than a promise to a professor or a prophecy.
Sometimes.
Later, her screams of pleasure fill his mind and crawl through his veins and mix with his own. Later, her screams of pleasure link his memory and his longing.
Her little contented whimpers cloud his vision, and he blinks – once, twice, three times – before he remembers his glasses were discarded in an earlier desperation.
There isn't anything to look at in the now ghoul-less attic, which she has wanted to make her own personal haven for a long time now. The summer has been busy with things more important than decoration (she is determined to do it 'Muggle-style'), so there is nothing more than a mattress and piles of boxes to look at.
Not that he's looking. His cheek and nose are pressed into her soft stomach, and his eyelids are unable to hold themselves open for long.
Her head is flying high above her and it is all she can do to stop her body from floating right off the bed to join in. Dizzy. She is so dizzy she feels light, as though the smallest whisper will blow her away. Her chest is heaving, and her fingers that moments previously were fisted into the bed sheets are now tangled in his black hair and keeping him pressed so close, that she has trouble knowing where he ends and she begins.
She can feel his heart, beating steadily against her pelvis as they tune in their breathing so that they rise and fall together. She can feel his hand trapped underneath her buttocks, still caressing her lightly, and his wet mouth against her tummy.
He wants to stay like this forever, but he will never utter such a thought to her. This is wrong. No matter how complete and wonderful and high he feels…in the darkness and the rain he had taken her wrongly.
He had followed her upstairs, and watched selfishly as she removed his wet clothing without even a hint of a blush. He had wallowed in the feeling of her lips on his skin and her hands in his hair and her tongue over his stomach. He had undressed her with rough hands, and crushed her against him forcefully. He had been desperate and needy and longing for her to make the whole world just disappear once more.
They had both been frantic and drunk and reaching out for each other in the musky dark of the attic. She had pulled him against her, scratched her nails down his back, and nipped at his neck and shoulders until he'd moaned out in pleasure. He, too, was insatiable, hard and passionate, explosive and wanting. In the intoxicated throes of passion he had pinned her arms above her head and made her tell him she wanted him.
And then, afterwards, lying face-to-face on the small mattress, his cheeks flushed and her fringe damp against her forehead, he reached forward and brushed the hair from her eyes. And then, he smiled and sucked her bottom lip into his mouth. And then…then they had made love and it had been different and giving and tender.
In the trickle of morning light that creeps over her, she can feel herself blushing. Guilt rises up her neck and floods her cheeks with colour. It had felt so good in the darkness to be with him again, and hear him say her name and say she was beautiful, but now it is different. She murmurs something incoherent and feels him shift slightly. He pulls up onto all fours and looks at her blurrily, mouthing her name.
His body is beautiful, she thinks as he crawls up her own, all taut limbs and defined edges. He isn't muscular because Seeking keeps him sleek and small, but his back feels firm. She traces the dark trail of hair running from his bellybutton with a finger because the touch drives them both crazy. He moves close, close enough to see into her eyes and tangle a hand into her unruly hair.
A brief smile flickers at the corners of his mouth as he remembers the night before and how she had looked like a true witch narrowly escaping a ducking stool death. But his smile falters when she reads his mind.
It's over, isn't it? Her voice is soft and milky despite the situation.
He doesn't know if she finally believes the prophecy or not; he doesn't ask. In truth, he believes she will be better off without him anyway. Loving him only ends in destruction.
It has to be, he breathes sorrowfully, knowing in the secret, intuitive part of him that things will never truly be over between them. If anything, their newly revealed prophecy highlighted that—it divided them, yes, but it would also eternally unite them.
They kiss, and she pours everything she has ever felt into it. She pours hate and lust and other things that can't be named, only felt, and he is left breathless. In her eyes he sees flashes of the night before, flashes of her begging him to fight for her, begging him to choose her, to let her save him…but Dumbledore's words were final. It is HE who must do the saving.
Ginny. He presses their foreheads together, and wants to take everything back. He wants to stop her as she strokes a finger over his collarbone and moves out from underneath him. For a moment they lie face to face on the small mattress without saying anything more, and then she smiles bravely and moves to get up.
She hands him his glasses in a business-like manner, and dresses in last night's muddy clothes. He covers himself with the sheet and lies there on his back staring determinedly at the ceiling. This is so fucked-up, Gin.
The sentence is so unlike him that it makes her blushing skin blanch. His face is screwed up, and his palms are pressed against his eyes. She wants to go to him like she always has done, to tell him everything will be alright. She wants to curl against him and press her face into the crook of his neck, but she abstains. She knew he will not grant her the privilege of comforting him, why make it more devastating than it already was? He doesn't want to fight for them; he doesn't think that prophecy is weak and yielding like she does. For him, it is easier to believe she will betray him, hurt him, break him.
That they aren't meant to be.
Her bare feet squelch in the mud as she runs away from the Burrow.
The morning is grey and miserable from the electric storm the night before, and it mirrors her mood. She had expected the thunder to clear the muggy heat that has been settling over her of late, but in the clear light of day, she realises that everything is worse than it ever was.
She can hear someone shouting her name, but she doesn't stop running. They have more important things to worry about than her…than the fact that she is falling and sinking and disappearing right before their eyes. There is the war and the Order and Harry Potter. He has everyone now: Dumbledore, her parents, Ron, Hermione…and she had had him.
There is nothing left.
She runs right up to the edge of the pond and into the icy water, ignoring the drag from the weight of her clothes as she wades in. It strikes her how pathetic she's being, and she stops, waist-deep, to the sound of screaming.
GINNY! GINNY, STOP!
Hermione is standing at the bank of the river in her powdery blue pyjamas and slippers. She is covered in mud from chasing after her, hair huge and face distraught. Ginny? she asks again but softer. Without a thought, Hermione also wades into the pond.
She looks into those familiar eyes, and fleetingly breaks. With a sound like a drowning cat, she starts to cry and doesn't pull away when Hermione puts arms around her.
They stand there, like that, holding onto each other for dear life for what seems like hours. She is sobbing that she never asked for any of it, it wasn't her fault, all she ever wanted was to be good enough…but nothing she says makes proper sense. And when they finally trudge back inside, she is still trembling and gasping for breath, but she refuses to talk.
There are more important things to worry about, she says.
Eleven OWLs, one less than Hermione the most-brilliant-witch-of-her-age-Hogwarts-has-ever-seen, and no Prefect's badge. A ninety-nine percent attendance record (one 'late mark' given by Snape for arriving one second after nine o'clock, and the theory that she should be grateful he wasn't deducting points from Gryffindor for her unpunctuality), and no Prefect's badge.
A ninety-nine percent attendance record, ten percent more than Ron, and no Prefect's badge. Working her arse off at school, on the Quidditch field and in her exams, and still no Prefect's badge. Tucking in her shirt, watching her language, and staying out of fights, and no Prefect's badge. Losing the love of her life, becoming a Seer, and training in the Dark Arts to NEWTs level, and still no bloody Prefect's badge.
Congratulations, Ron and Hermione, Head Boy and Girl! She wants to pull their banner down and cry her heart out right in the middle of the party. Nice one, Harry! Quidditch Captain! She wants to pull the banner down and shred it into millions of pieces, and stamp amongst the streamers and food and smiling faces, and scream that she has fucked him in the attic.
Well done, Ginny, Eleven OWLs!
She wants to be someone she isn't anymore.
Her fingers tremble with adrenaline as she lays the silver scissors onto her dressing table. The lady in her mirror wolf-whistles and catcalls, and without seeing her reflection, she knows she is blushing. Tufts of red hair are scattered over the light-wood dresser and on her pale freckled knees like feathery kisses.
No magic and no wands. No trip to Diagon Alley for her, or sitting in the cutting chair in the kitchen, waiting patiently for her mother to finish with her brothers' haircuts. The Muggle scissors make her smile at her reflection.
Ginevra Weasley! Her mother's voice is high-pitched, and anguished as though she might start crying at any moment. She hopes she's wrong because seeing her mum cry wouldn't do anything to improve her current mood.
She shrugs and shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Her newly cut fringe is blunt and eye-skimming and sexy…of course her mum would scream the house down about it. Mum… she pleads mutely, don't. Notice…just for a second…I'm drowning.
Don't even think about 'mum'-ing me, Ginevra! Molly warns in deadly tones as though she has half heard her daughter's pleas. Your hair, your beautiful hair…
She tunes the sound of her mum's voice out now, but sometimes she hears terms like 'scarlet woman' and 'well-bred witches,' and wishes she isn't so broken and filthy.
Ron. Ron will notice. Ron is her only hope now.
He is rarely found alone, but it is two days until the start of term, and tonight Hermione is talking to him about spells and charms and a powerful curse that might work if only they could translate the Latin properly. Her brother is lounged out on a sofa, one arm resting on the back, while the other is holding an old "Chudley Cannons Annual," long legs stretched out over the cushions. He isn't really reading because every so often his eyes drift over to Hermione and rest there until she looks up and catches his gaze. Both grin and pretend to return fully to their previous tasks.
She feels invisible once more in a room filled with the incredible trio, because none of them so much as acknowledge her presence. Ron is watching Hermione out of the corner of his eye. Hermione is focused partly on her books, partly on him, but mostly on Ron. He is trying to sink into a background he will never be a part of.
Perhaps wishes do come true.
Perhaps she has wished so hard to just disappear in the past few days that now she is nothing more than a milky scent in a candlelit room.
Her large eyes are dark and unblinking as she moves to Ron's side and settles into a space on the sofa, climbing over his legs and curling herself into a ball at his feet. He looks up from The CCA and smiles cheekily. Without a word he reaches forward and swipes his fingers across her forehead. The action removes the fringe from her eyes and calms the shaky feeling that crawls somewhere underneath her skin.
Mum's still having a fit, he tells her in his familiar way. I don't think I've ever seen her go this bonkers. Bloody brilliant, Gin.
She wants to smile but is unable to move her face that way. In truth, Ron hates her new haircut because his baby sister has no right to try to make herself look older or different or sexier, but he pretends, and she loves him for it.
In her mind, she says his name and hopes she can reach into his thoughts without speaking. What is the use of being prophetic at times like these? She wishes she is something different, something that Muggles call 'telepathic.'
Ginny… She notices the change in his eyes and her heart soars. His finger runs down the bridge of her nose playfully as it used to when she was eight and frightened of the dark. Ron doesn't know what to say or how to ask because he has never been a man of many words like that. Come here.
Willingly she curls herself into the hug in a way she hasn't since she was a small child. He accepts her form and rests a cheek on top of her head. Ron doesn't say anything, but rocks her a little and makes shushing noises that flow soothingly through her veins and stop the shaking.
She feels vulnerable and exhausted, but in his arms she knows sleep will come and her dreams will be emptier.