Hello again everyone! To all that commented, I appreciate that the story resonated with you all enough to leave a review. Even the negative ones lol
The story is already written, so it's not like I'm going to change anything major. Just putting that out there.
Anyway, enjoy the chapter!
PS: If any Greek is reading this, please don't kill me in case I butchered your language.
VI
Left to her own devices, Desmera decided to investigate the ship's bowels for the time being instead of going outside.
He'd been trustworthy so far, but she couldn't know for certain if it was just a mummer's act or a genuine show of kindness. The fact Ligeia was there at all was something of a reassurance to her, however. Would she stay around if Harry turned out to be an unsavoury character?
Desmera would like to believe she was just being overly suspicious for no reason, but after what happened, she'd rather ask forgiveness than to lament another tragedy. Still, she needed some time to reassert herself, some space to think and come to terms with everything. There would be plenty of time to go outside.
Desmera flitted over the hall, approaching the cabinets and drawers. Curiosity trumped over her sense of manners and following Harry's permission, she opened one to examine its contents. In truth, perhaps he'd guessed that she'd recognize little of what she'd see – exactly what was happening to her at that moment.
The first thing she saw was a beautiful, rectangular cloth in one of the drawers, coloured scarlet and gold. Desmera creased her brow in thought. Was this a scarf? Maester Herryk had told her of such things, used in the far North to ward away the cold, but here in the South, they were all but unheard of.
There was no point to them here, after all. Winter in the South was just a bit of chilly breeze.
There was a rampant lion embroidered onto the scarf's fabric, encased in a simple shield frame and a written ribbon displayed over it. Gryffindor, it read. A fine name, but one Desmera had never heard of. Looking at the lion and the colours, she was reminded of House Lannister's sigil. Perhaps Gryffindor was the name of one such noble house in Harry's homeland? But if they really were from a different world, it was probably nothing more than happenstance.
There was something else embroidered onto the scarf, two letters on one of its ends.
'L.B. Someone's initials, perhaps?' Certainly not anyone she knew.
She was about to move on and keep looking when she noticed something poking out from within the scarf. Reaching out, she took an odd piece of parchment, solid and smooth to the touch, and looked upon its surface.
"Seven hells!" she shouted, dropping the thing to the floor. Unable to look away, Desmera stared at the bizarre piece of parchment. There were images on it and they were moving! After a moment where nothing happened, her curiosity won over, and she bent down to retrieve it. "Wait, that's him!"
Indeed, there were two people on the parchment, moving with life-like precision and detail as if Desmera were looking at them through an open window. One of them was Harry himself, a bit younger and clean-shaven. He was laughing soundlessly, looking with so much love and affection at the woman next to him.
Turning her attention to her, Desmera grimaced in sympathy.
The woman had been beautiful once, there was no denying that; the wavy blonde curls and the vaguely round face gave her a very sweet appearance. Unfortunately, the look of beautiful innocence was marred by the gruesome-looking claw marks that raked over her face. It didn't make her hideous per se, not quite, but even Desmera felt discomfited when looking at her. She could not imagine many people would clamour up for her hand if she were Westerosi.
Neither the woman nor Harry seemed to care, however. He stole a kiss from her lips, quick as lightning, and laughed when she grew flustered. Then, the images wavered, and Harry laughed again, repeating the same movements she'd seen just moments ago.
"The images… they loop somehow!" she breathed out with a sort of incredulous amazement. Was this something Harry's people could do? It was enough to make her head spin!
Yet, this strange picture showed such a private and touching scene that it oddly filled Desmera with guilt. Harry had made no mention of this, and though it wasn't under lock and key, she was still eavesdropping on something intimate she shouldn't have seen. Worse yet, it brought to mind the inappropriate thoughts she'd had earlier about Harry. Knowing he apparently had someone else back home made her feel chagrined for even thinking him handsome.
'Not that he isn't,' she amended in the safety of her own mind.
In an attempt to fix her mistake, she quickly wrapped the strange parchment with the lion scarf and put it all back into the drawer.
Moving onto the lower shelf, Desmera noticed a colourful small package, shaped like a pentagon, flat on one side, but raised on another. On the front, the raised side, there were two words written in golden lettering - chocolate frog.
"Chocolate? What's that even supposed to be?" The small box was much too light to have anything in it, though Desmera couldn't think of a reason why one would put a frog inside.
Flipping it, she saw the small-scale bust of an ancient man, sporting a very long silver beard and hair that disappeared from the portrait frame. The name Albus Dumbledore was written within a banner underneath him. Desmera could almost swear his eyes twinkled, as though only he knew something far too amusing to keep hidden for long.
As she looked down at it, the portrait of the wizened man winked at her before disappearing. Stupefied, Desmera took in the words that appeared in the spot he'd occupied.
Former Headmaster of Hogwarts. Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Albus Dumbledore was particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoyed chamber music and ten-pin bowling.
"Dragon's blood… Does that mean they have dragons? Living, breathing dragons!" Desmera breathed out with wide eyes.
Desmera could only stare down at the text. Just like with the chocolate frog, she knew not what chamber music or ten-pin bowling were supposed to be, or even who Grindelwald was –though judging by the description, it didn't seem like he was considered a good man–, and she'd certainly never heard of anyone named Albus Dumbledore, but she recognized alchemy and dragons… she certainly knew of such.
"To think dragons exist where they come from!" Of course, they were long dead in Westeros, but still...
Desmera wished she could see them.
A sudden whining sound broke her stupor and she startled, eyes flying to the strange spinning top made of glass. It whistled, spinning on the spot and glowing a menacing red. Flustered and nervous all of a sudden, she returned the frog box to the drawer and slammed the blinds shut. The sound ceased, but she still felt her heart thumping loudly within her chest.
She waited for a moment, expecting either Harry or Ligeia to come check the noise, but neither did. After a while, Desmera withdrew from the drawer, giving it a wary glance. Best to give it a wide berth.
She moved to the door opposite of her; a written sign on it informed her this was the library.
Trying the handle, Desmera was pleasantly surprised that it was open, just as Harry had promised. Stepping through, she felt as though she stepped into Ivyhall's own grand library: rows of tall shelves lined the room, which was far bigger than it had any right to be.
Harry's magic proved to be a versatile tool yet again.
The shelf rows reached as far back as the room was wide, flanking on each side a large canvas painting of a beautiful red-headed woman sleeping on a chair. She wore queer clothing, similar to Harry's, with something that vaguely resembled riding pants with odd leather greaves over them. She also wore some sort of dark green robes, emblazoned with the image of a golden talon, and leather vambraces covered her arms. A long braid of red hair fell over her chest.
Desmera couldn't help but admire the quality of the painting. Whoever had created it had been incredibly skilled, but part of the credit also had to go to the model – while the clothes she wore weren't exactly flattering, her beauty was undeniable. The strokes of the brush and blend of colours were so masterful that it gave the painting a life-like quality, almost as if there was truly a woman dozing off in front of her.
It was still an odd place to put a painting, but perhaps it was a fool's errand, attempting to find logic in something as whimsical as magic. Still, could it be that Harry knew the redhead woman?
Ignoring the painting for the time being, Desmera wasted no time in inspecting the shelves, hoping to sate her curiosity on topics of magic. This time, she was not disappointed: there were many, many books about a wide number of subjects: Potions, something called Conjuration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, History, and many others.
"There are so many different subjects! Who could've thought there was so much to be said and written about magic!" she mused to herself, running a finger over the spines.
The books looked very well put together, with a craftsmanship that easily rivalled the books produced by the Citadel. The order of maesters was the only one who could write and create books in any meaningful way in Westeros –or at least the only one interested in doing so–, and their own books were much more roughly bound than these.
Suddenly, she heard someone clearing her throat behind her. Startled, Desmera turned around, but there was no one behind her. "Who-"
She blinked. The painting… it had changed! The woman in it was no longer sleeping, but rather standing in front of the chair, arms crossed over her chest and examining Desmera with a curious look.
"Now, who might you be?"
Desmera took a step back. "You… you're talking to me?"
"See anyone else apart from us?" the painted woman asked, making a show of looking to her right and to her left. "Just you and me here, love."
"You know you're a painting, right? Some- talking, moving painting."
The eye roll Desmera was treated to spoke volumes. "Well, duh. Tell me something I don't know. Like your name, for example."
The situation was so unexpected and bizarre that she found herself replying automatically. "I am Desmera. Desmera of House Redwyne."
The strange woman lifted an eyebrow. "Strange way to introduce yourself, you must be a local Muggle. Interesting. Well then, Desmera of House Redwyne, the name's Ginny. Ginny Weasley. Well, it's really Ginevra, but no one calls me that if they know what's good for them."
Weasley. Another House name that she didn't recognize.
"Why? Ginevra is a beautiful name!"
"What? No, it's not, don't be daft! Don't make me come over there to your side and hex you."
"You're a painting, though," Desmera pointed out. Saying it out loud made her feel weird. What had her life come to, that she was arguing with a talking woman inside a painting?
Ginevra huffed. "I said what I said. Just call me Ginny and we'll be golden."
For a moment, Desmera chose to say nothing, instead electing to inspect this new bizarre discovery. Though she stood to her full height, the girl –Ginevra? Ginny?– was petite, shorter than Desmera herself. Freckled, with warm brown eyes. She looked only a bit older than Desmera did.
If it weren't for the difference in height and the colour of their eyes, Desmera would swear she was her near identical twin. She felt as if she were standing in front of a mirror, seeing a fogged reflection of herself staring back at her.
"How can you talk? Usually, paintings can't do that. And they don't move either."
Ginny gave her a smug look. "I'm not your average painting, Redwyne. I'm a magical painting."
"And that makes you capable of speech?"
"Right in one! You catch on quick, huh?"
Desmera levelled her with an unimpressed look, but the painted girl just gave her an amused grin. "What are you supposed to represent, then? A cheeky hellion?"
For some odd reason, the question seemed to bring Ginevra short, who gave her a dismayed look. "You don't- oh. Since you were here… Damn. I thought you knew."
Desmera frowned. The odd non-sequitur was definitely bizarre. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Ginny took a moment to regard her with a look that was a mixture of pity and wistfulness. Then she shrugged. "Welp, didn't think I'd be the one to do it, but… ah, here goes. Look, magical portraits? They represent dead people, most of the time. I'm no different. The girl you're seeing? I'm her, but also not. I'm dead, or rather, she's dead… Huh, this is weird," Ginevra mussed, scrunching up her nose thoughtfully as if she were simply looking up at a particularly disagreeable weather for the day.
"Dead?" she asked with wide eyes.
"You heard me, girl. I'm dead, not a stuttering mess." Ginny inspected the leather harness of her vambraces as she spoke, fiddling with the ties. It was such a mundane action for the sudden turn the conversation had taken.
The woman's rather flippant attitude and quippy remarks could have been nothing more than another whimsical oddity in a ship full of them. The knowledge that there had been a woman not much older than her –a real woman– that had been the basis for the woman in the portrait itself gave the whole situation a disturbing morbidity.
"You're surprisingly calm for a painting of a dead woman," Desmera remarked in an admirable attempt to keep calm herself.
Ginevra merely gave her a careless shrug. "I could say the same about you, but you know how it is. Life sucks, and then you die and all that."
Desmera gaped. "That's not helpful at all! What a bleak outlook on life!"
"Well, I don't know if you noticed, but I'm not exactly something one would call alive."
Ginevra's dismissal brought Desmera short. It made no sense to her how the woman in the painting couldn't care less about the apparent death of the real Ginevra that had served as the basis for her own existence.
"That's just wrong! Don't you care even a bit about the fact you- that Ginevra, is dead?"
"Ginny. And you said it yourself, I'm a painting. It's not like I can do much to change that little detail. Besides, funny thing about death, it tends to stick."
Desmera found herself at a loss for words. She could not wrap her mind around the idea of being yourself and yet not at the same time, but even worse than that, she couldn't understand why someone would appear so… unbothered by their own demise.
"Let's shelve that conversation for another time, okay?" Ginny said, waving a hand. "Instead, why don't you tell me how you found yourself on Harry's ship? It doesn't happen often that he brings locals aboard, and by that I mean never."
"Ironborn attacked my ship – he saved my life."
Ginny cracked a wry smile. "Saved your life, huh? Yes, he likes to do that; always had a saving people thing, really. Well, don't worry, no one can board this ship without his say so. You're safe here."
Those words should have cheered Desmera up, but they hardly had the intended effect. She was alive, yes, but at what cost?
Many others had died. She wasn't ungrateful to be alive, but why did she escape the Aurora alive when so many others hadn't? Was it providence? The Seven at work? Pure plain luck? She didn't think it fair that so many people died while she was lucky enough to be rescued.
Desmera looked away, gazing into the silent rows of shelves stacked to the brim with books upon books. She was sure countless secrets hid within their pages, yet they felt like nothing more than banal frivolities in the face of what had happened.
"Uh oh, I can see the long face from here, girl. Want to talk about it?"
Desmera shook her head. "What's the point?" she cynically remarked, glancing at the portrait. "What would a painting know of death and loss?"
That was the wrong thing to say.
The easy-going smile on Ginny's face evaporated, replaced by a hard, blazing look as she glared at her. "Excuse you? I may be just a painting to you, but Ginny spent months talking to me. I know all she did; I'm all that she was. I'm the woman that fought in a war against Voldemort at seventeen. I lost my brother to that damn tyrant. The very same bastard that took over my body for several months when I was eleven. You think you're the only one who's lost people? As if! Pull your head outta your arse, I've lost friends and family too! Don't you dare dismiss what she- what I went through, because I swear I'll find a way out this blasted frame to nail you with a Bat-Boogey Hex!"
Desmera was struck speechless. It truly felt as though she were talking to Ginny Weasley in the flesh. Although she stood in front of a painting, the woman depicted had been alive once. She'd been someone with friends, family. She had been Harry's friend, a woman from another world. A rather crude and vivacious woman, yes, but no less important because of it.
Ashamed, Desmera looked down at her feet. She had no rebuttal for such an incensed, raw rebuke. Ginevra was right, her thoughtless remark had been incredibly callous. She was so wrapped up in her own grief that she'd made a fool of herself.
"I- you're right, of course," she admitted with a small bow. "That was boorish and insensitive of me, my apologies."
Ginny huffed, turning within the canvas to sit down on the chair behind her. "I don't like getting mad in here, I can't use magic to let off some steam. They painted me without my wand, who does that?! I swear, bloody idiots…" she grumbled. "Anyway, it's fine. Apology accepted, just don't do it again."
Desmera nodded, grateful that she was willing to put the matter behind them. She watched Ginny put her hands under her head and sigh out loud, staring at the ceiling. It was still uncanny to Desmera just how life-like she could appear. Whatever magic Harry's people used to animate these portraits, it was certainly powerful and more than a tad unnerving.
Though, this also spoke much of her as an individual. Regardless of the fact Ginevra had a surname, Desmera guessed she wasn't a noble; no member of the nobility would ever be caught dead in such a slothful pose.
"Did you- I mean, have you known Harry for long?" she eventually asked, catching Ginny's attention as she tilted back her head to look at her.
"Harry? We went to the same magic school. I started one year after him, and he was my brother's best friend. Harry and I… well, we had history together. You probably didn't know this before, but we were a thing for a time."
"A… thing?"
"Romantically involved. But then the war happened, and he broke up with me because of some dumb idea to keep me safe. It was temporary, the idea was to get back once Voldemort was six feet under and we did. Things were fine after that… for a time. The war changed us- changed us all. We were both different people. It just didn't work out in the end."
"Is this not- I don't think knowing that is my business." Desmera tried to be as diplomatic as possible when saying that; she hadn't expected Ginevra to reveal private information like that to a complete stranger like she was, never mind the fact Desmera actively struggled to understand some of the odder expressions the painting woman employed.
"And yet you asked. It's not like this is a secret or anything, I'm sure Harry would tell you as well. Besides, this is just basic stuff." Ginny chuckled to herself. "If you really want to know the dirty details, you'll need to get me pissed up to my eyeballs. Don't s'pose you got some Firewhiskey lying 'round?"
"You really expect me to know what that's even supposed to be?"
"I guess not. It's booze, basically. Shame though; kicks a mean punch, and makes your ears blow out steam like nobody's business too! Good stuff."
"You're a painting."
"Yes, you said that already. Awfully insistent, this sounds suspiciously like prejudice," Ginny accused, crossing her arms over her chest. "Got something against good, honest portrait women?"
"I- what? No!" Desmera denied with a sputter, only to shoot her an annoyed glare when Ginny snorted, sniggering to herself.
"Man, you're too easy to wind up. Loosen up, girl!" she said, slapping her knee in mirth.
Despite her levity, Desmera couldn't help but feel the laughter sounded a tad too forced, like Ginny was trying far too hard to project an image of lackadaisicalness. Time proved her right, for it soon faded, leaving only sad wistfulness behind.
Seeing this, Desmera scrambled to find a change of topic. "That Firewhiskey beverage sounds nasty regardless. I'd much rather just have some Arbor gold."
"I'm guessing it's some type of liquor?"
"Wine, actually. My family –the Redwynes– make it and control its trade. It's a world-famous one!"
Ginny made a face. "Wine? Ugh, figures we'd drop in French country. Never got a taste for the stuff, despite how much Fleur tried to turn me to her side. I'm a beer girl."
"Fleur?"
"Oh, Fleur Delacour, my sister-in-law," Ginny replied before a look of realization came over her. "Actually, I must be confusing you a lot with so many things you probably don't understand, right?"
"Yes, a bit," Desmera admitted with a sense of relief. She was grateful Ginny had noticed that, because she was steadily losing herself with so many names and context that she was not privy to. At least it had drifted the conversation to a safer direction.
"Yeah, sorry, didn't think about that. I'll keep it in mind next time. Just forget about the drinks, I'm just being silly. It doesn't matter anyway; wouldn't be able to get it over to my side of things. I'm cursed to stay sober forever more in this dump. Ugh."
Her words alarmed Desmera. Was it possible that, despite being simply a painting, her awareness made it so Ginny could become bored of her predicament? Or rather, of her own existence.
"Do you… get often bored, then?" she asked gently, testing the waters.
Ginny shrugged. "Well, a bit. I have no other magical portraits, so I can't leave my frame. I can go out the door and fly for a bit, but I mostly sleep. Not a lot else to do 'round here, honestly."
"I don't understand, doesn't Harry come to visit you?"
"That'd be common sense to think, right? But no, we rarely talk nowadays. Harry, he… that idiot's always felt his guilt strongly. He blames himself for my- for Ginny's death. Dunno what exactly happened, I think goblins were involved."
"How would you not know about your own death?"
"The real Ginny stopped coming. I can only learn as people tell me stuff, keep up! Anyway, I dunno what exactly happened. Harry's kept his mouth shut on what happened, but he mumbled something about it when he got shitfaced once. Wish I could do that. Prick."
Desmera furrowed her brow. Harry had mentioned the goblins earlier; his rather frosty demeanour then made more sense now. "But still, to ignore you like that… it's just not right!"
"Life's not fair, love," Ginny dismissed, giving her a short laugh. "Harry was always a moody git and no matter just how much he grows up, a part of him will always stay that way." Even so, she did not meet Desmera's eyes when she rose from the chair to peer through the window.
"Even so…"
"It's not really that complicated. I remind him of too many things. Too much pain. Only reason I'm this complex is because Ginny poured all of herself into this and even then, it's… not the same. He doesn't really see me, you get me? I might be a near perfect copy, but still a copy; I'm just a painting at the end of the day. Why would he spare a thought for me?"
Listening to her talk, the revelation came to Desmera like the flash of thunder, sudden but diaphanous.
"You- she… Ginny still loved him," she breathed out.
"It wouldn't have worked. Too much baggage, too many complications." The other redhead made no effort in denying the claim. The witty, intense personality had faded to an uncharacteristic quiet melancholy. "Besides, he wasn't available anymore either. Trying anything… nah, too messy. I'm not that kind of girl. And then I died."
"Oh."
"Heh. Left you speechless, huh?"
"I'm sorry. I just… don't know what to say."
In truth, Desmera had never expected to have to offer counsel and sympathy to the talking portrait of a dead woman pining for the man that had saved her life, much less something… someone that acted so blasé about their own death. What could someone say in such a situation? She was well outside her area of expertise.
Ginny shook her head. "Nah, you listened to me rambling about, that's more than enough, trust me. I should probably give you a break anyway."
She moved to grab the broom propped against the chair. It was a long, stylish thing, with a sleek and polished shaft, and the bristles carefully grouped together. Just by the craftsmanship alone, Desmera could tell this was no simple sweeping broom. Ginny walked across the painting, opening the door to her right to reveal a view of rolling fields. Climbing on top of the broom, she sat astride it and looked back at Desmera.
"Thanks for the chit-chat, but I'd like to clear my thoughts. But hey, don't be a stranger, okay? Let's talk later."
"If you wish." Desmera watched transfixed as Ginny nodded and suddenly shot off into the distance with a booming sound. Her form soon became a small dot over the horizon, zipping around in the air while making death-defying turns and twirls.
Feeling vaguely nauseous at the thought of being up there doing all that, Desmera laughed nervously. "First mermaids and now talking paintings with flying brooms, is dancing with the Smith next? I should probably wake up now."
She waited for a moment with her breath held, almost as if waiting to wake up back on the Aurora after a particularly long and onerous nightmare, but nothing changed and she still dwelt in this odd waking dream. The library was silent.
Desmera shook her head. She was just in denial.
Seeing as the library's only… inhabitant was currently occupied, she decided to take her leave. After such a heavy conversation, she wasn't in the mood to plunder the rows of towering shelves for secrets anymore.
Exiting the room, she closed the door only to tense when she heard the sound of splashing water behind her. For a moment, the image of a fanged, monstrous face flashed through her mind.
She shuddered, but steeled herself. She would not let her own irrational fear cower her. Not when she had to apologize for her callous behaviour.
Desmera turned around.
There she was, close to the edge of the pool opposite of her. Ligeia was combing through wet blonde locks with her bone comb once again. A low humming filled the hall, a sound that came to her with the ethereal touch of a dream. It stirred in Desmera thoughts of the vast sea as the shimmering sun painted the waves orange. The laughter of lovers. An embrace of affection and love.
"Red child?"
Desmera blinked, returning to the cold, shackling awareness of her own body. Her body felt cold and unmoored as the warmth fled her.
Shaking her head to banish the unpleasant sensation, she walked over to Ligeia. "Can I… can I sit?"
The blonde turned to look at her, regarding her with those clear eyes of hers. "Please do." Desmera felt her stomach lurch at the smile she offered her.
She swallowed. Ligeia didn't even look mad at her for what happened earlier. 'How could such a smile ever belong to a monster?'
Bunching up her skirts, Desmera took care to find a dry spot near the siren, though she was surprised to see there was hardly any water spilled over the edge of the pool. "Harry's magic. Water dries fast if it spills over," Ligeia simply explained as Desmera sat down.
"What can't he do? I wish I could wave a piece of wood and have all my problems disappear too," she grumbled.
"Don't be so naïve, magic is just a tool. It's not the answer to everything, red child."
"Perhaps not, but it certainly feels like one for many things, at least," Desmera said with a shrug, gazing at the gentle back and forth of the waves in the pool.
Ligeia didn't seem to agree, because she scoffed loudly and put down her comb. "Trust me, girl, magic isn't perfect and those who use it aren't perfect either. Wizards rely too much on it."
Perhaps Ligeia was right, but given her lack of knowledge, Desmera chose to say nothing. She had no opinion on it either way. The apparent normality of their conversation worried her far more. It bugged her for how jarring it was – her earlier blunder wasn't far from her mind. In truth, she wasn't sure how to breach the subject; Ligeia didn't seem to be angered or bothered by it, but perhaps she was one of those individuals that could bottle up their anger to the point it looked like everything was fine.
"What are your thoughts?" the mermaid suddenly asked, breaking Desmera out of her reverie.
"Huh- what?"
"I could tell by your eyes. You weren't here for a moment."
"I… I wanted to apologize. To you. I-" Desmera blurted out without thought, but she was stopped cold when Ligeia raised a hand from the water.
"Wait. Hold this first." Caught off guard, Desmera took the bone comb Ligeia handed her, and watched as the blonde pulled away and swam to the other side of the pool. "Private conversation. Leave!" she exclaimed out loud to the empty air before slapping the water. A huge wave shot up in an arc, splashing the wall in front of her and the portrait of the sleeping man with the pointed beard hanging from it.
Desmera startled when he sprang to life, jumping from his chair and patting down his clothes with a furious look. "Lord be good, you spurious beast! Have some consideration for your betters!"
"For fools like you? Never. Now leave!"
"Hmpf. Cavorting with lesser beings and teaching them the Queen's tongue, now letting this Muggle stay on the ship and giving her leave to snoop around… Potter keeps proving his foolishness. And now we're stuck in a world filled with peasants and ignoramuses, the horror. I should have never agreed to helping the whelp with that farcical quest of his. To think the House of Black passed down to him. 'Tis positively galling! And put on some clothes, you Jezebel!"
"I am no being, I am a beast," Ligeia retorted, sounding rather proud of such a fact. The man's face twisted, looking like he'd sucked on a sour Dornish lemon. "I'd rather be a beast than be considered the same as swamp women or blood-sucking fiends! And Harry was right, and you were wrong. So shut up or I will rip the paint off… off-"
"Off the canvas?" Desmera helpfully supplied, feeling a pleasant flush wash over her face when Ligeia gave her a dazzling grin over her shoulder. It was a much more lovely sight than the annoyed glare sent her way by the prickly man.
"Yes, that!" Ligeia agreed before turning to the man. "Now go, skoteinós."
"It's Black, you nincompoop! Phineas Nigellus Black, get it right!"
"Φύγε αλλιώς θα σε ταΐσω στους καρχαρίες, λωρίδα προς λωρίδα!"
The words, absolutely gibberish to Desmera, must have held some meaning to the painting of Phineas Nigellus Black, because the man looked positively livid. He huffed in displeasure and stormed off, walking off the frame and disappearing.
"Good, he's gone."
"How do you know?" Desmera questioned.
"He has two paintings that belong to him. If he's not in this one, he's moved to another part of the ship."
"Won't he come back, though?"
The siren shook her head. "He's just paint given magic. If I really wanted to break him, there's little he could do about it and he knows it. All he can do is annoy and spy on us"
That offhand remark set off all the alarms in her head. "Wait, what do you mean spy?!"
"Paintings might move and talk, but they're just that – paintings. What a boring existence. Most just sleep it away, and most people don't think about them, so yes, perfect for spying. That one does it a lot."
Desmera grimaced. What came off as a curious, but ultimately harmless detail, just became much more unsettling. Ginevra –or her portrait, at least– had been sleeping when she entered the library. Had she been examining her before revealing her presence?
"So what did you tell him?"
"I just told him he was a disgusting man and to leave."
Desmera lifted an eyebrow. For some reason, she had a hunch Ligeia wasn't being truthful about this. "I see."
"He's foul. I don't understand why Harry keeps him still, he should just throw his frames into the sea and let them sink to the depths," Ligeia muttered darkly before she swam placidly back to Desmera's side. "Enough about him. No one will listen in on us now. You said you wished to apologize?"
"Ah, yes! That's right."
Ligeia gave her a measuring look. "Why?"
Desmera took a moment to gather her thoughts. How could she put to words the jumbled knot of feelings inside of her? She felt guilty for thinking her a monster, but she felt even worse still that the fear hadn't quite left her either, despite her own encouragement.
"Earlier, when you– changed, I- it caught me off guard," she began to say with some hesitation. "I shouldn't have reacted like that. It's who you are, I recognize that, and my reaction… well, it basically said that I was scared of it, scared of you. That's wrong, why should anyone be scared of you after meeting you? I mean, you are- you… I don't want you to feel I'm disgusted or scared by you, Ligeia – what I saw, it- it shook me, yes, but people are more than how they look, right? It's their actions that matter. I-"
"Desmera," Ligeia said firmly, cutting off her rambling.
"I- huh… yes?"
"Move, please."
Confused, she did as asked. Then, to her shock, Ligeia grabbed onto the pool's edge and heaved, pulling herself onto the deck with fluid, sinuous movements. Ligeia curled up next to her, water dripping everywhere from her body. Her tail swished and waved in the air as it left the water.
"Ligeia! Will you be alright outside the water?" Desmera asked with obvious concern, but she only laughed.
"My home is the sea, but I'm not all fish, red child. I can breathe air just as well as you landwalkers do."
'Of course, she's part woman as well.' It made sense when explained, and she'd even seen Ligeia plenty of time outside the water already, but the mere idea of watching Ligeia suffocate outside the water had been a horrible thing to imagine.
Shifting, Ligeia rose up and for a moment, she towered over her with her full height. Desmera gaped. Perhaps it was because she was indistinct from a human woman from hips to head, but she'd assumed Ligeia to be more or less the same height as her.
That couldn't have been further from the truth. Her fishtail gave her an obvious advantage, but she still had to be easily eight feet tall, perhaps even larger! Ligeia was so big, Desmera didn't doubt she could wrap herself around her if she so wished.
But then, the mermaid lowered herself until they were at eye contact. Ligeia's eyes were pure and bright, of seafoam colour, and Desmera found herself unable to avert her own from them.
"I am the first of my kind you've met, how can I expect you to know what you saw, be prepared for it? I'm usually much better at controlling my anger, but this… it is hard, knowing we might not be able to return home," Ligeia explained with a deep frown. "My kind was born from magic. I'm not ashamed of who I am, what I am… but some people see us as monsters, yes. Treacherous beings, they say, callous and flighty. Nothing more than beasts. True beasts."
"Ligeia, I-"
"Perhaps they are right. Sometimes, our more- animal side comes out. I don't want you to see me as a monster, Desmera Redwyne."
"No! I could never see you as one," she declared with a deep conviction that surged from within her.
"Truly? After what you've seen? Are you not scared? You said it yourself."
"You're right, I was scared. Still am, in fact; much of what I've seen on this ship is so strange to me. But you and Harry… he can do magic, yes, and you're something that should not exist, a being taken right from our legends and folktales. But in the end, you are both just people. If you can laugh and feel hope or despair, are you truly that different from us?"
Seeing Desmera's steely determination, Ligeia smiled softly and reached out to brush a crimson lock from her face. "You're kind," she only said, but there was something in those words, in the way she slowly traced the slant of her jaw with a finger, that sent Desmera's pulse racing. She could not look away from those intense eyes.
Ligeia did not seem in a rush to remove the hand from her cheek, and Desmera tried very hard to not think of the powerful thumping she felt in her chest or the way her mouth seemed to have dried up all of a sudden.
"I'm glad I met you and Harry, too. Who else can say they've met a wizard and a real mermaid, after all?" she finally managed to say with a wavering chuckle. "So… do I have your forgiveness?"
Ligeia tittered. "Again, I prefer the term siren, red child, but I see what you mean. If it really means that much to you… then I forgive you."
"Thank you," Desmera said with a smile, feeling a sense of relief settle within her. "Why do you call me that, though? Red child."
"Isn't it obvious? Your hair is red, the colour of blood," Ligeia explained, dropping her hand. "Just like the fire in your veins is red. You are passionate and bold, and you're not afraid to make yourself heard. Red is your colour, even your forebears recognized it. Is your line not called Redwyne?"
"I… hadn't thought of it that way," Desmera replied, flattered by the way Ligeia had described her. When put like that, it did make a sort of bizarre sense. She could do without being called child, though.
"Few see themselves with clarity," Ligeia declared with a shrug, before she looked down at her comb still in Desmera's hands. "If you do not mind, would you finish doing my hair now that fool is gone? I can't quite reach some places."
"Oh!" It wasn't something she actually expected Ligeia to ask of her, but combing someone's hair? She could do that. "Certainly."
The siren leaned forward a bit to give her more space, but there was no need. Desmera only had to stand up to have a good angle on Ligeia's hair. She ran a hand through the blonde's hair. It was wet and clumped in some areas, but it still felt smooth to the touch.
"Thank you. Being so much underwater, taking care of my hair is a pain. Worse if there's no one to help. Harry is clueless about this."
Hearing that, Desmera couldn't contain a short laugh. "It's no trouble. My mother has done the same for me many times, Ceryse and Lily as well."
"Who?"
"My friends. Ceryse is Lord Rhysling's daughter and Lily's my chambermaid," Desmera said before she sighed. "And my family… they must be all worried sick about me."
"There are ways to send messages over long distances with magic, Harry would know them. You could ask him to send one."
Desmera considered the offer for a moment, but she shook her head. "Best not to. I don't know how they would react to magic if I'm not there to prove I'm alright."
"As you wish. Just know you have the option. But I wouldn't worry too much, we'll reach your home soon, and you'll see your family again," Ligeia said, bobbing her head with a slight nod.
Desmera couldn't help but smile at the thought. She couldn't wait to see them again and bask in the familiarity of father's stern, but fair attitude, her mother's shrewd mind, her brothers' antics…
But then, a thought struck her, making her stop combing Ligeia's golden hair momentarily. "What's wrong?" the siren asked.
"I just realized, we talk about me returning home, but what about you and Harry? You're stuck here, with no friends or family, in an unfamiliar land… It doesn't feel fair."
"Yes," Ligeia answered with a shrug, bringing Desmera's attention to the scaled patterns of her shoulders. "But I've screamed at the waves long enough, I'm tired of it. We won't stop trying to get back, but raging will change nothing."
"That's admirable. I don't think I could have your fortitude," Desmera admitted, running the comb through fair locks. The hair felt silky smooth to her fingers, pleasant to the touch.
From her position, she had an unmatched view of Ligeia's back, deceptive in its non-assuming look. Her shrug from moments earlier had brought attention to the notable strength of her back and the well-defined contours of her muscles.
For the briefest of moments, Desmera was possessed of a sudden fascination with the idea of running a hand over Ligeia's back, and she raised a hand without even thinking it.
"Few see themselves with clarity, Desmera Redwyne," Ligeia repeated then, harshly breaking Desmera out of her trance. She flushed a deep reed, and went back to her task, silently praying that the siren hadn't noticed a thing. Fortunately, Ligeia seemed to mistake Desmera's mortification for silent scepticism. "You doubt it? You have more strength in you than you believe. Harry told me what you did last night. You braved fire and death and saved his life."
"Most of those bastards were dead already, he did most of the work," Desmera found herself arguing, refusing the praise. "And he saved my life first."
"That does not make your own actions less important."
"I don't feel strong, though. Whenever I think of the people that died… I feel this pit of pain in my chest that I can't seem to do away with no matter what," Desmera muttered, staring at the gentle waves of the pool. "It hurts so much," she admitted with a tiny voice.
Desmera saw Ligeia move, stopping her task. The siren shifted closer, hair half-braided, turning to cup Desmera's cheeks, forcing her to look up at her clear eyes. They were firm, but kind. Desmera couldn't look away from them.
"And it will hurt for a long while yet, red child. Perhaps forever. But time will soften it, dull its edge. It will never go away completely, but you will live. And you will be stronger and wiser for it."
To Desmera's surprise, the words did make her feel better, if only a tiny bit. "Thank you, Ligeia. That helped a bit."
The siren nodded with a grave look, slowly turning around to offer Desmera her hair once more. "If you ever wish to talk, you need only say so. Do not hesitate. The loss you feel is still very recent. We want to give you space if you need it, but know we are here for you."
Desmera only hummed non-committally, unwilling to discuss the topic further.
The marvels and oddities of Harry's ship were a reprieve from the dark, gloomy thoughts lurking in her mind. If she stopped for too long and allowed herself a moment, it'd all come back.
She didn't want to face the issue. Not yet. It was too soon.
Silently, Desmera pulled Ligeia's locks apart. She ran the comb through them, carefully untangling the few knots she could find. "I hope you can find the way home."
"I hope so, too."
The next few minutes were spent in companionable silence as Desmera worked on Ligeia's hair. "Do you wish me to just comb your hair, or would you like me to braid it?"
"It does get in the way sometimes. If you could make it a simple braid, I would appreciate it."
"Understood. I'll make it the best I can!" Desmera said, taking the long strands of Ligeia's blonde hair and expertly weaving them into a tight braid.
They made some small talk while she worked on it. Desmera learnt that Ligeia was an only child, living with her parents, Akheloios and Melpomenae, in the biggest Siren community below a Mediterranean Sea.
"You should see it! There are sparkling clear waters in shallows, and we sunbathe in bays that Muggles would never reach. Our settlement is made of stone houses in the biggest coral reef of the Mediterranean Sea, where we dwell. Deep beneath the waves, large spires of red coral rise from the seabed, large as land towers," Ligeia said, animated as she explained her home to Desmera.
"It sounds like a beautiful place to see! Living underwater though… I can't imagine what that would be like. It must be so different from how we live!"
"Yes, but we're used to it. It's no better or worse, just different."
"I'm done," Desmera said eventually and stepped back to admire her work. The siren's hair flowed from her head, spiralling down her back in a twisting waterfall of gold.
Ligeia ran a webbed hand over it and from the sounds she made, she was pleased with the result of it. She turned, facing Desmera with a bright grin. "Thank you, this will be very useful!"
"It was… nothing," the redhead stuttered through her reply, unable to avoid ogling at Ligeia's full breasts on display. She hadn't even considered it, but braiding the hair had pulled it away from covering them. "Could you- ahem- cover yourself, please?"
"Oh, sorry. I often forget you landwalkers are very sensitive about this. Harry has yelled at me several times about it," Ligeia said as she laid down on the deck, hiding the sight of her bare chest. "I don't understand why people would be embarrassed by the beauty of others, but I can cover it if you are uncomfortable."
"Thank you," Desmera managed to say as crimson dappled across her cheeks. She wasn't sure how to take the siren's implication in her words. "I- I've made the braid tight, so it won't become loose in the water."
"That's well thought, thanks!"
"It was my pleasure. Your hair is really soft and silky! I don't know how you manage it, living all the time underwater."
The siren only giggled, creating a thrilling sound that hung for a moment in the air. "Natural evolution, I fear. We were born to be beautiful."
"Well, I wish I could have mine as good as yours," Desmera bemoaned, handing back the bone comb to Ligeia.
"Oh, don't say that! Your hair is the loveliest shade of red I've ever seen. You have nothing to envy from others, Desmera Redwyne."
There was something strangely intimate and earnest in the way Ligeia phrased her compliment. Given the look she gave her, Desmera wondered for a moment if the siren wasn't trying to say something else without words, leaving her to decipher her true meaning buried under the words she did speak out loud.
But that couldn't be right. Subtlety didn't seem to be Ligeia's strong suit.
'Surely I'm just imagining things.'
"Ligeia… can I ask you something?"
"You? Always. What is it?"
"I've been to the library and there was… someone there. A painting of someone. She could- speak and talk to me- with me. Who is she?"
Ligeia quickly lost her earlier vibrancy, now sporting a frown that broke the vague otherworldly nature of her beauty. "You met Ginny."
"You know her, then."
"It. Yes, Harry introduced me to that thing."
Ligeia's sudden curtness caught Desmera off guard. "Thing?"
"Yes. It is not alive, never forget that. It can talk and laugh, and cry or yell, but it's false. Nothing more than wood and paint given a fake life. A thing. Death is death. Clinging to the scraps of those who have died is a mistake, Desmera Redwyne," she said. The seriousness on her face was startling, so different from her usual cheerfulness.
"You really think so? Is it not a noble sentiment wishing to have something of the people you love to remember them by?"
"If you love them, it is even worse! You have your thoughts, your memories, your feelings. Wanting more than that… something like what you've seen leads to a sickness of the mind!"
Desmera considered her words for a moment. "You feel strongly about this."
"Harry is my friend. He used to go in there a lot, and he wasn't right after coming out. I hate it."
"So they really know, knew, each other? Ginny implied as much, but she didn't want to tell me more than that."
"Yes, but that is a tale for Harry to tell, no one else has that right," Ligeia said before shaking here head. "I do not care for this glum talk. Why don't you tell me stories from your home? We have not had the opportunity to hear them yet!"
It was obvious Ligeia was eager to drop the topic, and Desmera doubted she'd manage to change her mind. If she really wanted to know more about Ginny, she'd probably have to ask Harry himself.
Desmera laid down on the deck next to Ligeia. "Well, would you like to hear the tale of Elenei, then? I think you will enjoy this one. She is said to be a mermaid, the daughter of the sea god and the goddess of wind. As the legend goes..."