Ficcage
Have... had a bad week. But it is over, and I am determined not to not even have to think this weekend.
We have no caffeine in the house. I've been reduced to drinking hot chocolate.
But what better way to take your mind off your own crappy life than to write someone else's even crappier?
With that in mind...
She still has dreams about Tom.
Little as Ginny’s friends and family realize it, Voldemort scarred her just as he scarred Harry. Just because her wounds are not visible, have not made her famous, doesn’t mean she doesn’t have them, doesn’t mean she doesn’t wake up screaming. She can still hear his voice in the dark corners of her mind, still see his eyes, as cold and deadly as knife blades, in those quiet, restless moments before sleep. Tom Riddle still haunts her, and this time, Harry is not there to save her.
And now, when they all know that the end is coming, and can only wait with bated breath, she is reminded of him daily. By now they are all aware of the prophecy: either Harry will kill Voldemort, or Voldemort will kill Harry. The anticipation is agony, because while her childish crush has worn off, she still loves him. During the day, she skulks about the Hospital wing, waiting for a chance for her studied skills in Healing to be useful, waiting for the news that the Boy Who Lived has been overcome, that they will all soon be overcome. During the night, she wakes, tears streaming down her face, thinking that she is covered in blood.
It’s hard to be optimistic in times like these.
Day by day, it seems that their cause grows weaker. She sees the faces of those she knows flood the Hospital wing, some healthy, some smiling with only a ghostly sickness behind their eyes to speak of the horrors they have seen. But these days, more of the faces are pale, unconscious, bloody. Seamus Finnigan had been brought in days before, so covered in his own blood that she had hardly recognized him. She had stayed by his bedside herself for that first hellish night, stroking his sand-coloured hair and remembering the light in his eyes when they all sat around the Gryffindor common room laughing and telling stories. With the dedicated attention of Healers, he had soon recovered and returned to battle; when he had bid Ginny goodbye, the light in his eyes was gone.
Terry Boot had been admitted to the infirmary just afterwards. He was not as lucky as Seamus.
Ron came to visit her every so often. He tries to comfort her; she knows he’d give the world to protect her from these volatile times. He tells her of Harry and Hermione, who are both busy doing all they are allowed at such a young age to help in the war. Ron smiles, but it is not the same as when they were young.
Ginny, at sixteen, would give anything to be young again.
And then one night he arrived, his unconscious body handled carefully by those who carried him, as if it were some precious jewel they placed on the stark white sheets. Ginny does not move from her spot at Madame Pomfrey’s side; she finds that she can’t. Her eyes scan the face that she knows so well. She has seen it smirk at her smugly, stare down at her with haughty superiority, even glare with unadulterated hatred.
She has never seen it look so innocent.
Madame Pomfrey works busily, her face blank, her manner impersonal, as if this is not the face of a student, someone she has seen countless times before, but as simple as casting the spells and administering the potions she’s practiced for so long. Ginny wishes she could be so focused; her mind is plagued by doubts and fears, and she cannot ignore the twinge of pain at every face she knows.
Even when, like this one, it is not a face she loves.
It is late now, and she is the only one left moving in the Hospital wing. They give her these shifts, she thinks almost bitterly, not because she is useful, but because the worst she has to deal with is nightmares and insomnia. There are wards enough to rouse the real Healers if anything were to happen beyond this.
She pauses in her rounds to look down at him. The moonlight stains his pale hair and skin, softens the lines of his face. He does not look like the Draco Malfoy she knows.
We have no caffeine in the house. I've been reduced to drinking hot chocolate.
But what better way to take your mind off your own crappy life than to write someone else's even crappier?
With that in mind...
She still has dreams about Tom.
Little as Ginny’s friends and family realize it, Voldemort scarred her just as he scarred Harry. Just because her wounds are not visible, have not made her famous, doesn’t mean she doesn’t have them, doesn’t mean she doesn’t wake up screaming. She can still hear his voice in the dark corners of her mind, still see his eyes, as cold and deadly as knife blades, in those quiet, restless moments before sleep. Tom Riddle still haunts her, and this time, Harry is not there to save her.
And now, when they all know that the end is coming, and can only wait with bated breath, she is reminded of him daily. By now they are all aware of the prophecy: either Harry will kill Voldemort, or Voldemort will kill Harry. The anticipation is agony, because while her childish crush has worn off, she still loves him. During the day, she skulks about the Hospital wing, waiting for a chance for her studied skills in Healing to be useful, waiting for the news that the Boy Who Lived has been overcome, that they will all soon be overcome. During the night, she wakes, tears streaming down her face, thinking that she is covered in blood.
It’s hard to be optimistic in times like these.
Day by day, it seems that their cause grows weaker. She sees the faces of those she knows flood the Hospital wing, some healthy, some smiling with only a ghostly sickness behind their eyes to speak of the horrors they have seen. But these days, more of the faces are pale, unconscious, bloody. Seamus Finnigan had been brought in days before, so covered in his own blood that she had hardly recognized him. She had stayed by his bedside herself for that first hellish night, stroking his sand-coloured hair and remembering the light in his eyes when they all sat around the Gryffindor common room laughing and telling stories. With the dedicated attention of Healers, he had soon recovered and returned to battle; when he had bid Ginny goodbye, the light in his eyes was gone.
Terry Boot had been admitted to the infirmary just afterwards. He was not as lucky as Seamus.
Ron came to visit her every so often. He tries to comfort her; she knows he’d give the world to protect her from these volatile times. He tells her of Harry and Hermione, who are both busy doing all they are allowed at such a young age to help in the war. Ron smiles, but it is not the same as when they were young.
Ginny, at sixteen, would give anything to be young again.
And then one night he arrived, his unconscious body handled carefully by those who carried him, as if it were some precious jewel they placed on the stark white sheets. Ginny does not move from her spot at Madame Pomfrey’s side; she finds that she can’t. Her eyes scan the face that she knows so well. She has seen it smirk at her smugly, stare down at her with haughty superiority, even glare with unadulterated hatred.
She has never seen it look so innocent.
Madame Pomfrey works busily, her face blank, her manner impersonal, as if this is not the face of a student, someone she has seen countless times before, but as simple as casting the spells and administering the potions she’s practiced for so long. Ginny wishes she could be so focused; her mind is plagued by doubts and fears, and she cannot ignore the twinge of pain at every face she knows.
Even when, like this one, it is not a face she loves.
It is late now, and she is the only one left moving in the Hospital wing. They give her these shifts, she thinks almost bitterly, not because she is useful, but because the worst she has to deal with is nightmares and insomnia. There are wards enough to rouse the real Healers if anything were to happen beyond this.
She pauses in her rounds to look down at him. The moonlight stains his pale hair and skin, softens the lines of his face. He does not look like the Draco Malfoy she knows.