RP: Hovering
Characters: Cho Weasley.
Location: The flat.
Date: 7th of July, 2000.
Status/Warning: Openish.
Summary: Scary day.
Completion: Complete.
The night preceding the seventh was dreamless: a pleasant surprise.
Cho nearly forgot to burn her letters, which were three this year -- one for mum and the other for Cedric and then one, a kind of shy hello, to Fred Weasley. It was the sort of afterthought that made little sense in another; a moment after the flames rose and licked the cursive away, she wondered if it had been necessary at all. She hadn't had much to say in the end, which was why he hadn't gotten one last year; but as his sister now, it seemed only fair. Hi, Fred. How are you?
Cedric's note was longer, more familiar: she reminded him of old jokes and questions and complaints, ignoring the necessary. Embrace the mundane, yes, and those ashes settled in the lines of her palms like henna. Mum's letter spilled out curtly afterward, as a conversation would've: news and nothing. The remains of Cho's attempt were swept out an open window, only to be crushed happily under the wheels of passing cars.
All good wishes -- and keep wishing well, father had said. The dead need better wishes than you or I ever will.
Is it because they're dead? she'd asked, a child; it was sunny out, and they'd been blowing bubbles on the balcony.
No, no, he laughed down at her. Because we're not.
Now Cho didn't know anything. All she was sure of at twenty was that it made no sense: illogical, unacademic. In the light of day it wasn't frightening -- hard to imagine. It was insubstantial as she supposed a spirit might be, when bared of flesh and spiraling toward the ceiling. It was mist, or perfume hanging in the air. It was barely anything at all until nightfall, when the city grew threatening under her feet, and then it was real. It was very real.
After that, closing the curtains did little; she began to grow frightened imagining that now was when the real ghosts arrived, like the one she and Percy had seen in Guangdong. Spineless, gnashing teeth -- and what was the sound it made? She'd had a word for it; she'd dreamed about it over and over again. Blood mash, and a hanging tongue: horrible things were just as real as wonderful ones. There was no reason Fenrir Greyback couldn't be a ghost, when he'd been a monster to begin with; she'd read somewhere that with enough anger, anyone might be.
Even me.
The doppelganger. What if -- going to bed tonight -- she found herself already there, grinning with sharp teeth? What if -- lying next to Percy -- the door began to open, to a white arm? What if -- what if -- reading, she lowered her book to see Fenrir at the foot of the bed, breathing as he did when angry, hissing from a broken throat? No whispering. It's not a conversation you'll ever end, not by hiding your face in the covers. Cho imagined he'd be taller when dead, somehow, as if he'd continued growing: with spindly arms, thin legs. Starved for months.
So when it grew dark, she grew helpless. Incense was burned. The embellished red paper on the doorframe -- foo dog, tiger, dragon -- was smoothed over with a hand, as if to be reminded of its purpose. Safety for the noble. Safety for the true! But Cho suddenly felt neither; instead she was nauseous, and to remedy this found herself wandering the apartment, hovering. (A ghost.) Pretending to read, to sleep... and feeling rather ridiculous, if not entirely. By all means, though, this was a ridiculous holiday to start with. Her older cousins had never been afraid, when she'd spent it with them in Shenzhen: like Halloween, they went to parties and pretended to summon demons and ghouls, laughing at one another, burning cigarettes and paper animals for the dead. Cho had never been able; she'd had the idea of being fearless, but there was a fundamental difference in what she offered herself. She'd hoped that if it were true -- if ghosts walked on the seventh -- they would simply pass her over, and allow a life of polite skepticism on her part.
But however skeptical, Cho was frightened, and there was the problem. She checked the wards multiple times, reinforcing them with her own nervous magic; it seemed to crackle and jump, as though startled by an invisible force.
Afterward she thought of eating, but could not. Then she thought of burning the food instead, but --
No. No, I will not be like this.
Too late. Too late, Weasley, too late. She ran a bath and hid there instead: under the foam, until only eyes and nose showed. Father said ghosts swam through air -- now the less of her that breathed, the less they'd smell her fear.
Wash it away.
Location: The flat.
Date: 7th of July, 2000.
Status/Warning: Openish.
Summary: Scary day.
Completion: Complete.
The night preceding the seventh was dreamless: a pleasant surprise.
Cho nearly forgot to burn her letters, which were three this year -- one for mum and the other for Cedric and then one, a kind of shy hello, to Fred Weasley. It was the sort of afterthought that made little sense in another; a moment after the flames rose and licked the cursive away, she wondered if it had been necessary at all. She hadn't had much to say in the end, which was why he hadn't gotten one last year; but as his sister now, it seemed only fair. Hi, Fred. How are you?
Cedric's note was longer, more familiar: she reminded him of old jokes and questions and complaints, ignoring the necessary. Embrace the mundane, yes, and those ashes settled in the lines of her palms like henna. Mum's letter spilled out curtly afterward, as a conversation would've: news and nothing. The remains of Cho's attempt were swept out an open window, only to be crushed happily under the wheels of passing cars.
All good wishes -- and keep wishing well, father had said. The dead need better wishes than you or I ever will.
Is it because they're dead? she'd asked, a child; it was sunny out, and they'd been blowing bubbles on the balcony.
No, no, he laughed down at her. Because we're not.
Now Cho didn't know anything. All she was sure of at twenty was that it made no sense: illogical, unacademic. In the light of day it wasn't frightening -- hard to imagine. It was insubstantial as she supposed a spirit might be, when bared of flesh and spiraling toward the ceiling. It was mist, or perfume hanging in the air. It was barely anything at all until nightfall, when the city grew threatening under her feet, and then it was real. It was very real.
After that, closing the curtains did little; she began to grow frightened imagining that now was when the real ghosts arrived, like the one she and Percy had seen in Guangdong. Spineless, gnashing teeth -- and what was the sound it made? She'd had a word for it; she'd dreamed about it over and over again. Blood mash, and a hanging tongue: horrible things were just as real as wonderful ones. There was no reason Fenrir Greyback couldn't be a ghost, when he'd been a monster to begin with; she'd read somewhere that with enough anger, anyone might be.
Even me.
The doppelganger. What if -- going to bed tonight -- she found herself already there, grinning with sharp teeth? What if -- lying next to Percy -- the door began to open, to a white arm? What if -- what if -- reading, she lowered her book to see Fenrir at the foot of the bed, breathing as he did when angry, hissing from a broken throat? No whispering. It's not a conversation you'll ever end, not by hiding your face in the covers. Cho imagined he'd be taller when dead, somehow, as if he'd continued growing: with spindly arms, thin legs. Starved for months.
So when it grew dark, she grew helpless. Incense was burned. The embellished red paper on the doorframe -- foo dog, tiger, dragon -- was smoothed over with a hand, as if to be reminded of its purpose. Safety for the noble. Safety for the true! But Cho suddenly felt neither; instead she was nauseous, and to remedy this found herself wandering the apartment, hovering. (A ghost.) Pretending to read, to sleep... and feeling rather ridiculous, if not entirely. By all means, though, this was a ridiculous holiday to start with. Her older cousins had never been afraid, when she'd spent it with them in Shenzhen: like Halloween, they went to parties and pretended to summon demons and ghouls, laughing at one another, burning cigarettes and paper animals for the dead. Cho had never been able; she'd had the idea of being fearless, but there was a fundamental difference in what she offered herself. She'd hoped that if it were true -- if ghosts walked on the seventh -- they would simply pass her over, and allow a life of polite skepticism on her part.
But however skeptical, Cho was frightened, and there was the problem. She checked the wards multiple times, reinforcing them with her own nervous magic; it seemed to crackle and jump, as though startled by an invisible force.
Afterward she thought of eating, but could not. Then she thought of burning the food instead, but --
No. No, I will not be like this.
Too late. Too late, Weasley, too late. She ran a bath and hid there instead: under the foam, until only eyes and nose showed. Father said ghosts swam through air -- now the less of her that breathed, the less they'd smell her fear.
Wash it away.