RP: Stars
Character: Cho Weasley, Percy Weasley.
Location: The flat.
Date: 28th of July, 2000.
Status/Warning: Closed/openish. Violence in a pensieve.
Summary: Coming home from a terrible thing.
Completion: ----
Cho ran home, as her legs dictated; she ran with her head spinning and her lungs burning and every inch of her in odd shivers as if she'd been plunged in cold water, as if Sam had been nothing but a few hours in a lake. She could not think straight -- she was too angry, too angry to think straight, and too exhilarated, and too many things to settle on only one so her running grew lop-sided and she tore the headband from her hair to throw in a puddle on the ground, and the same ground beat her anxious feet in like a hammer--
but still she ran, ran the whole way, and all the while held a hand to her mouth to keep her heart from tumbling out between once-broken teeth. It was different from wanting to vomit, different from wanting to hurt someone; it was different than anything because she was feeling and could not pick it apart, could not analyse a word of her heart's furious mumbling, and all the feeling made her dizzy, all the fear and anger and resentment and helplessness and anger, real anger -- not the kind that seethes, but the kind that has been seething, seething for a very long time. It spilled up through her like burning oil. It was anger at what had happened and what hadn't, anger at Sam, anger at herself; anger at feeling ashamed, and anger for the sake of anger, for the sake of being honest. There was nothing more honest than flame, and Cho was on fire-- with many things, true, but the closest in honesty to fire was blood, red red red. She could taste it at the back of her throat, an echo --
And the apartment appeared eventually, between one red and the other; she saw it through the acid in her eyes, jumping two stairs at a time with nimble feet. She stamped down the hallway as if every floorboard were guilty, sparking with nerves, and she opened the door to her home as if twisting a knife in someone's gut, which meant pausing and fumbling with the knob -- then a furious squeal, a kind of breathless scream when it flew open for her.
And she slammed it at her back again -- wake the dead! -- simultaneously frightened and encouraged by the sound, the blue and black effort of catching her breath, which tore at her lungs and stomach and legs like an animal. Cho bent over at the waist, wheezing; though she stared at the floor her vision sparkled, shifting, and there was a wave something like nausea below the pit of her belly, which burned. Try. I never meant.
She gave another shriek, unable to catch her breath, and then another -- fading into a frustrated sob, shut eyes and the memory of violence, the memory of what had been done, and where the fault lay, and the idea that anyone would -- that anyone could be Sam, could be Sam -- hurt --
All of her held still for a moment, all potential and movement and thought and dependability; her body seemed to fold inward further, sickened, her skin shrinking from invisible wounds and bruises. Then she was holding her breath, and she held her breath while shaking, squeezing her fists together; she held her breath for a long time. 15, 16... Never so hurt, never so
Everything. But
When she couldn't anymore, Cho shot forward, wand out -- and there was a rush of potential, a burst of frustrated magic that sent the kitchen chairs flying, slamming into walls and countertops. Her first real breath was a spell, a Chinese curse of a spell, which sent the sunhat she'd left on the table into a flurry of fire that seemed to pulse, swirl with the essence of her anger -- like blood beating in her temple, or the eyes of the man such flame sought. He would have laughed, he would have clapped his hands. Her evil was nothing like his; she was a spoiled child, unable to sort what she had acquired. Thinking of this the sunhat was jolted and snapped in two; it crackled violently, engulfed in the red, and then disappeared into itself with a sharp rush of air. There was fragrant smoke, like incense; not like anything Cho had ever experienced, as she'd never used this spell for anything but lighting candles. Where the fire had burned now a kind of stillness and dust hung.
(Like stars, in the largest sky she'd ever seen.
It had also been the coldest.)
True North.
There was a final sound -- something like surprise, disgust, fear -- and it fell from her quickly in syllables, gasping for air. Her eyes widened and shut tightly. There was too much. There was a world of it. There were too many words, and nothing could burn them all. Cho would burn first.
I've moved on.
She had -- she'd accepted those months, and pushed past them. But there was something, there was something in the mess in her head; she made out the edges, but her body still sped and thrilled and delighted in the adrenaline of hatred, and perhaps there was nothing there after all. The wand dropped.
Location: The flat.
Date: 28th of July, 2000.
Status/Warning: Closed/openish. Violence in a pensieve.
Summary: Coming home from a terrible thing.
Completion: ----
Cho ran home, as her legs dictated; she ran with her head spinning and her lungs burning and every inch of her in odd shivers as if she'd been plunged in cold water, as if Sam had been nothing but a few hours in a lake. She could not think straight -- she was too angry, too angry to think straight, and too exhilarated, and too many things to settle on only one so her running grew lop-sided and she tore the headband from her hair to throw in a puddle on the ground, and the same ground beat her anxious feet in like a hammer--
but still she ran, ran the whole way, and all the while held a hand to her mouth to keep her heart from tumbling out between once-broken teeth. It was different from wanting to vomit, different from wanting to hurt someone; it was different than anything because she was feeling and could not pick it apart, could not analyse a word of her heart's furious mumbling, and all the feeling made her dizzy, all the fear and anger and resentment and helplessness and anger, real anger -- not the kind that seethes, but the kind that has been seething, seething for a very long time. It spilled up through her like burning oil. It was anger at what had happened and what hadn't, anger at Sam, anger at herself; anger at feeling ashamed, and anger for the sake of anger, for the sake of being honest. There was nothing more honest than flame, and Cho was on fire-- with many things, true, but the closest in honesty to fire was blood, red red red. She could taste it at the back of her throat, an echo --
And the apartment appeared eventually, between one red and the other; she saw it through the acid in her eyes, jumping two stairs at a time with nimble feet. She stamped down the hallway as if every floorboard were guilty, sparking with nerves, and she opened the door to her home as if twisting a knife in someone's gut, which meant pausing and fumbling with the knob -- then a furious squeal, a kind of breathless scream when it flew open for her.
And she slammed it at her back again -- wake the dead! -- simultaneously frightened and encouraged by the sound, the blue and black effort of catching her breath, which tore at her lungs and stomach and legs like an animal. Cho bent over at the waist, wheezing; though she stared at the floor her vision sparkled, shifting, and there was a wave something like nausea below the pit of her belly, which burned. Try. I never meant.
She gave another shriek, unable to catch her breath, and then another -- fading into a frustrated sob, shut eyes and the memory of violence, the memory of what had been done, and where the fault lay, and the idea that anyone would -- that anyone could be Sam, could be Sam -- hurt --
All of her held still for a moment, all potential and movement and thought and dependability; her body seemed to fold inward further, sickened, her skin shrinking from invisible wounds and bruises. Then she was holding her breath, and she held her breath while shaking, squeezing her fists together; she held her breath for a long time. 15, 16... Never so hurt, never so
Everything. But
When she couldn't anymore, Cho shot forward, wand out -- and there was a rush of potential, a burst of frustrated magic that sent the kitchen chairs flying, slamming into walls and countertops. Her first real breath was a spell, a Chinese curse of a spell, which sent the sunhat she'd left on the table into a flurry of fire that seemed to pulse, swirl with the essence of her anger -- like blood beating in her temple, or the eyes of the man such flame sought. He would have laughed, he would have clapped his hands. Her evil was nothing like his; she was a spoiled child, unable to sort what she had acquired. Thinking of this the sunhat was jolted and snapped in two; it crackled violently, engulfed in the red, and then disappeared into itself with a sharp rush of air. There was fragrant smoke, like incense; not like anything Cho had ever experienced, as she'd never used this spell for anything but lighting candles. Where the fire had burned now a kind of stillness and dust hung.
(Like stars, in the largest sky she'd ever seen.
It had also been the coldest.)
True North.
There was a final sound -- something like surprise, disgust, fear -- and it fell from her quickly in syllables, gasping for air. Her eyes widened and shut tightly. There was too much. There was a world of it. There were too many words, and nothing could burn them all. Cho would burn first.
I've moved on.
She had -- she'd accepted those months, and pushed past them. But there was something, there was something in the mess in her head; she made out the edges, but her body still sped and thrilled and delighted in the adrenaline of hatred, and perhaps there was nothing there after all. The wand dropped.