h/g, R, "Blank"
I <3 r_becca, she rox my sox for the beta.
As always, not to be review-hungry, but I do like reviews, of course :)
Title: Blank
Summary: "She thinks about her own death, too, and stares at the veins in her hand, and sometimes thinks about ending it all because who doesn't? When Seamus dies on Wednesday and Michael dies on Thursday, on Friday it is almost impossible not to say, All right, I give up, I'm next."
Rating: R
Length: 1,807
Notes/Warnings: Character death. This is the darkfic I mentioned in my last post. It is possibly more angsty than dark. Anyway, it's not very happy. Also H/G.
Bodies have become redundant to her.
She knows it is terrible, but when she sees someone walking down the street, all she can do is think about how many ways that person will die today-
Hit by a bus. A misfired curse. A stabbing. Fall down. Old age.
She's never told anyone, and she doesn't intend to. She almost told Harry once, but she found she couldn't. Her mouth was all walled up, his skin was hot under her hand, and for a while nothing mattered to her but his body, and she thought she was cured of it, but that evening she saw a boy that couldn't have been more than ten, and her mind raced.
In the span of ten seconds, the blond boy unknowingly fell onto the railroad tracks, was shot by a Muggle gun, was strangled by a Death Eater, got a concussion from playing with his cousin, was bitten by a python, swallowed too many pills.
She thinks about her own death, too, and stares at the veins in her hand, and sometimes thinks about ending it all because who doesn't? When Seamus dies on Wednesday and Michael dies on Thursday, on Friday it is almost impossible not to say, All right, I give up, I'm next.
She doesn't continue out of any kind of bravery, not really. She lives because she wants to live, because she wants to know what comes next, after all the loss. She wants to know about the future.
There is no real bravery in it. She doesn't even think she knows what bravery is.
*
Hermione dies on a Tuesday.
Ginny remembers this clearly because on Tuesdays the Ministry is open late, which was why she was waiting in line with Hermione to renew her Apparition license when Renalda Lewis, who was standing in front of her, fell sloppily to the ground, eyes glassy, hands stiff. Ginny ducked because such things are automatic to her, as they have been to most people over the past two years.
Hermione is reading a book, of course-Shakespeare. She never even knows they are under attack. This is probably, Ginny thinks, the best way to go.
After she kills two Death Eaters, Ginny sees Hermione's book, splayed open next to her body. There is probably a meaningful quote in there, she thinks, so she kicks the book closed before she Apparates away, because if she reads the quote, Hermione's death will probably make sense, and be logical, and be inevitable.
But Hermione's death does not make sense, and never will, and Ginny doesn't want it to.
*
When Ginny next sees Ron, he is ashen and she suspects he has been vomiting. She feels the same. It is hard to group Hermione with the rest of the dead, as she has done before, because there is so much she cannot forget-house-elves, bushy hair, annoying mannerisms that Ginny never realized how much she would miss.
"I don't know what to do," he says. "Everything's blank."
She nods and looks away, because she refuses to cry. In her peripheral vision, she sees him fidgeting with something in his hand.
"What's that?" she asks softly. He holds out his hand, stricken. She leans in and feels all the breath go out of her lungs in a big whoosh.
Lying in Ron's palm is Hermione's Time Turner. The tiny, fragile thing lies there innocently, with the power to change everything and anything. All Ginny can do is stare at it.
"It was in her drawer-at her flat, I mean. I was-" Ron swallows. "Harry and I were-we were cleaning out her things."
It sounds so impersonal. Ginny can hardly stand it, so she doesn't say anything, only makes a little inarticulate noise.
"We can bring her back," Ron says desperately. "We can bring her back, we can bring everyone back, we can take out the Death Eaters, we can-"
"We can do nothing," she replies, feeling hollow. She looks away again, and rubs at her eyes to keep from crying. "We can't change a single thing."
"We can, though. It turns back time."
"I know what it does, Ron," Ginny snaps. "Why do you think everything will fix itself if we turn back time? If we go back, what makes you think everything will turn out magically?"
"Because it is magical," Ron tells her, but he doesn't sound as though he believes himself. She can see the tear tracks on his cheeks.
"We'll only delay things," she whispers. She begins to cry, and she hates it because she can never cry gracefully or subtly, and all her words come out choked. "We don't know how things will turn out. It could be worse."
"Worse?" Ron asks quietly, though he would have yelled in another time. "What can possibly be worse than Hermione being dead?"
"Everyone being dead," Ginny says.
Her heart feels empty as she takes the Time Turner from Ron's outstretched palm slowly, giving him time to react, and drops it to the floor. Her shoes have thick soles. It does not take long to grind the Time Turner to dust beneath her heel.
When she steps away, Ron is staring at the Time Turner hopelessly.
"We could have saved the world," he whispers.
"We could have destroyed it, too," she replies. For a long time, they stand there, looking at its remains, and as she wipes away her tears, Ginny can almost hear Ron's heartbeat in the terrible, stifling silence.
*
When Harry finally finds his way into her bed a few weeks after Hermione's death, there is nothing romantic about it. Her hair is greasy; she hasn't showered in days, half because she doesn't have time and half because she is afraid to. The scar on her stomach is still healing. His nose was recently broken, and she worries about kissing him too hard. Her hair is dyed brown, and they changed the color of his eyes and the slope of his nose.
Nonetheless he comes to her, and for a while she forgets her terrors, and can only marvel at the way his callused fingers feel against her skin, and the scratch of his stubble against her cheek. For a while there is simply weightlessness, and a stunning ray of hope that she has not felt for some time.
Afterwards he leaves, because there is no way he can stay, and she knows this. He kisses her palm before he goes, and the next morning he kisses her when no one is looking, and she loves this, and him, and though it is not perfect, nothing is.
And he makes her want to live, live, live, and somehow this is all that matters.
*
Harry is hit with a curse; she does not know which one, and she will never know. She sees his knees buckle, sees him tumble to the ground, but it is going too fast, too fast, too fast, and she cannot help him. It seems like eons later when she can finally reach his side. She cannot see the Death Eater's face through the mask, and so she never knows who she screams the curse at. There is not much to remember: her wand, aimed flawlessly-the light, green and vibrant-and then there is only dust, and she is calling Harry's name into his shoulder, shaking with the strength of her love and of her hate. After that she does not remember much but the strange vacuum of hopelessness.
*
Here is what the Mediwitch says, in her calm and collected voice, with her hair pulled tight against her scalp, and with her robes pristine: his memory is gone and he does not remember you and do not pressure him and do not ask him it may return in time but it's no good being optimistic since they have had very few recoveries and do you know what this means? It means your life is lost. It means you have so few people left, and you love him more than life itself, and his body is a shell, and his mind is half there, and all he has is shards of you, and you can never forget him. It means you are dead.
Ginny doesn't believe her, because she's afraid to. Deep inside, a pit grows in her soul. Bile is in her mouth. Please no. Please please no. There are enough dead. There are too many dead.
When she goes in, pretending to be strong, he is looking at the ceiling. His hair is black black black against the starched pillow. There are bandages on his arm; besides that he appears perfectly normal. She thinks he might be pretending.
"Hi," she says. He looks at her, startled, and tries to sit up.
"Hi," he says neutrally. There's a touch of fear in his voice. Her heart almost snaps in two; and though denial can solve many things, it can't fix this.
"Do you remember me?" she asks, voice quavering. Harry looks at her for a long time, with blank green eyes. She recalls so many things: the angles of his face beneath her fingers, the weight of his arm on her shoulders, the way he never says the right thing at the right time; and she thinks she may shatter if he has lost these things. They are all she has left. Without them, she worries she may not exist.
"Your name's Ginny," he says, his eyes still blank, his brow still furrowed. "Your name's Ginny, I know that. I remember…" He sighs and shakes his head. "I remember mouths, and… and clouds… it's all so strange. It feels like everything's been half erased… but I… I remember your smile."
"My smile," she says, in a monotone. Her smile! If that's all he remembers, how can she ever smile again? If she does, he won't have anything left.
"Teach me to remember you," he begs, and there is a spark in his eyes for a moment, but it fades. He puts his hand to her cheek and she feels herself start to sob, but doesn't register what's happening. It's all so far away-his hand on her face, the tears on her face, the guilt on her face-they're all so distant, so remote. She can't control anything anymore, if she ever could.
He says again, "Teach me to remember you," and his voice is desperate, and she cries harder into the steady press of his palm against her cheek.
"I don't remember myself," she chokes out. And then there is nothing but choking, even as he reaches for her, even as he pulls her toward him-choking on her tears, on her love, on the future pressing ceaselessly towards her, in a mass of horrifically promising oblivion.
As always, not to be review-hungry, but I do like reviews, of course :)
Title: Blank
Summary: "She thinks about her own death, too, and stares at the veins in her hand, and sometimes thinks about ending it all because who doesn't? When Seamus dies on Wednesday and Michael dies on Thursday, on Friday it is almost impossible not to say, All right, I give up, I'm next."
Rating: R
Length: 1,807
Notes/Warnings: Character death. This is the darkfic I mentioned in my last post. It is possibly more angsty than dark. Anyway, it's not very happy. Also H/G.
Bodies have become redundant to her.
She knows it is terrible, but when she sees someone walking down the street, all she can do is think about how many ways that person will die today-
Hit by a bus. A misfired curse. A stabbing. Fall down. Old age.
She's never told anyone, and she doesn't intend to. She almost told Harry once, but she found she couldn't. Her mouth was all walled up, his skin was hot under her hand, and for a while nothing mattered to her but his body, and she thought she was cured of it, but that evening she saw a boy that couldn't have been more than ten, and her mind raced.
In the span of ten seconds, the blond boy unknowingly fell onto the railroad tracks, was shot by a Muggle gun, was strangled by a Death Eater, got a concussion from playing with his cousin, was bitten by a python, swallowed too many pills.
She thinks about her own death, too, and stares at the veins in her hand, and sometimes thinks about ending it all because who doesn't? When Seamus dies on Wednesday and Michael dies on Thursday, on Friday it is almost impossible not to say, All right, I give up, I'm next.
She doesn't continue out of any kind of bravery, not really. She lives because she wants to live, because she wants to know what comes next, after all the loss. She wants to know about the future.
There is no real bravery in it. She doesn't even think she knows what bravery is.
*
Hermione dies on a Tuesday.
Ginny remembers this clearly because on Tuesdays the Ministry is open late, which was why she was waiting in line with Hermione to renew her Apparition license when Renalda Lewis, who was standing in front of her, fell sloppily to the ground, eyes glassy, hands stiff. Ginny ducked because such things are automatic to her, as they have been to most people over the past two years.
Hermione is reading a book, of course-Shakespeare. She never even knows they are under attack. This is probably, Ginny thinks, the best way to go.
After she kills two Death Eaters, Ginny sees Hermione's book, splayed open next to her body. There is probably a meaningful quote in there, she thinks, so she kicks the book closed before she Apparates away, because if she reads the quote, Hermione's death will probably make sense, and be logical, and be inevitable.
But Hermione's death does not make sense, and never will, and Ginny doesn't want it to.
*
When Ginny next sees Ron, he is ashen and she suspects he has been vomiting. She feels the same. It is hard to group Hermione with the rest of the dead, as she has done before, because there is so much she cannot forget-house-elves, bushy hair, annoying mannerisms that Ginny never realized how much she would miss.
"I don't know what to do," he says. "Everything's blank."
She nods and looks away, because she refuses to cry. In her peripheral vision, she sees him fidgeting with something in his hand.
"What's that?" she asks softly. He holds out his hand, stricken. She leans in and feels all the breath go out of her lungs in a big whoosh.
Lying in Ron's palm is Hermione's Time Turner. The tiny, fragile thing lies there innocently, with the power to change everything and anything. All Ginny can do is stare at it.
"It was in her drawer-at her flat, I mean. I was-" Ron swallows. "Harry and I were-we were cleaning out her things."
It sounds so impersonal. Ginny can hardly stand it, so she doesn't say anything, only makes a little inarticulate noise.
"We can bring her back," Ron says desperately. "We can bring her back, we can bring everyone back, we can take out the Death Eaters, we can-"
"We can do nothing," she replies, feeling hollow. She looks away again, and rubs at her eyes to keep from crying. "We can't change a single thing."
"We can, though. It turns back time."
"I know what it does, Ron," Ginny snaps. "Why do you think everything will fix itself if we turn back time? If we go back, what makes you think everything will turn out magically?"
"Because it is magical," Ron tells her, but he doesn't sound as though he believes himself. She can see the tear tracks on his cheeks.
"We'll only delay things," she whispers. She begins to cry, and she hates it because she can never cry gracefully or subtly, and all her words come out choked. "We don't know how things will turn out. It could be worse."
"Worse?" Ron asks quietly, though he would have yelled in another time. "What can possibly be worse than Hermione being dead?"
"Everyone being dead," Ginny says.
Her heart feels empty as she takes the Time Turner from Ron's outstretched palm slowly, giving him time to react, and drops it to the floor. Her shoes have thick soles. It does not take long to grind the Time Turner to dust beneath her heel.
When she steps away, Ron is staring at the Time Turner hopelessly.
"We could have saved the world," he whispers.
"We could have destroyed it, too," she replies. For a long time, they stand there, looking at its remains, and as she wipes away her tears, Ginny can almost hear Ron's heartbeat in the terrible, stifling silence.
*
When Harry finally finds his way into her bed a few weeks after Hermione's death, there is nothing romantic about it. Her hair is greasy; she hasn't showered in days, half because she doesn't have time and half because she is afraid to. The scar on her stomach is still healing. His nose was recently broken, and she worries about kissing him too hard. Her hair is dyed brown, and they changed the color of his eyes and the slope of his nose.
Nonetheless he comes to her, and for a while she forgets her terrors, and can only marvel at the way his callused fingers feel against her skin, and the scratch of his stubble against her cheek. For a while there is simply weightlessness, and a stunning ray of hope that she has not felt for some time.
Afterwards he leaves, because there is no way he can stay, and she knows this. He kisses her palm before he goes, and the next morning he kisses her when no one is looking, and she loves this, and him, and though it is not perfect, nothing is.
And he makes her want to live, live, live, and somehow this is all that matters.
*
Harry is hit with a curse; she does not know which one, and she will never know. She sees his knees buckle, sees him tumble to the ground, but it is going too fast, too fast, too fast, and she cannot help him. It seems like eons later when she can finally reach his side. She cannot see the Death Eater's face through the mask, and so she never knows who she screams the curse at. There is not much to remember: her wand, aimed flawlessly-the light, green and vibrant-and then there is only dust, and she is calling Harry's name into his shoulder, shaking with the strength of her love and of her hate. After that she does not remember much but the strange vacuum of hopelessness.
*
Here is what the Mediwitch says, in her calm and collected voice, with her hair pulled tight against her scalp, and with her robes pristine: his memory is gone and he does not remember you and do not pressure him and do not ask him it may return in time but it's no good being optimistic since they have had very few recoveries and do you know what this means? It means your life is lost. It means you have so few people left, and you love him more than life itself, and his body is a shell, and his mind is half there, and all he has is shards of you, and you can never forget him. It means you are dead.
Ginny doesn't believe her, because she's afraid to. Deep inside, a pit grows in her soul. Bile is in her mouth. Please no. Please please no. There are enough dead. There are too many dead.
When she goes in, pretending to be strong, he is looking at the ceiling. His hair is black black black against the starched pillow. There are bandages on his arm; besides that he appears perfectly normal. She thinks he might be pretending.
"Hi," she says. He looks at her, startled, and tries to sit up.
"Hi," he says neutrally. There's a touch of fear in his voice. Her heart almost snaps in two; and though denial can solve many things, it can't fix this.
"Do you remember me?" she asks, voice quavering. Harry looks at her for a long time, with blank green eyes. She recalls so many things: the angles of his face beneath her fingers, the weight of his arm on her shoulders, the way he never says the right thing at the right time; and she thinks she may shatter if he has lost these things. They are all she has left. Without them, she worries she may not exist.
"Your name's Ginny," he says, his eyes still blank, his brow still furrowed. "Your name's Ginny, I know that. I remember…" He sighs and shakes his head. "I remember mouths, and… and clouds… it's all so strange. It feels like everything's been half erased… but I… I remember your smile."
"My smile," she says, in a monotone. Her smile! If that's all he remembers, how can she ever smile again? If she does, he won't have anything left.
"Teach me to remember you," he begs, and there is a spark in his eyes for a moment, but it fades. He puts his hand to her cheek and she feels herself start to sob, but doesn't register what's happening. It's all so far away-his hand on her face, the tears on her face, the guilt on her face-they're all so distant, so remote. She can't control anything anymore, if she ever could.
He says again, "Teach me to remember you," and his voice is desperate, and she cries harder into the steady press of his palm against her cheek.
"I don't remember myself," she chokes out. And then there is nothing but choking, even as he reaches for her, even as he pulls her toward him-choking on her tears, on her love, on the future pressing ceaselessly towards her, in a mass of horrifically promising oblivion.