Catharsis
Title: Catharsis
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor am I making any amount of money off of this.
Pairing: past Harry/Ginny, implied Harry/Draco
Summary: Ginny writes a letter to Harry after their divorce.
Word Count: 1200+
Rating: PG for a curse word or two, I guess.
A/N: Written as a combination of the hh_writersblock's prompt, correspondence and 100_women's prompt#18, truth with a mild twist to both.
The light breeze teased the loose strands of her hair up and away from her face eliciting a small involuntary smile. It was simple quiet afternoons like this in the Burrow Garden that she missed most of her childhood. The breeze, the smell of summer flowers, her brothers' shouts echoing throughout the house as they did their best to drive their mum spare, her dad's soft content smiles as he came to sit by her and enjoy the harmonious, to them, cacophony.
But that was long time ago, memories she could barely reach without coming to tears or resentment so stinging and jarring she wondered at how she wasn't just physically ripped apart as violently as her thoughts tumbled through her mind.
She sighed and bent once more over the picnic table smoothing out the parchment before her for what seemed like the tenth time in the space of an hour, cursing Hermione as many times for putting this idea in her head.
'Closure', she said, 'Catharsis,'' she entreated, hefting her thick hair over her shoulder, 'It would certainly be a sight better than the way you've been moping about Ginervra.'
Circe, she sounded like Mum just then, probably what pushed her in the end. The thought that Harry and M- that man, had driven her to lose her fire--mopey, it was an insult to redheads everywhere.
Well then enough of this madness, Ginervra, you're a Weasley for Morgana's sake, a Gryffindor no less. It's just a letter.
Which of course begged the question, how does one write a closure-seeking, cathartic, non-mopey letter to the man you'd spent most of your life loving? The one who gave you children, a home, happiness, pleasure, safety and a fucking life for hell's sake.
How are you supposed to close a chapter like that? It was a bloody book! And you were supposed to end it, just like a that: a swish of the quill, ink to parchment, and there. Done.
That niggling voice that crept up as a prelude to a tsunami of resentment spoke out, 'He might as well have.'
Well, alright then.
Dear No, that just doesn't make sense, he's not mine to be dear with anymore, is he?
Again.
To Mr. Pot No, just no. It sounded like she was speaking to her father for goodness sake.
Harry,
I hate you don't hate you don't hate you anymore
It seems it's enduring, this obsession with you; in that, we are similar, always obsessed with what we couldn't have. But then we're different for the same reason, I never screwed anyone over to obtain my obsession.
I still remember that first day I came face to face with you, there isn't a day I regret more in my life, there isn't a day more emblazoned in my memory than that, not even our wedding where you stood and lied to my face. I just knew that it was momentous and would be my life's story from then on.
She had to stop then, this had to be the worst of all her attempts-my life's story from then on-it strongly brought back memories of Warbeck's ghastly songs, worse yet it sounded romantic. This was supposed to be closure, not trying to open up a sealed door with as much saccharine sweetness and fallacy as possible.
Exhaustion fell upon her, she couldn't even say it was sudden, as it had been happening more and more often. A certain desire to just fall into bed, never wake up, never move because damn it all to the depths it wasn't worth it anymore.
Ginny groaned, her long red hair falling over her as she leaned on her hands, the old worn table punishing her with splinters for her surrender.
Very well then, honest as can be. A memory of Arthur Weasley's strong but gentle gaze firmly asking her not to lie to him, Ginny seven with pigtails, twiddling her thumbs and cursing her luck that it had to be her dad who found her out.
Clutching to that memory, forced honesty was still truth, Ginny wrote again. It wasn't meant to be cathartic, not a hint of flourish, and she wasn't moping, she was angry.
Harry,
Well here's the gist of it. You gave me a life, then upended it. No warning, at least no signs that I could see. You loved me, but not as much as I loved you-still love you. A part of me knew that, always knew that. But it was alright, because my love for you was deeper than you could ever understand, it was everything. You dare come at me with words like "We were not what we expected," or that "We expected too much of each other, ideals that neither of us could fulfill" and I want to wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze.
But that's neither here nor there, don't I sound like Hermione in that bit, but my point: I get that we're over, but here's the thing, I am very angry at you, at our life that you turned into a lie, and I might never forgive you. I'm so sick and tired of everyone looking at me, feeling sympathy, pitying me for how well I'm taking it, congratulating me for letting you go and forgiving you.
I'm not making much sense am I?
Let me try again, I don't wish you the best, I don't wish you happiness. I won't fight you, but I can't promise there is going to be a day that will go by without me wishing inexplicable harm on him, not you, you I love, still, for whatever insane reason.
Then again, my love has always been insanity to you hasn't it? I saw it in your eyes the day I took the polyjuice and turned into him before your eyes. I almost went along with it, but the thing that stopped me was not the revulsion in your eyes, but the tentative acceptance, that you could want me as long as I tried to be him. Thanks for that particular insult, by the way. Add it to the list, yeah?
Don't I sound like a harpy? I bet he's reading this with you, his blond hair brushing your shoulder as he leans over and makes snarky remarks.
Do you know that many people still say that you won't last, because it's Harry Potter and a Death Eater, because it was a result of infidelity. But I know better, don't I? See, unlike our ill fated marriage, your obsessions with each other match up in intensity, you'll destroy each other, reduce one another to bitter shells before you let go. So while I'm still angry, I understand, maybe one day I'll even respect it.
I've written all this and I still feel the raw pain, unyielding anger, and no amount of catharsis whatsoever. At least I'm not mopey anymore. I-
So goodbye, Harry,
Ginny.
She read it over to herself, disappointed at the tone of the letter, who she'd become clearly illustrated in the hard cut of every word. But it was what he'd turned her into, for that she felt no remorse, that was his to feel.
She pushed back the bench and walked back into the house, maybe she'd send it tomorrow.
Reviews & Concrit always welcome :)
A/N: This had to be the most disjointed fic I've ever written, but I think that may have to do with how Ginny's feeling. I'd like to make it clear that my intention wasn't to make Ginny sound like nothing but a bitter shell, I believe she loved Harry, just that Harry may not have had the same idea.
I always saw their love kind of like the whole Tonks/Remus debacle, a matter of substitution and reality. But that's just me and my humble and not always logical opinions.
I think that at some point in the future I'll edit this story, so please let loose with the concrit.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor am I making any amount of money off of this.
Pairing: past Harry/Ginny, implied Harry/Draco
Summary: Ginny writes a letter to Harry after their divorce.
Word Count: 1200+
Rating: PG for a curse word or two, I guess.
A/N: Written as a combination of the hh_writersblock's prompt, correspondence and 100_women's prompt#18, truth with a mild twist to both.
The light breeze teased the loose strands of her hair up and away from her face eliciting a small involuntary smile. It was simple quiet afternoons like this in the Burrow Garden that she missed most of her childhood. The breeze, the smell of summer flowers, her brothers' shouts echoing throughout the house as they did their best to drive their mum spare, her dad's soft content smiles as he came to sit by her and enjoy the harmonious, to them, cacophony.
But that was long time ago, memories she could barely reach without coming to tears or resentment so stinging and jarring she wondered at how she wasn't just physically ripped apart as violently as her thoughts tumbled through her mind.
She sighed and bent once more over the picnic table smoothing out the parchment before her for what seemed like the tenth time in the space of an hour, cursing Hermione as many times for putting this idea in her head.
'Closure', she said, 'Catharsis,'' she entreated, hefting her thick hair over her shoulder, 'It would certainly be a sight better than the way you've been moping about Ginervra.'
Circe, she sounded like Mum just then, probably what pushed her in the end. The thought that Harry and M- that man, had driven her to lose her fire--mopey, it was an insult to redheads everywhere.
Well then enough of this madness, Ginervra, you're a Weasley for Morgana's sake, a Gryffindor no less. It's just a letter.
Which of course begged the question, how does one write a closure-seeking, cathartic, non-mopey letter to the man you'd spent most of your life loving? The one who gave you children, a home, happiness, pleasure, safety and a fucking life for hell's sake.
How are you supposed to close a chapter like that? It was a bloody book! And you were supposed to end it, just like a that: a swish of the quill, ink to parchment, and there. Done.
That niggling voice that crept up as a prelude to a tsunami of resentment spoke out, 'He might as well have.'
Well, alright then.
Dear No, that just doesn't make sense, he's not mine to be dear with anymore, is he?
Again.
To Mr. Pot No, just no. It sounded like she was speaking to her father for goodness sake.
Harry,
I hate you don't hate you don't hate you anymore
It seems it's enduring, this obsession with you; in that, we are similar, always obsessed with what we couldn't have. But then we're different for the same reason, I never screwed anyone over to obtain my obsession.
I still remember that first day I came face to face with you, there isn't a day I regret more in my life, there isn't a day more emblazoned in my memory than that, not even our wedding where you stood and lied to my face. I just knew that it was momentous and would be my life's story from then on.
She had to stop then, this had to be the worst of all her attempts-my life's story from then on-it strongly brought back memories of Warbeck's ghastly songs, worse yet it sounded romantic. This was supposed to be closure, not trying to open up a sealed door with as much saccharine sweetness and fallacy as possible.
Exhaustion fell upon her, she couldn't even say it was sudden, as it had been happening more and more often. A certain desire to just fall into bed, never wake up, never move because damn it all to the depths it wasn't worth it anymore.
Ginny groaned, her long red hair falling over her as she leaned on her hands, the old worn table punishing her with splinters for her surrender.
Very well then, honest as can be. A memory of Arthur Weasley's strong but gentle gaze firmly asking her not to lie to him, Ginny seven with pigtails, twiddling her thumbs and cursing her luck that it had to be her dad who found her out.
Clutching to that memory, forced honesty was still truth, Ginny wrote again. It wasn't meant to be cathartic, not a hint of flourish, and she wasn't moping, she was angry.
Harry,
Well here's the gist of it. You gave me a life, then upended it. No warning, at least no signs that I could see. You loved me, but not as much as I loved you-still love you. A part of me knew that, always knew that. But it was alright, because my love for you was deeper than you could ever understand, it was everything. You dare come at me with words like "We were not what we expected," or that "We expected too much of each other, ideals that neither of us could fulfill" and I want to wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze.
But that's neither here nor there, don't I sound like Hermione in that bit, but my point: I get that we're over, but here's the thing, I am very angry at you, at our life that you turned into a lie, and I might never forgive you. I'm so sick and tired of everyone looking at me, feeling sympathy, pitying me for how well I'm taking it, congratulating me for letting you go and forgiving you.
I'm not making much sense am I?
Let me try again, I don't wish you the best, I don't wish you happiness. I won't fight you, but I can't promise there is going to be a day that will go by without me wishing inexplicable harm on him, not you, you I love, still, for whatever insane reason.
Then again, my love has always been insanity to you hasn't it? I saw it in your eyes the day I took the polyjuice and turned into him before your eyes. I almost went along with it, but the thing that stopped me was not the revulsion in your eyes, but the tentative acceptance, that you could want me as long as I tried to be him. Thanks for that particular insult, by the way. Add it to the list, yeah?
Don't I sound like a harpy? I bet he's reading this with you, his blond hair brushing your shoulder as he leans over and makes snarky remarks.
Do you know that many people still say that you won't last, because it's Harry Potter and a Death Eater, because it was a result of infidelity. But I know better, don't I? See, unlike our ill fated marriage, your obsessions with each other match up in intensity, you'll destroy each other, reduce one another to bitter shells before you let go. So while I'm still angry, I understand, maybe one day I'll even respect it.
I've written all this and I still feel the raw pain, unyielding anger, and no amount of catharsis whatsoever. At least I'm not mopey anymore. I-
So goodbye, Harry,
Ginny.
She read it over to herself, disappointed at the tone of the letter, who she'd become clearly illustrated in the hard cut of every word. But it was what he'd turned her into, for that she felt no remorse, that was his to feel.
She pushed back the bench and walked back into the house, maybe she'd send it tomorrow.
Reviews & Concrit always welcome :)
A/N: This had to be the most disjointed fic I've ever written, but I think that may have to do with how Ginny's feeling. I'd like to make it clear that my intention wasn't to make Ginny sound like nothing but a bitter shell, I believe she loved Harry, just that Harry may not have had the same idea.
I always saw their love kind of like the whole Tonks/Remus debacle, a matter of substitution and reality. But that's just me and my humble and not always logical opinions.
I think that at some point in the future I'll edit this story, so please let loose with the concrit.