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enismirdalSorry if I was expected at CUWoCS last night - I wanted to relax and get some work done, which I did. I'm glad I got those essays started. Apologies if someone dragged my...erm, yes...to the meeting, only to find me not there.
Well, in between essay-writing, we randomly ended up at the Bird in Hand on TG evening, which was fun. It was nice to chill and not worry about people starting annoying rumours about us as they would at Catz (which would inevitably end up in the college magazine, which typically parents like reading online...)
I've packed off Underestimated to Kate after my previous beta pulled out (poor sweetie, sounded like she needed a hug and a holiday), so she's nitpicking that nicely - yay!
In return, I'm sticking Kate's fic Broken Silence up here cos when she posted it on Veela Inc no-one read it and FB'd except this creepy 11 year old! *retching noises* I like it, anyway! I've copied and pasted straight off the e-mail submission she sent...
BTW anyone know any proper HP slash archives that aren't ff.net and don't flame people for fem?
Title: Broken Silence
Author: Katy
Rating: PG13, nothing really happens that is high rated, it is just a bit
dark
Pairing: Ginny/Another girl, I don't think I'll tell you quite yet if you
don't mind.
Warnings: Dark, suicide and femslash. Gosh that is a hell of a lot of
warnings for my first fic.. What ever happened to me being a 'nice girl'?
What would my mother say now!
Disclaimer: If you are under the misapprehension that this could possibly be
mine then you are not only wrong but extremely misguided.
Author's Notes: As I said, this is my first ever finished fic. So I am a tad
nervous.
I need to give my undying thanks to Enismirdal for her wonderful expertise,
she managed to correct my grammar, point out when I wasn't making any sense,
make me actually write this and then actually let it out to annoy all you
lot with! Not only that, but she also kisses me lots (so under-rated
darling!) and eats Bailey's ice-cream with me when I feel sad.. So lots and
lots of kisses for you, not like I wasn't going to kiss you anyway. but
there we go. Can never kiss too much, that's my philosophy. Thanks sweetie
Broken
She was broken goods, defiled and ruined before she ever had the chance to
be something real. Written out as a little damaged thing that was there
purely as someone to pity. Ginny Weasley did not think highly of pity. But
damaged, she could identify with that. Even now after all these years she
always saw it, there and vivid in her mind's eye; the image of a beautiful
young and clear boy as he drained her soul and bled her heart. For Ginny was
quite sure that it was at that very moment that her heart had become dry,
hard and quite dead. Not that she minded; she lived without a heart quite
well, she thought. But in the night, in the infinite stretches of black, she
bled all over again, on her sheets, silently, with a sharp knife, or after
she had learnt that especially useful and quite dark spell with only her
wand to guide her.
That summer had in its own way been worse than the event itself; that was
what Ginny thought, in her most cynical moments, would send her to therapy
for life. To be a Weasley was defining, the hair, the infernal happiness of
it all. It suffocated her, enveloped her and refused to let her breathe. The
fuss of her mother, the gentle concern of her father, and the rough, ill
expressed and vague assertions as to whether she was OK from her brothers;
they were all, Ginny knew, a way to cover their disgust for their sweet and
innocent little daughter, now scared and dirtied by all that blackness. And
in a way they was right, she was blackened by it all; her soul was never as
blank and carefree as before.
She allowed what was left to rot, cutting her losses at only twelve; she
already understood that, in her world, she couldn't go on and care with a
continual and juvenile trust that her brothers had in 'light', in 'good', in
Dumbledore and his 'Order'. The night then became in her eyes a time of only
two purposes, that of blood, and that of dark. For the dark was fascinating.
It all depended on what you were prepared to give, calculated risks.
Allowing her to take advantage of the magic in her blood in her body and
what was left of her already tattered soul.
It is amazing, she would hear her mother comment to some nameless friend
over tea, how my little Ginny has come out of that terrible business in her
first year quite unscathed. Ginny would only dig the knife in deeper
covering the scars with one of the first less-than-blameless charms that she
had ever mastered. After all, masking the truth could never be a pure
intent. Ginny, however, knew that it was in fact the only thing to do. Her
happy, bright family could never understand the ruin that had fallen on
their daughter. Her strength and growing power would be viewed as nothing of
the sort. She would be punished and mistrusted and they would mourn her loss
of innocence all over again. No, it was better for all that it was this way.
The Watcher
I remember the first day that I ever asked mother to explain. I was about
seven, I should imagine. It was, as far as I can recall, my first ever
question of note; my first that contained anything of more substance than
the contents of the next meal. What I asked was in actual fact very
unimportant. Well, it was an important question in its own way, but it
wasn't the fact that I asked this one question over any other that mattered;
the whole incident was, when you look at it objectively, entirely
insignificant. But to me, it changed the world. That was the difference you
see - I said that it was important, a turning point, a milestone - so it
was. Her response taught me that these were not the sort of queries that
should ever be uttered. Or I am sure in her pretty head never even
considered.
I was spoilt, I was never shouted at, and if I persisted in wanting
something for about a week, I would always get it. I lived in a beautiful
house in Bath, on the Crescent, hidden from Muggles in a simple yet
ingenious fashion: that it wasn't at all hidden. It stood in entirely plain
view, for everyone to see. I always thought that it was the most elegant
method of hiding; I still do, in a way. I have no excuse for myself, I have
no one to blame. My fall from grace is entirely my own and I am proud of it.
It started as I have said when I asked without a trace of what was to come;
why was it that we followed a Lord who was defeated by a baby? My mother,
who hated to scowl, such an ugly expression she always said, allowed a look
of displeasure to flick across her face. That was all, and then she tuned
and walked out of the room. I felt immediately a sense of foreboding; not
fear, not actual terror, just unease, knowing that nothing was right, that
at that instant it may never be right again.
The next week I was given my first lesson in becoming what my parents were.
Given a book and told to read it, told that it would answer my questions.
Told that it was an exciting secret, even more important than the fact that
we were more special than Muggles , even greater than the fact that we lived
among them. I was told that I would never ask questions again once I had
read this book, told it was an honour to be given it this young. Told
everything in fact; I hated being told, not being allowed to question, and I
realised then that questioning was not expected.
The Story of Our Lord, it sounds amazingly like it should be the title of
some ridiculous religious work of some cult or other. And in its way, it
was. It was clearly written to impress. Bound in leather, it was large and
heavy. Written in language that made me think it was truly ancient, and to
almost laugh when I found out years later that it couldn't have been written
more than a decade ago. So I read it, and knew immediately that I couldn't
have anything to do with it.
Have you ever had to keep a secret? Knowing something so vital that to even
think it too often could cause death. Have you ever lived under thunder
clouds that seem to threaten to descend at any moment? Hiding something that
is so central to your very identity that not to express it feels like the
worst kind of treason.
I realise that I sound like a pretentious wanker, well apart from the fact
that I don't have the anatomy, but at that time that is what it felt like.
As if I would burst from having not to tell a soul. From the age of seven I
was a stranger, an alien in my own home. I read the book, the whole vile
mess of it, and I felt disgusted. I don't know why. Maybe you need pain in
your life to identify with the dark. Maybe it is only revenge or hate that
can drive you to do that. I have to say I don't know. But whatever it was, I
didn't have it.
I knew that I was different, and I hated it, with a passion that I had never
felt before. I couldn't cope and I didn't know how to live with myself. I
had no role models and no grounding. I was so lonely. I learnt though. I
grew to love hiding; it became part of my identity. Apart from what was
hidden I had nothing, I was terrible at what my parents tried to teach me,
nothing special at school and my friends were there but only as a recurring
theme in my life. Nothing life altering. People viewed Slytherins as evil,
but though quite a few of us had parents who were death eaters and quite a
few of us were destined to join them, it was still hardly a topic of polite
conversation.
So I lived in secret and thought in secret and dreamed in secret. Never
sharing becoming more and more hidden until I could not even remember what I
had been like to be free. And while my housemates silently learnt the dark
arts and ransomed their soles I watched and couldn't turn away. Knowing that
it was just as wrong to watch and do nothing as it was to do it yourself.
Hating that which I had become, hating what they wanted to be. So I watched,
silently, never taking part, always watching. Until it became my obsession.
I was the ghost of Slytherin, and they never knew it. It was all I had to
take pride in; I failed my parents and my school. I was never brave enough
to report them to stop it; I just sat silently and watched.
Sacrifice
Ginny searched, she did not know what it was that she looked for, not a
cure; she knew she was too far gone for that. She didn't want revenge, she
understood that it was unnecessary, the very fact she could exist was her
revenge. She did not hunt for a weapon, well, not for one that would work
against anyone else other than herself. She hunted with a fervour
approaching insanity; she had to have something to live for, other than the
vague sense of guilt that kept her hidden. Sleep, she realised, was only
required by the weak. It could be exchanged for other things; of course it
was an exchange both ways. It took power to keep her going, but it took
power to stop with her knife too. Power she had.
At night then the dark ruled; this was, Ginny reasoned, the time it should
rule. The nightmares of the innocent, feeding it as though it were some
unnamed, ancient being, which was, she discovered, not so very far from the
truth. She found that this was where her talent lay, she was entirely
unremarkable in every other way, but here she could have been amazing.
Hogwarts was now to her fraught with danger, the danger of discovery and
expulsion; it provided her with the thrills that others got in foolish,
childish pursuits. She lived her life well, she could control it. This was
what in essence she was searching for, control. Not power, that was the lure
of the weak. She read ancient texts and learnt new languages; she absorbed
them all, and sometimes an attentive observer would have seen the sparks of
power as she grew in strength.
Hatred ran through her veins of what she did not know, but it grew and ate
her from the inside out. Her path began to open out in front of her, her
knife began to dig deeper and she began to understand. She could no longer
love, of that she was sure, but she could remember the idea of it and that
[is] {was} what drove her. That is why she knew that control was not the
ultimate, why she did not want to become another Lord to rise above them
all. That was why she realised that she was all there was left. Her clarity
could not be seen by the others, they were blinded by their petty lives.
Ginny had determination. She saw that the only way to fight the dark was not
to outshine it with a paltry and pathetic glimmer of light; even though that
was far more poetic, she knew and she understood.
Sacrifice. That was what it was about; you could not get anything for
nothing, and she knew now what she had to do. She was too damaged to
succeed, the rot had set in, and she could feel it creeping, advancing and
corrupting her. Taking her and making her into something that she was not.
She would give all that she had left, that was the only way left to make
amends. She was wrong and dark inside, and this would be her saving grace.
The pain in her could no longer be contained blood was becoming her waking,
dreaming life. But after all this she would sacrifice for the ultimate of
outcomes. When he had been young and happy, before her heart had been
destroyed, she remembered, though she could no longer recall the actual
emotion that she had loved in an innocent and real way. And he was unaware
that he would in the end die, and would be sacrificed. So the only
alternative was for her to sacrifice herself.
The pain of existing was too great, she had tried and she was failing; so as
not to fall she was paying higher and higher prices. The effort to live
became a need to die, a physical need. It enveloped her and consumed all her
strength; some nights she could not breathe. Her lungs would hold themselves
closed in a desperate search for peace. Ginny had not cried since it all
began, but now with this all-encompassing ache she could not hold back the
heave of her chest as she struggled against tears she could not shed. There
was no way she could continue; her mask was slipping.
Nearly
I watched and I saw, I saw that nearly half the Slytherins exchanged their
sleep for knowledge, as did Ravenclaws, Griffindors and Hufflepuffs. It was
not purely a pastime for the serpents. Though they were though mostly the
elder members of my own house. I could see them bartering away their
innocence for more pain. Their strength was so much lower than they thought
and the price was too high, their souls withered and their power grew, but
their power was not what they believed it to be. They studied with diligence
that spoke of their incomprehension. Many, I knew, only learnt as
instructed. Some had a natural talent or a desire for something that drove
them to learn to give them power or revenge, but still I could see that what
drove them was not enough.
They paid a price though, and I could see that. The pain was hideous; they
caused pain and they felt it, every night. And I watched transfixed. It was
so wrong in every way. I wanted to stop them, but I was no brave, reckless
lion; I could not, I just watched. As I watched, I learnt, I was not stupid.
But I learnt the price too, I could see it. They spent their blood on
something that they did not understand. How could they? I almost pitied the
stupid fools, they would never be a powerful dark force as they all wished
in their warped and shadow filled dreams. They were children who did not
even realise what it was that they lost.
I was more scared, though, of one, than of all the others. She was hidden
from them all, they could not see her, she could melt into the background
until there was just a shimmer in the air. I watched though and I learnt to
see; it is hard to hide from the truth. And that was my only weapon against
it - that I did not participate, it owned nothing of me.
I could not understand her, she had no one forcing her into this, no aims to
rule; I could see that. She was powerful, I could see it on her, radiating
and growing, she did not seem to care for the price, she did not mourn the
loss of herself: she relished it. I saw her die, slowly. Her life withering,
her soul decayed. She had been damaged before I ever saw her I think, but
the pain that I saw in her was even greater than that which she inflicted on
herself. The dark could do nothing, it seemed, that she did not do already.
I knew of course what started this; it was the gossip of the common room for
months.
I began, though, to fear for her. She gained new purpose and new strength; I
could see her preparing, for something more powerful than I had ever seen
before. I saw her resolve strengthen and I was afraid. Then one day I saw
her with her shoulders heaving, I thought she must have been running, though
what could scare her any more was beyond me. But then what I saw was much
worse than that. I heard her sob; a heart wrenching sound, no tears fell.
After that, I continued to watch with more interest than before. She looked
now, but she seemed to have an aim in mind. Pain flowed off her, I could see
it. She stopped properly hiding the scars that covered her pretty arms; I
could see them now, if I looked carefully. And looking closely was something
I was good at.
One night, she came down dressed in white, rather than school robes. I knew
immediately what it was she had come to do. Just because I refused to
participate did not mean I was ignorant. Tears flowed then, mine, and for
the first time, hers as well. And as they began to gather and spill I saw
her as just a girl, not the terrible thing she was becoming or the pain she
would inflict willingly on herself. I saw, and it was killing me as well.
Her pain and hatred were tangible, but there was fear there too. I had
watched; I knew better than she did that she was not of the dark. And as I
saw her there I couldn't let her continue. I could no longer just be a
watcher; I could not let this happen, this would make me worse than them. I
could not sit by any longer. I knew that this was the moment that I had to
prove to myself that I had not rejected my life for nothing. She took up her
wand and muttered a spell, of words so twisted that it made me shiver just
to hear them, then she passed her wand over her left wrist. Her blood flowed
crimson over her white clothes, like her hair and I could not let it
continue. I couldn't see her do this. So I stepped forward letting myself be
seen for the first time in my life and said,
'It doesn't have to be like this'
The End
'It doesn't have to be like this'
When my Pansy first said that to me I hated her, for an instant, nearly as
much as I hated myself. I had made a decision, and I was bleeding, I would
die and it would all be over. I would not even die in vain, I would save
them all, my blood, my wronged soul would save them and I would be released.
But as she said that it suddenly crashed down on me, like a storm finally
breaking overhead, just how alone I was. I made to retreat, to draw my power
around myself and be alone again to complete my end. But I just couldn't do
it. The power that I had spent all those years amassing hit me, hard. For
the first time; I felt the weight of what I had become and could no longer
stand up to the strain. I just could not be anymore, I was tired, living was
too awful to countenance but death too tiring to execute. So I collapsed. I
cried. I can still feel that emotion the unstoppable shaking, I cried and
was myself again, a girl of sixteen who was being crushed under a power she
could scarcely control.
Endings, or for that matter beginnings, are never as neat and easy as they
seem, and I was not able to cry my healing tears and escape as a new and
healed person. It wasn't a case of her saying that and me being freed. I was
part way through a spell designed to kill me and I fell apart, midway
between life and death, I had to stop the blood. I can remember that moment
more clearly than the all years before, it was so painful, but rather than
the numbing deadening pain of the hatred that had gone before, I felt alive.
It was a pain that served to remind me that I did exist, that I was real.
But all I could do was cry; I wanted never to have to stop; I wanted my mum
to come and look after me. I was alone, in all the world I had no friends, I
had hidden myself so totally from my family that I could no longer even feel
their presence. Pansy, seeing me cry, looked terrified; I could tell that
she could understand the power of the spell. I was going to die now anyway,
it was useless to fight it; I had opened my veins to deep. Regardless, this
was the end.
Then she did something that I would never have expected from her, she
stepped forward and took my wand out of my unresisting fingers, she looked
at it for a moment, I could see her making the decision. The fear balancing
the light which shone out of her. The light won; just. I could see that it
was taking all her resolve, my eyes felt cloudy. My arm grew heavy; my body
was cold, terribly cold, but simultaneously so far away that I could only
just feel it. Through the water in front of me, I saw her drag my wand along
her own wrist and her face twist at the pain. She grabbed my hand, palms
together. And then I knew what she was trying to do. I tried to shout out to
her to tell her that it was foolish, that she didn't have the power. She
screamed out, and I could hardly bear it, but I could do nothing, I could
not even release her hand; I was slipping.
Beginning
Pansy felt the light hit her. She tried to open her eyes, but all she could
see was red, blood red everywhere. She blinked, her right arm felt trapped,
so bringing her left up to her face she wiped her eyes. She felt terrible;
she could not ever remember a feeling quite like this. She felt drained and
used. She felt rather than saw the small movement of something, someone next
to her. And the night before flooded back to her.
They were covered in blood, more than you could ever think would allow them
to live. Ginny was unconscious, but her hand was still clutching Pansy's in
a vicelike grip. Beside the older girl Ginny stirred, her body tensed, and
Pansy could see her chest heave a little, and on the face that looked too
young to have seen so much dark she saw a single tear. Ginny's eyes blinked
open, and another tear fell. Looking at her, it felt the most natural thing
in the world to reach forward, tentatively, and to wipe it away. Their tears
fell, their faces so close in the way that they lay, still the heap that
they had fallen into, that not even an attentive observer could separate
them. And it felt like the most natural thing in the world to move just a
half an inch so that their lips touched. They didn't quite kiss, they were
too tired to move, but they cried together. Two girls who didn't cry, who
couldn't cry, lay on the floor and cried and were not alone.
Now
Sometimes I need to get out. She always understands; still a little dark, I
feel the need to be free. And she lets me out. Sometimes she needs to be
alone and to watch, and I understand, and we let each other be. Sometimes we
need to remember that we are alive and then we remind each other. Simple, in
the most complex way I have ever seen.
Nothing is perfect; I learnt that when I was twelve, but now I have decided
that perfect is overrated anyway. I still feel the appeal of the dark and
fall, sometimes, and make mistakes, but she is always there. And we both
still hide from our families; sometimes there is just too much to explain.
Imperfect to the end, I was never perfect even before this started and now,
even though I am myself again, I feel that I can hardly remember who it was
that I used to be. And in my most cynical moments I wonder if that is just
part of growing up.
We work and we live, we both tried to lose ourselves for others, and now,
that is our job. I heal - it is the least I can do, and it was something
that I acquired practice at. Pansy teaches - she learnt a lot. It strikes me
as odd how we can use those hideous times to continue now. When I remember
how dead I was, compared to the light that I can see now.
And now I am waiting for her to come home, and I haven't seen her all day,
and I love these simple feelings. I miss her when she isn't there. And now I
hear the door and I get up and put the kettle on, with a flick of my wand,
and walk to the door. And now I am not alone, and I give my love a kiss, one
full of promise for what is to come, a comforting, well practiced kiss. And
now we have a cup of tea together, quietly on the sofa, sitting close, not
quite touching, and I am glad it didn't have to be that way.
And now, now I am still broken and she is still silent, but now there is a
difference. Now we are not alone. Now we are happy.
One of our lecturers has a computer virus or something, and in the middle of the lecture this window popped up on his laptop (which was projected for us all to see he PowerPoint) with one of those text-pictures of a naked woman. I've never seen so much laughter in a lecture. Took him a good couple of minutes to shut us up. Poor dude.
Well, in between essay-writing, we randomly ended up at the Bird in Hand on TG evening, which was fun. It was nice to chill and not worry about people starting annoying rumours about us as they would at Catz (which would inevitably end up in the college magazine, which typically parents like reading online...)
I've packed off Underestimated to Kate after my previous beta pulled out (poor sweetie, sounded like she needed a hug and a holiday), so she's nitpicking that nicely - yay!
In return, I'm sticking Kate's fic Broken Silence up here cos when she posted it on Veela Inc no-one read it and FB'd except this creepy 11 year old! *retching noises* I like it, anyway! I've copied and pasted straight off the e-mail submission she sent...
BTW anyone know any proper HP slash archives that aren't ff.net and don't flame people for fem?
Title: Broken Silence
Author: Katy
Rating: PG13, nothing really happens that is high rated, it is just a bit
dark
Pairing: Ginny/Another girl, I don't think I'll tell you quite yet if you
don't mind.
Warnings: Dark, suicide and femslash. Gosh that is a hell of a lot of
warnings for my first fic.. What ever happened to me being a 'nice girl'?
What would my mother say now!
Disclaimer: If you are under the misapprehension that this could possibly be
mine then you are not only wrong but extremely misguided.
Author's Notes: As I said, this is my first ever finished fic. So I am a tad
nervous.
I need to give my undying thanks to Enismirdal for her wonderful expertise,
she managed to correct my grammar, point out when I wasn't making any sense,
make me actually write this and then actually let it out to annoy all you
lot with! Not only that, but she also kisses me lots (so under-rated
darling!) and eats Bailey's ice-cream with me when I feel sad.. So lots and
lots of kisses for you, not like I wasn't going to kiss you anyway. but
there we go. Can never kiss too much, that's my philosophy. Thanks sweetie
Broken
She was broken goods, defiled and ruined before she ever had the chance to
be something real. Written out as a little damaged thing that was there
purely as someone to pity. Ginny Weasley did not think highly of pity. But
damaged, she could identify with that. Even now after all these years she
always saw it, there and vivid in her mind's eye; the image of a beautiful
young and clear boy as he drained her soul and bled her heart. For Ginny was
quite sure that it was at that very moment that her heart had become dry,
hard and quite dead. Not that she minded; she lived without a heart quite
well, she thought. But in the night, in the infinite stretches of black, she
bled all over again, on her sheets, silently, with a sharp knife, or after
she had learnt that especially useful and quite dark spell with only her
wand to guide her.
That summer had in its own way been worse than the event itself; that was
what Ginny thought, in her most cynical moments, would send her to therapy
for life. To be a Weasley was defining, the hair, the infernal happiness of
it all. It suffocated her, enveloped her and refused to let her breathe. The
fuss of her mother, the gentle concern of her father, and the rough, ill
expressed and vague assertions as to whether she was OK from her brothers;
they were all, Ginny knew, a way to cover their disgust for their sweet and
innocent little daughter, now scared and dirtied by all that blackness. And
in a way they was right, she was blackened by it all; her soul was never as
blank and carefree as before.
She allowed what was left to rot, cutting her losses at only twelve; she
already understood that, in her world, she couldn't go on and care with a
continual and juvenile trust that her brothers had in 'light', in 'good', in
Dumbledore and his 'Order'. The night then became in her eyes a time of only
two purposes, that of blood, and that of dark. For the dark was fascinating.
It all depended on what you were prepared to give, calculated risks.
Allowing her to take advantage of the magic in her blood in her body and
what was left of her already tattered soul.
It is amazing, she would hear her mother comment to some nameless friend
over tea, how my little Ginny has come out of that terrible business in her
first year quite unscathed. Ginny would only dig the knife in deeper
covering the scars with one of the first less-than-blameless charms that she
had ever mastered. After all, masking the truth could never be a pure
intent. Ginny, however, knew that it was in fact the only thing to do. Her
happy, bright family could never understand the ruin that had fallen on
their daughter. Her strength and growing power would be viewed as nothing of
the sort. She would be punished and mistrusted and they would mourn her loss
of innocence all over again. No, it was better for all that it was this way.
The Watcher
I remember the first day that I ever asked mother to explain. I was about
seven, I should imagine. It was, as far as I can recall, my first ever
question of note; my first that contained anything of more substance than
the contents of the next meal. What I asked was in actual fact very
unimportant. Well, it was an important question in its own way, but it
wasn't the fact that I asked this one question over any other that mattered;
the whole incident was, when you look at it objectively, entirely
insignificant. But to me, it changed the world. That was the difference you
see - I said that it was important, a turning point, a milestone - so it
was. Her response taught me that these were not the sort of queries that
should ever be uttered. Or I am sure in her pretty head never even
considered.
I was spoilt, I was never shouted at, and if I persisted in wanting
something for about a week, I would always get it. I lived in a beautiful
house in Bath, on the Crescent, hidden from Muggles in a simple yet
ingenious fashion: that it wasn't at all hidden. It stood in entirely plain
view, for everyone to see. I always thought that it was the most elegant
method of hiding; I still do, in a way. I have no excuse for myself, I have
no one to blame. My fall from grace is entirely my own and I am proud of it.
It started as I have said when I asked without a trace of what was to come;
why was it that we followed a Lord who was defeated by a baby? My mother,
who hated to scowl, such an ugly expression she always said, allowed a look
of displeasure to flick across her face. That was all, and then she tuned
and walked out of the room. I felt immediately a sense of foreboding; not
fear, not actual terror, just unease, knowing that nothing was right, that
at that instant it may never be right again.
The next week I was given my first lesson in becoming what my parents were.
Given a book and told to read it, told that it would answer my questions.
Told that it was an exciting secret, even more important than the fact that
we were more special than Muggles , even greater than the fact that we lived
among them. I was told that I would never ask questions again once I had
read this book, told it was an honour to be given it this young. Told
everything in fact; I hated being told, not being allowed to question, and I
realised then that questioning was not expected.
The Story of Our Lord, it sounds amazingly like it should be the title of
some ridiculous religious work of some cult or other. And in its way, it
was. It was clearly written to impress. Bound in leather, it was large and
heavy. Written in language that made me think it was truly ancient, and to
almost laugh when I found out years later that it couldn't have been written
more than a decade ago. So I read it, and knew immediately that I couldn't
have anything to do with it.
Have you ever had to keep a secret? Knowing something so vital that to even
think it too often could cause death. Have you ever lived under thunder
clouds that seem to threaten to descend at any moment? Hiding something that
is so central to your very identity that not to express it feels like the
worst kind of treason.
I realise that I sound like a pretentious wanker, well apart from the fact
that I don't have the anatomy, but at that time that is what it felt like.
As if I would burst from having not to tell a soul. From the age of seven I
was a stranger, an alien in my own home. I read the book, the whole vile
mess of it, and I felt disgusted. I don't know why. Maybe you need pain in
your life to identify with the dark. Maybe it is only revenge or hate that
can drive you to do that. I have to say I don't know. But whatever it was, I
didn't have it.
I knew that I was different, and I hated it, with a passion that I had never
felt before. I couldn't cope and I didn't know how to live with myself. I
had no role models and no grounding. I was so lonely. I learnt though. I
grew to love hiding; it became part of my identity. Apart from what was
hidden I had nothing, I was terrible at what my parents tried to teach me,
nothing special at school and my friends were there but only as a recurring
theme in my life. Nothing life altering. People viewed Slytherins as evil,
but though quite a few of us had parents who were death eaters and quite a
few of us were destined to join them, it was still hardly a topic of polite
conversation.
So I lived in secret and thought in secret and dreamed in secret. Never
sharing becoming more and more hidden until I could not even remember what I
had been like to be free. And while my housemates silently learnt the dark
arts and ransomed their soles I watched and couldn't turn away. Knowing that
it was just as wrong to watch and do nothing as it was to do it yourself.
Hating that which I had become, hating what they wanted to be. So I watched,
silently, never taking part, always watching. Until it became my obsession.
I was the ghost of Slytherin, and they never knew it. It was all I had to
take pride in; I failed my parents and my school. I was never brave enough
to report them to stop it; I just sat silently and watched.
Sacrifice
Ginny searched, she did not know what it was that she looked for, not a
cure; she knew she was too far gone for that. She didn't want revenge, she
understood that it was unnecessary, the very fact she could exist was her
revenge. She did not hunt for a weapon, well, not for one that would work
against anyone else other than herself. She hunted with a fervour
approaching insanity; she had to have something to live for, other than the
vague sense of guilt that kept her hidden. Sleep, she realised, was only
required by the weak. It could be exchanged for other things; of course it
was an exchange both ways. It took power to keep her going, but it took
power to stop with her knife too. Power she had.
At night then the dark ruled; this was, Ginny reasoned, the time it should
rule. The nightmares of the innocent, feeding it as though it were some
unnamed, ancient being, which was, she discovered, not so very far from the
truth. She found that this was where her talent lay, she was entirely
unremarkable in every other way, but here she could have been amazing.
Hogwarts was now to her fraught with danger, the danger of discovery and
expulsion; it provided her with the thrills that others got in foolish,
childish pursuits. She lived her life well, she could control it. This was
what in essence she was searching for, control. Not power, that was the lure
of the weak. She read ancient texts and learnt new languages; she absorbed
them all, and sometimes an attentive observer would have seen the sparks of
power as she grew in strength.
Hatred ran through her veins of what she did not know, but it grew and ate
her from the inside out. Her path began to open out in front of her, her
knife began to dig deeper and she began to understand. She could no longer
love, of that she was sure, but she could remember the idea of it and that
[is] {was} what drove her. That is why she knew that control was not the
ultimate, why she did not want to become another Lord to rise above them
all. That was why she realised that she was all there was left. Her clarity
could not be seen by the others, they were blinded by their petty lives.
Ginny had determination. She saw that the only way to fight the dark was not
to outshine it with a paltry and pathetic glimmer of light; even though that
was far more poetic, she knew and she understood.
Sacrifice. That was what it was about; you could not get anything for
nothing, and she knew now what she had to do. She was too damaged to
succeed, the rot had set in, and she could feel it creeping, advancing and
corrupting her. Taking her and making her into something that she was not.
She would give all that she had left, that was the only way left to make
amends. She was wrong and dark inside, and this would be her saving grace.
The pain in her could no longer be contained blood was becoming her waking,
dreaming life. But after all this she would sacrifice for the ultimate of
outcomes. When he had been young and happy, before her heart had been
destroyed, she remembered, though she could no longer recall the actual
emotion that she had loved in an innocent and real way. And he was unaware
that he would in the end die, and would be sacrificed. So the only
alternative was for her to sacrifice herself.
The pain of existing was too great, she had tried and she was failing; so as
not to fall she was paying higher and higher prices. The effort to live
became a need to die, a physical need. It enveloped her and consumed all her
strength; some nights she could not breathe. Her lungs would hold themselves
closed in a desperate search for peace. Ginny had not cried since it all
began, but now with this all-encompassing ache she could not hold back the
heave of her chest as she struggled against tears she could not shed. There
was no way she could continue; her mask was slipping.
Nearly
I watched and I saw, I saw that nearly half the Slytherins exchanged their
sleep for knowledge, as did Ravenclaws, Griffindors and Hufflepuffs. It was
not purely a pastime for the serpents. Though they were though mostly the
elder members of my own house. I could see them bartering away their
innocence for more pain. Their strength was so much lower than they thought
and the price was too high, their souls withered and their power grew, but
their power was not what they believed it to be. They studied with diligence
that spoke of their incomprehension. Many, I knew, only learnt as
instructed. Some had a natural talent or a desire for something that drove
them to learn to give them power or revenge, but still I could see that what
drove them was not enough.
They paid a price though, and I could see that. The pain was hideous; they
caused pain and they felt it, every night. And I watched transfixed. It was
so wrong in every way. I wanted to stop them, but I was no brave, reckless
lion; I could not, I just watched. As I watched, I learnt, I was not stupid.
But I learnt the price too, I could see it. They spent their blood on
something that they did not understand. How could they? I almost pitied the
stupid fools, they would never be a powerful dark force as they all wished
in their warped and shadow filled dreams. They were children who did not
even realise what it was that they lost.
I was more scared, though, of one, than of all the others. She was hidden
from them all, they could not see her, she could melt into the background
until there was just a shimmer in the air. I watched though and I learnt to
see; it is hard to hide from the truth. And that was my only weapon against
it - that I did not participate, it owned nothing of me.
I could not understand her, she had no one forcing her into this, no aims to
rule; I could see that. She was powerful, I could see it on her, radiating
and growing, she did not seem to care for the price, she did not mourn the
loss of herself: she relished it. I saw her die, slowly. Her life withering,
her soul decayed. She had been damaged before I ever saw her I think, but
the pain that I saw in her was even greater than that which she inflicted on
herself. The dark could do nothing, it seemed, that she did not do already.
I knew of course what started this; it was the gossip of the common room for
months.
I began, though, to fear for her. She gained new purpose and new strength; I
could see her preparing, for something more powerful than I had ever seen
before. I saw her resolve strengthen and I was afraid. Then one day I saw
her with her shoulders heaving, I thought she must have been running, though
what could scare her any more was beyond me. But then what I saw was much
worse than that. I heard her sob; a heart wrenching sound, no tears fell.
After that, I continued to watch with more interest than before. She looked
now, but she seemed to have an aim in mind. Pain flowed off her, I could see
it. She stopped properly hiding the scars that covered her pretty arms; I
could see them now, if I looked carefully. And looking closely was something
I was good at.
One night, she came down dressed in white, rather than school robes. I knew
immediately what it was she had come to do. Just because I refused to
participate did not mean I was ignorant. Tears flowed then, mine, and for
the first time, hers as well. And as they began to gather and spill I saw
her as just a girl, not the terrible thing she was becoming or the pain she
would inflict willingly on herself. I saw, and it was killing me as well.
Her pain and hatred were tangible, but there was fear there too. I had
watched; I knew better than she did that she was not of the dark. And as I
saw her there I couldn't let her continue. I could no longer just be a
watcher; I could not let this happen, this would make me worse than them. I
could not sit by any longer. I knew that this was the moment that I had to
prove to myself that I had not rejected my life for nothing. She took up her
wand and muttered a spell, of words so twisted that it made me shiver just
to hear them, then she passed her wand over her left wrist. Her blood flowed
crimson over her white clothes, like her hair and I could not let it
continue. I couldn't see her do this. So I stepped forward letting myself be
seen for the first time in my life and said,
'It doesn't have to be like this'
The End
'It doesn't have to be like this'
When my Pansy first said that to me I hated her, for an instant, nearly as
much as I hated myself. I had made a decision, and I was bleeding, I would
die and it would all be over. I would not even die in vain, I would save
them all, my blood, my wronged soul would save them and I would be released.
But as she said that it suddenly crashed down on me, like a storm finally
breaking overhead, just how alone I was. I made to retreat, to draw my power
around myself and be alone again to complete my end. But I just couldn't do
it. The power that I had spent all those years amassing hit me, hard. For
the first time; I felt the weight of what I had become and could no longer
stand up to the strain. I just could not be anymore, I was tired, living was
too awful to countenance but death too tiring to execute. So I collapsed. I
cried. I can still feel that emotion the unstoppable shaking, I cried and
was myself again, a girl of sixteen who was being crushed under a power she
could scarcely control.
Endings, or for that matter beginnings, are never as neat and easy as they
seem, and I was not able to cry my healing tears and escape as a new and
healed person. It wasn't a case of her saying that and me being freed. I was
part way through a spell designed to kill me and I fell apart, midway
between life and death, I had to stop the blood. I can remember that moment
more clearly than the all years before, it was so painful, but rather than
the numbing deadening pain of the hatred that had gone before, I felt alive.
It was a pain that served to remind me that I did exist, that I was real.
But all I could do was cry; I wanted never to have to stop; I wanted my mum
to come and look after me. I was alone, in all the world I had no friends, I
had hidden myself so totally from my family that I could no longer even feel
their presence. Pansy, seeing me cry, looked terrified; I could tell that
she could understand the power of the spell. I was going to die now anyway,
it was useless to fight it; I had opened my veins to deep. Regardless, this
was the end.
Then she did something that I would never have expected from her, she
stepped forward and took my wand out of my unresisting fingers, she looked
at it for a moment, I could see her making the decision. The fear balancing
the light which shone out of her. The light won; just. I could see that it
was taking all her resolve, my eyes felt cloudy. My arm grew heavy; my body
was cold, terribly cold, but simultaneously so far away that I could only
just feel it. Through the water in front of me, I saw her drag my wand along
her own wrist and her face twist at the pain. She grabbed my hand, palms
together. And then I knew what she was trying to do. I tried to shout out to
her to tell her that it was foolish, that she didn't have the power. She
screamed out, and I could hardly bear it, but I could do nothing, I could
not even release her hand; I was slipping.
Beginning
Pansy felt the light hit her. She tried to open her eyes, but all she could
see was red, blood red everywhere. She blinked, her right arm felt trapped,
so bringing her left up to her face she wiped her eyes. She felt terrible;
she could not ever remember a feeling quite like this. She felt drained and
used. She felt rather than saw the small movement of something, someone next
to her. And the night before flooded back to her.
They were covered in blood, more than you could ever think would allow them
to live. Ginny was unconscious, but her hand was still clutching Pansy's in
a vicelike grip. Beside the older girl Ginny stirred, her body tensed, and
Pansy could see her chest heave a little, and on the face that looked too
young to have seen so much dark she saw a single tear. Ginny's eyes blinked
open, and another tear fell. Looking at her, it felt the most natural thing
in the world to reach forward, tentatively, and to wipe it away. Their tears
fell, their faces so close in the way that they lay, still the heap that
they had fallen into, that not even an attentive observer could separate
them. And it felt like the most natural thing in the world to move just a
half an inch so that their lips touched. They didn't quite kiss, they were
too tired to move, but they cried together. Two girls who didn't cry, who
couldn't cry, lay on the floor and cried and were not alone.
Now
Sometimes I need to get out. She always understands; still a little dark, I
feel the need to be free. And she lets me out. Sometimes she needs to be
alone and to watch, and I understand, and we let each other be. Sometimes we
need to remember that we are alive and then we remind each other. Simple, in
the most complex way I have ever seen.
Nothing is perfect; I learnt that when I was twelve, but now I have decided
that perfect is overrated anyway. I still feel the appeal of the dark and
fall, sometimes, and make mistakes, but she is always there. And we both
still hide from our families; sometimes there is just too much to explain.
Imperfect to the end, I was never perfect even before this started and now,
even though I am myself again, I feel that I can hardly remember who it was
that I used to be. And in my most cynical moments I wonder if that is just
part of growing up.
We work and we live, we both tried to lose ourselves for others, and now,
that is our job. I heal - it is the least I can do, and it was something
that I acquired practice at. Pansy teaches - she learnt a lot. It strikes me
as odd how we can use those hideous times to continue now. When I remember
how dead I was, compared to the light that I can see now.
And now I am waiting for her to come home, and I haven't seen her all day,
and I love these simple feelings. I miss her when she isn't there. And now I
hear the door and I get up and put the kettle on, with a flick of my wand,
and walk to the door. And now I am not alone, and I give my love a kiss, one
full of promise for what is to come, a comforting, well practiced kiss. And
now we have a cup of tea together, quietly on the sofa, sitting close, not
quite touching, and I am glad it didn't have to be that way.
And now, now I am still broken and she is still silent, but now there is a
difference. Now we are not alone. Now we are happy.
One of our lecturers has a computer virus or something, and in the middle of the lecture this window popped up on his laptop (which was projected for us all to see he PowerPoint) with one of those text-pictures of a naked woman. I've never seen so much laughter in a lecture. Took him a good couple of minutes to shut us up. Poor dude.
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no subject
Date: 5 Feb 2004 22:21 (UTC)no subject
Date: 6 Feb 2004 00:20 (UTC)Lecturers and porn
Date: 6 Feb 2004 23:09 (UTC)Porn diallers are the bane of my existance most days. And not in the normal way. I'm the one who has to explain to the ceo of a company that a porn dialler keeps popping up on his computer for a reason... namely, that the sites he has 'viewed' have been of a dodgy nature.
or (worse) explaining to the wife, mother or girlfriend of the user that the porn emails that she is getting is because her other half has been careless with her email address.
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