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Chapter 1 : A Single Candle
| ||Rating: 15+||Chapter Reviews: 23|
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By the light of a single, yellow flame from the base of a crimson candlestick, she writes. Dipping occasionally for ink in the ebony cup, her quill scribbles unseen and unheard. The moon dares not to run its reflected light through the window of the room. Life stood still as she recounted her life on the pages. Wind stopped blowing, animals stopped prowling. Her knitted eyebrows cast shadows above them, showing her concentration. The candle burned steadily slower, and her hand glided over the many pages of her story. Yes, her story. The story that needed to be written. The story that needed to be burned. The story that needed to be told. The story they were preventing from being told. Alone, she wrote. The ashen quill formed letters that formed words that, in turn, formed paragraphs that made her story.
Far away, unbeknownst to her, a young man was doing the same. He wrote, and wrote, then he threw his words to the fire that was his only light. At the moment the paper reached the fire, it curled in ebony darkness and gave the fire more life. The flames grew and cast more light onto the boy. He would watch them, and when the paper was nothing but a speck, unseen in all the others, he would write more. He writes about the life nobody knew; the life he used to live. As he reaches his quill over to the other side of the desk, he dips it, slowly and deeply, down into the depths of the ink bowl. He pulls it out, to find there is no more. So he watches. The fire cackles, as if mocking him in silent, sadistic laughter.
A page turns, silent, and still nobody knows of what happens when they sleep.
A shimmering tear, a cackle from the fire, a scribble of a quill, a drop of ink, all silent and unseen by all.
On the top of each of her pages sat a title in dark, black ink: My Story, By Ginerva Weasley. Her scarlet hair fell like a curtain, shielding one half of her face from the cold, dark world that had become her life. She stopped writing, and the world began spinning again. A wail pierced the air, starting quiet and rising to long, strangled cry. She lifted herself from her seat, carefully marking her spot and closing her book to go and calm the human who had let out the cry.
All this happened while the boy sat on the chair, facing the fire. He had run away. He had left everyone behind, with only a letter. A letter written in black, unforgiving ink. He couldn't handle the pressure, he couldn't handle the disappointment that was bound to come.
He had failed them all.
He had failed himself.
Now, two years later, where was he? Living in an apartment above a pub. Where could he have been? With a family, a loving one at that. With his friends...
Ginerva took a seat again, in front of the daunting pages of the book. She opened it up to her marked spot and started writing. Slowly, her eyes filled with tears of unbearable sadness. The margins of this book had tear stains, up and down. Her lap was also covered in dried tears. Down her pale cheek, a single, sad tear follows the path many others had taken. It forms a river of sadness as others follow in its path. New tears mingle with the old in her lap. Her quill forms the words he wrote in his letter, 'You will never see me again. I have made this choice because I feel it is the best for all of us. Do not be sad for me; do not be sad for yourselves. Be sad for all that has happen, and for all that will happen.' She had read the same words in front of the press. She remembered seeing her friend from school in the crowd, taking notes but still looking dreamy. Luna Lovegood. Her father was killed by Death Eaters, so she had jumped right into running the Quibbler after she graduated. By her was Neville Longbottom, her boyfriend. She recalled smiling to herself because even 'Loony' Luna Lovegood had found love amongst the war that ravaged their world. But, her smile had soon faded with the thought of herself, having nobody in the world to love, besides family.
It was such a broad term. The people Ginerva considered family barely skimmed the surface of what family could mean.
The flames of the ever-burning fire danced in the translucent, emerald abyss of the young man's eyes. He couldn't stand it. He need all of his friends, those that he called his family for he had never had a real family. Well, yes he did, but he was much too young to remember what a loving family he had once had. All too soon, it was snatched away from him in two, quick flashes of emerald light. The night his parents were murdered, there came a third flash of green light from the house in Godric's Hollow. That was the flash that forever changed his life. The flash that gave him the scar right on his forehead. The scar that was the reason he hadn't left his apartment except for important things, like food.
This person was, of course, the presumed dead Harry Potter.
Ginny let down her quill. She had finished. She smiled a sad smile and left the book open. She walked over to the candle and blew it out. The smoke curled up to the celling as she left the book wide open.
Harry got up from his chair as the clock chimmed once. He crossed the room and sank down into his bed. His eyes closed with one last look at the dying fire.
Ginny went into a room and peered into a crib. A small, one and a half year old slept peacefully under a pink quilt. Strands of red hair fanned out across her pillow and under pale eyelids rested shockingly green eyes. Ginny crept through the darkness into the next room and fell onto her bed as the clock chimmed once. As reality slowly faded into sleep, Ginny thought of her book.
The book sat, open still, on the desk. The candle, long blown out, left the room in complete darkness. However, the moon slowly peeked out of the clouds, casting a silvery light upon the pages. Nothing was visible, nothing at all. All of Ginny's hard work, all of the writing, was hidden by invisible ink. Her story would never be told. It remained still in her, and her alone.
A/N: What did you think? It's my first angsty fic, and I would really appreciate any advice/insight. I had a good time writing this, I hope you enjoyed reading it.
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