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Gale – Precursor to The Storm
Rated: PG –13
Summary: It is on days such as this, when the sky seems so perfect it hurts, when her heart is left aching and bare to the thought of him, that the shackles on her soul are tightened and she can keep him at bay no longer.
Disclaimer: I own no characters or associated things recognizable as JK Rowlings.
--
Within a school, deep within the sheltering confines of ancient stone and winding corridors, there stands a young woman. She is slim and slight, wrapped within the soft trappings of flannel pajamas, and tired socks. Her face is tilted towards the warm, buttery light of a sconce along the dormitory wall, and her hair trails like ribbons of liquid fire down her back.
Rituals, as comforting and normal as her mother’s freshly baked hot cross buns, have just been completed, and the scent of clean soap and toothpaste follows her to the edge of her bed, wrapped within the musty scent of the ancient school.
The young woman, her inner sadness as obvious as the gleaming ruby of her hair within these private moments of routine and custom, throws back her covers slowly and with resignation. The other seventh year girls have yet to retire and so she goes to sleep without their presence. She is committing herself to another night of bitter wondering and sad nightmares, a ceremony that has become too commonplace to be healthy in these precarious war times. It is a tired world, and she leads by example.
She is restless, as edgy as a fox smelling danger in the air, as nervous as a blade of prairie grass caught in the breeze as she dims the lights and pulls the covers around herself. The warm bedroom takes on new dimensions in the gloom, revealing an uncertain world of changing chances and tangled possibilities to her weary eyes. She curls onto her side, subtle shifting to make room for a memory on her narrow bed, and tries to slow her mind.
From the self imposed exile of her closed lids, black on black, she can paint herself a lonely picture of the bleak days ahead. They are as sad and melancholy as a Phoenix’s lament, and though she does not grieve as a widow or act the foolish Ophelia, she is a part of that sadness now. That Dumbledore has not approached her yet is reassuring. They have not yet heard news of his death. She will live another day.
After a moment, she picks up her silver mirror from the small bedside table she is allotted, half expecting to see his face gazing haughtily back, but there is only her. She looks tired, weary, frustrated, and it shows on her prettily freckled face. Her fingers trace the heavily winding flowers coiled about its surface as she studies the mirror, and she looks for a long moment, captivated, eyes caught gently on its heavy curls.
The candlelight brightens the stones of walls that are grey as smoke, empty as a blank canvas, and she thinks, ruefully, that it is perhaps time to decorate her designated area. Red hair slips silkily over her face as she shifts onto her side once more, the color of copper and blood, and she closes her eyes to block out the emptiness of her room. Her thin hands curl around the mirror more securely and the cool metal warms to her touch. In the solitude nobody can see how desperately she keeps a hold of it, or the tears trying to rebel against the eyes she wills to remain dry.
With his gift clutched in her tired arms, eyes dropping shut, Ginny Weasley falls asleep, leaving only the softly sputtering sconces to ease the silence of her bedroom.
--
She enters her busy common room long before her dorm mates have awoken, the tired greetings of her fellow students rousing her as she passes. The fire is spitting gently in the early morning light and she glances down at her basket of toiletries to assure herself she remembered everything.
She has her special soap and her morning glory perfume and she knows she remembered her rose talc. She had held it for a long moment this morning, debating whether or not wearing it was worth anything when he wasn’t around to enjoy it. In annoyance she shakes her head to cast off her useless thoughts and then hurries out of the common room and down the corridor to a cheerful bathroom of yellow and green.
She wards the door behind her with a selfish smirk and as she hurries into one of the empty shower stalls she feels the sunny color lift her spirits. Languidly, she kicks off her slippers, shrugs off her robes, pulls her flannel pajama shirt over her head and shimmies out of her pants to reveal her freckled body. She shakes out her mane of hair, snatches up her soap, hair products and washcloth, and turns on the fountain of water.
She is careful to keep her eyes from straying over her body, haunted by the thought that if she looks down, his bloodied handprints would still be staining her skin.
The scent of tea roses and rain quickly clings to the steam as she opens her toiletries and she inhales deeply. She steps into the shower and wets her cloth, hastily scrubbing off the tired sheen of morning sweat and sleepy aches, surprisingly relaxed. With a contented sigh she lathers her hair with her favored shampoo, then conditioner, fingers firmly working the suds into her scalp, and she enjoys the relaxing sensation.
She mustn’t linger though. Her mind wanders when she idles.
Ginny sighs, then shuts off the taps and leaves the warm shower. She rubs a towel roughly through her hair, her mind mapping out the course of an unappetizing day and her subsequent part in it. Her classes begin in about an hour, leaving plenty of time for breakfast and a nice cup of tea.
As she absently dries herself off, she thinks about her Charms essay and the still full pot on ink that now rests by her nightstand. She should have done it, she knows that she’s bound to get an earful from Flitwick, but she doesn’t particularly care.
Empty, all of it was empty! And there was such frustration in being unfulfilled, such ambivalence, that she couldn’t help but be angered by it as she faced it every day. She is unnerved by the bitterness about her, ingrained so deep within her and slowly becoming the norm.
Absently, Ginny remembers the white feather of her quill. It is pale, like soft pearls and fresh snow. There was only one person she had ever known in her life that had such pure silver hair. A boy she loved most desperately. A boy she adored, despised and mourned.
Draco Malfoy.
An image of her lost paramour forms in her mind, perfect hair, pressed robes, haughty glare and all. She remembers looking at the green and silver of his Slytherin tie and feeling such love she could barely stand. She can recall her blind passion rushing through her and turning her veins to quicksilver, beating in her ears, fierce, swallowing, obsessive and beautiful, and all because they had looked to one another for the forbidden.
The old, familiar excitement still heats through her with the memory, and she feels as if his every cold, arrogant word is written in blood across her soul. It is a selfish feeling, and one she embraces because the lingering sadness of losing him and the wicked chains of a past she will not set free is reassuring in a hollow way.
When she thinks of pain, she always thinks of him.
With an impatient shake of her head, Ginny tosses aside the clinging wistfulness, the insatiable bite of stale anger and helplessness swirling like venom on her heart, and drags on a skirt and a blue jumper, her Hogwarts robes and shoes, before heading back to her dormitory. The common room is now loud and full, and as she sets her foot on the first step of the staircase, alone in a crowded room, a shiver of fury sweeps over her, churning through her stained recollections, her life, and bringing the memories of Draco Malfoy swinging back into focus.
She swears she can feel her heart angrily breaking anew and she hurries into her thankfully empty dorm, slamming the door behind her as if that will keep out the unreasonable obsession for him so relentlessly stalking her heels. Ginny walks to the window, shoving it open to allow the chill morning breeze to finger through her wet hair, and glances desperately over the daytime scenery.
It is an amazingly vibrant world she looks out onto, bright and glittering with the gold of the sunlight. Everything is bathed in clear, pure colors, like a paint box has been spilled over the countryside. Ginny looks about nervously, wondering who might be about the grounds so early. Her brown eyes search hard for a glimpse of silver hair, but as always, she finds nothing.
Her mind gives him free reign once more, because it is on days such as this, when the sky seems so perfect it hurts, when her heart is left aching and bare to the thought of him, that the shackles on her soul are tightened and she can keep him at bay no longer. Misery spills forward, cascading recklessly over her mind’s eye, as relentless and inescapable as a flash flood.
She contemplates stupid things, such as asking one of the professors about him, seeing what some of the Order members know and begging them, pleading with them, to let her in on their knowledge. She would drop to her knees before them, in supplication, in need, and beg them once more to let her see him if he still lived. They would let her see him, they had to once they saw how stubborn she was, and she would be vindicated in her affections.
Draco would be sinfully dark against the gleam of the firelight, and the doors would be warded, and the same cool voice and strange eyes she used to bask in would pour over her and illuminate their tenuous passions, their love desperate in the darkness. Her lips would tremble as they touched his cheek, she knows they would because they are now. His hands would wrap around her arms. His mouth would be as cool as water against her own, and though she would beg for more he would give her little, as he always had, because too much more would destroy her. He would push her back into the pillows, and she would whisper that she loved him, and she would close her eyes against the knowledge that he did not reply.
Every time she thinks of him, anxious, irrational ideas jump through her brain, a million fruitless what ifs and chances she can never dare to voice and has no use hoping for, tease her mind. But she can imagine it so clearly she can almost smell his oceanic cologne and taste his cool skin, and when she comes back to herself she is sitting at the edge of her bed, remembering the sticky touch of his blood on her skin and wishing she was a stronger girl, even as the ghost of him tangles the strings of her thoughts. A stronger girl would have realized what a terrible person he was. A stronger girl would have moved on with her life. A stronger girl would not be alone in the emptiness of a silent room, drowning in paling memories and regret.
There is no peace in the barrenness of her room. She may as well be back in her bed. And so she lies down, restless, more edgy than a fox smelling danger in the air, more nervous than a blade of prairie grass caught in the breeze, the wind wandering through her skirt pleats, catching at the weary folds and flicking absently through them.
The wind freezes her still damp hair, and she shivers slightly, though her face betrays no discomfort. The silence of the bedroom steadily grows, until it is a shrill ringing in her ears, and it presses down upon her from all sides. Only then does Ginny stand, toss one last glance at the window, and leave the room. She hurries down the stairs, avoids her friends, and thinks of him.
She is alone.
Rated: PG –13
Summary: It is on days such as this, when the sky seems so perfect it hurts, when her heart is left aching and bare to the thought of him, that the shackles on her soul are tightened and she can keep him at bay no longer.
Disclaimer: I own no characters or associated things recognizable as JK Rowlings.
--
Within a school, deep within the sheltering confines of ancient stone and winding corridors, there stands a young woman. She is slim and slight, wrapped within the soft trappings of flannel pajamas, and tired socks. Her face is tilted towards the warm, buttery light of a sconce along the dormitory wall, and her hair trails like ribbons of liquid fire down her back.
Rituals, as comforting and normal as her mother’s freshly baked hot cross buns, have just been completed, and the scent of clean soap and toothpaste follows her to the edge of her bed, wrapped within the musty scent of the ancient school.
The young woman, her inner sadness as obvious as the gleaming ruby of her hair within these private moments of routine and custom, throws back her covers slowly and with resignation. The other seventh year girls have yet to retire and so she goes to sleep without their presence. She is committing herself to another night of bitter wondering and sad nightmares, a ceremony that has become too commonplace to be healthy in these precarious war times. It is a tired world, and she leads by example.
She is restless, as edgy as a fox smelling danger in the air, as nervous as a blade of prairie grass caught in the breeze as she dims the lights and pulls the covers around herself. The warm bedroom takes on new dimensions in the gloom, revealing an uncertain world of changing chances and tangled possibilities to her weary eyes. She curls onto her side, subtle shifting to make room for a memory on her narrow bed, and tries to slow her mind.
From the self imposed exile of her closed lids, black on black, she can paint herself a lonely picture of the bleak days ahead. They are as sad and melancholy as a Phoenix’s lament, and though she does not grieve as a widow or act the foolish Ophelia, she is a part of that sadness now. That Dumbledore has not approached her yet is reassuring. They have not yet heard news of his death. She will live another day.
After a moment, she picks up her silver mirror from the small bedside table she is allotted, half expecting to see his face gazing haughtily back, but there is only her. She looks tired, weary, frustrated, and it shows on her prettily freckled face. Her fingers trace the heavily winding flowers coiled about its surface as she studies the mirror, and she looks for a long moment, captivated, eyes caught gently on its heavy curls.
The candlelight brightens the stones of walls that are grey as smoke, empty as a blank canvas, and she thinks, ruefully, that it is perhaps time to decorate her designated area. Red hair slips silkily over her face as she shifts onto her side once more, the color of copper and blood, and she closes her eyes to block out the emptiness of her room. Her thin hands curl around the mirror more securely and the cool metal warms to her touch. In the solitude nobody can see how desperately she keeps a hold of it, or the tears trying to rebel against the eyes she wills to remain dry.
With his gift clutched in her tired arms, eyes dropping shut, Ginny Weasley falls asleep, leaving only the softly sputtering sconces to ease the silence of her bedroom.
--
She enters her busy common room long before her dorm mates have awoken, the tired greetings of her fellow students rousing her as she passes. The fire is spitting gently in the early morning light and she glances down at her basket of toiletries to assure herself she remembered everything.
She has her special soap and her morning glory perfume and she knows she remembered her rose talc. She had held it for a long moment this morning, debating whether or not wearing it was worth anything when he wasn’t around to enjoy it. In annoyance she shakes her head to cast off her useless thoughts and then hurries out of the common room and down the corridor to a cheerful bathroom of yellow and green.
She wards the door behind her with a selfish smirk and as she hurries into one of the empty shower stalls she feels the sunny color lift her spirits. Languidly, she kicks off her slippers, shrugs off her robes, pulls her flannel pajama shirt over her head and shimmies out of her pants to reveal her freckled body. She shakes out her mane of hair, snatches up her soap, hair products and washcloth, and turns on the fountain of water.
She is careful to keep her eyes from straying over her body, haunted by the thought that if she looks down, his bloodied handprints would still be staining her skin.
The scent of tea roses and rain quickly clings to the steam as she opens her toiletries and she inhales deeply. She steps into the shower and wets her cloth, hastily scrubbing off the tired sheen of morning sweat and sleepy aches, surprisingly relaxed. With a contented sigh she lathers her hair with her favored shampoo, then conditioner, fingers firmly working the suds into her scalp, and she enjoys the relaxing sensation.
She mustn’t linger though. Her mind wanders when she idles.
Ginny sighs, then shuts off the taps and leaves the warm shower. She rubs a towel roughly through her hair, her mind mapping out the course of an unappetizing day and her subsequent part in it. Her classes begin in about an hour, leaving plenty of time for breakfast and a nice cup of tea.
As she absently dries herself off, she thinks about her Charms essay and the still full pot on ink that now rests by her nightstand. She should have done it, she knows that she’s bound to get an earful from Flitwick, but she doesn’t particularly care.
Empty, all of it was empty! And there was such frustration in being unfulfilled, such ambivalence, that she couldn’t help but be angered by it as she faced it every day. She is unnerved by the bitterness about her, ingrained so deep within her and slowly becoming the norm.
Absently, Ginny remembers the white feather of her quill. It is pale, like soft pearls and fresh snow. There was only one person she had ever known in her life that had such pure silver hair. A boy she loved most desperately. A boy she adored, despised and mourned.
Draco Malfoy.
An image of her lost paramour forms in her mind, perfect hair, pressed robes, haughty glare and all. She remembers looking at the green and silver of his Slytherin tie and feeling such love she could barely stand. She can recall her blind passion rushing through her and turning her veins to quicksilver, beating in her ears, fierce, swallowing, obsessive and beautiful, and all because they had looked to one another for the forbidden.
The old, familiar excitement still heats through her with the memory, and she feels as if his every cold, arrogant word is written in blood across her soul. It is a selfish feeling, and one she embraces because the lingering sadness of losing him and the wicked chains of a past she will not set free is reassuring in a hollow way.
When she thinks of pain, she always thinks of him.
With an impatient shake of her head, Ginny tosses aside the clinging wistfulness, the insatiable bite of stale anger and helplessness swirling like venom on her heart, and drags on a skirt and a blue jumper, her Hogwarts robes and shoes, before heading back to her dormitory. The common room is now loud and full, and as she sets her foot on the first step of the staircase, alone in a crowded room, a shiver of fury sweeps over her, churning through her stained recollections, her life, and bringing the memories of Draco Malfoy swinging back into focus.
She swears she can feel her heart angrily breaking anew and she hurries into her thankfully empty dorm, slamming the door behind her as if that will keep out the unreasonable obsession for him so relentlessly stalking her heels. Ginny walks to the window, shoving it open to allow the chill morning breeze to finger through her wet hair, and glances desperately over the daytime scenery.
It is an amazingly vibrant world she looks out onto, bright and glittering with the gold of the sunlight. Everything is bathed in clear, pure colors, like a paint box has been spilled over the countryside. Ginny looks about nervously, wondering who might be about the grounds so early. Her brown eyes search hard for a glimpse of silver hair, but as always, she finds nothing.
Her mind gives him free reign once more, because it is on days such as this, when the sky seems so perfect it hurts, when her heart is left aching and bare to the thought of him, that the shackles on her soul are tightened and she can keep him at bay no longer. Misery spills forward, cascading recklessly over her mind’s eye, as relentless and inescapable as a flash flood.
She contemplates stupid things, such as asking one of the professors about him, seeing what some of the Order members know and begging them, pleading with them, to let her in on their knowledge. She would drop to her knees before them, in supplication, in need, and beg them once more to let her see him if he still lived. They would let her see him, they had to once they saw how stubborn she was, and she would be vindicated in her affections.
Draco would be sinfully dark against the gleam of the firelight, and the doors would be warded, and the same cool voice and strange eyes she used to bask in would pour over her and illuminate their tenuous passions, their love desperate in the darkness. Her lips would tremble as they touched his cheek, she knows they would because they are now. His hands would wrap around her arms. His mouth would be as cool as water against her own, and though she would beg for more he would give her little, as he always had, because too much more would destroy her. He would push her back into the pillows, and she would whisper that she loved him, and she would close her eyes against the knowledge that he did not reply.
Every time she thinks of him, anxious, irrational ideas jump through her brain, a million fruitless what ifs and chances she can never dare to voice and has no use hoping for, tease her mind. But she can imagine it so clearly she can almost smell his oceanic cologne and taste his cool skin, and when she comes back to herself she is sitting at the edge of her bed, remembering the sticky touch of his blood on her skin and wishing she was a stronger girl, even as the ghost of him tangles the strings of her thoughts. A stronger girl would have realized what a terrible person he was. A stronger girl would have moved on with her life. A stronger girl would not be alone in the emptiness of a silent room, drowning in paling memories and regret.
There is no peace in the barrenness of her room. She may as well be back in her bed. And so she lies down, restless, more edgy than a fox smelling danger in the air, more nervous than a blade of prairie grass caught in the breeze, the wind wandering through her skirt pleats, catching at the weary folds and flicking absently through them.
The wind freezes her still damp hair, and she shivers slightly, though her face betrays no discomfort. The silence of the bedroom steadily grows, until it is a shrill ringing in her ears, and it presses down upon her from all sides. Only then does Ginny stand, toss one last glance at the window, and leave the room. She hurries down the stairs, avoids her friends, and thinks of him.
She is alone.
The End.
Glass_Mermaid is the author of 6 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 8 members. Members who liked Gale - Prelude to The Storm also liked 192 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 8 members. Members who liked Gale - Prelude to The Storm also liked 192 other stories.
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