Jessica (tudorrose1533) wrote in dgislove,

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Nobody has posted in this community in ages....!

Well, I wrote a D/G story.
It makes no sense.
I don't even think it's very good.
I was avoiding doing my English homework.

But I feel the urge for feedback.

So, here 'tis.

She has hair the color of red-hots, vibrant against the green, green grass of her front yard, where she lies on her back, legs bent at the knee, skirt flopped back over her pubic bone, white cotton underwear exposed carelessly to the bright white sunshine sizzling her fair skin. Freckles pop out along her inner thighs, on her legs and ankles, up her arms and across her shoulders, a smattering decorating the bridge of her perfectly upturned nose.

A little yellow sundress, that’s what she is wearing, with a crazy print of flowers and bugs, a dress made of fabric clearly designed for five-year-olds, a baby dress for a girl all grown up. She is twelve, in this baby-girl dress, her red hair all smeared out on the grass, a ladybug crawling its way patiently up the side of her neck, a little red ladybug to match those sewn onto the dress, with curlicue antennae and perfectly six-dotted shells.

Oh, the confusion. She isn’t really twelve, no more than she is five, in that dress she has outgrown, even though this Weasley stopped somewhere along the line, and stayed small, stayed tiny. She is dainty, that’s the word, dainty and dangerous, with red lips in lipstick to match that scorching red hair. And a temper, a temper, too. Oh, the confusion. Is she any of those things anymore?

He comes to knock at the front door of her house. He is nineteen, with hair turned white from the sun, with fair skin that has never seen the sunlight, which will never freckle. He comes to knock on her door but stops, the tantalizing sight of Ginevra Weasley lying in the patch of grass with the skirt of her dress fallen back and her head tilted towards the sun, the highlights in her hair catching every sunbeam.

“Ginny?” he asks, approaching her and not the door, and she looks up into his eyes, meeting ice-blue with chocolate-brown, and she whispers his name like he is the herald angel, Gabriel.

“Draco,” she says. “Draco, everybody’s dead.”

He nods, and suddenly is blocking the sun as he stands over her, a looming shadow. She sits up and it is clear she is wearing a too-small dress she dragged out of the attic. It stretches across her chest, far too tight, and there are little holes under the sleeves where she had to push and pull to get her arms through.

When she sits up he sees that her hair is short, shoulder-length, cut unevenly, as though hacked away awkwardly with a knife. No wand would leave so blunt an edge, so many differently-lengthed hairs. She has short hair, now, and he is startled, so very startled that it takes a moment before he reaches down a hand to help her up. Hair the color of red-hots, it’s almost all gone now.

“What did you do?”

“I cut it. I cut it, and I gave it away. I don’t know why. I don’t know why.” Her voice has a hollow ring to it. How many times has she been asked that question? How many times has she answered it?

“Look, this is stupid,” Draco says fiercely. “What are you doing here? I was sent to torch this place, and here you are.”

“Everyone’s dead.”

Her voice sounds hollow again.

“I know, Ginny, I know.”

“Everyone’s dead! Why would you come and knock?”

“Just to make sure,” he says, brokenly. “To make sure nobody was here.”

“I’m here,” she says.

“I know,” he tells her. “I thought you would be.”

He understands her, and he understands why she cut off all her hair and why she’s wearing that old, old dress, why she was lying in the grass on her back and watching clouds and sun and everything move. Why she came back.

She was looking for comfort, looking for home, and she cannot find them in the crumbling old house which Draco is about to send into flames, a funeral pyre for a family that was lost, and she cannot turn to family because she has no family, not even the fake family that everyone tried to construct the summer she was fourteen, as some sort of back-up plan. Just in case, but just in case has fallen through.

She only has Draco, Draco who used to torture her, who came to burn up all those old memories and destroy a testament to the old days.

She falls into his arms, and he catches her. She weighs nothing, she has not eaten in days, how could he have admired her legs for their thin, sculpted state, when he sees now how sunken in her cheeks are, how her arms are thin and how she is light as a feather, how he can cradle her as though he is cradling air.

She kisses him, kisses the buttons on his shirt and then his neck, reaching on tiptoes, trying so hard to get to his mouth, needing to latch onto something, and he obliges her, as she kisses him through tears and terror.

“Everybody’s dead,” he murmurs, and now he is saying it too. Is this his chance to mourn for the family he lost? The aunt and the mother and the father, him too, the “uncles” he had in scores—everyone is gone, only he and Ginny survive and a few meager others who were like cockroaches—hidden, and thus indestructible.

They kiss hungrily, and then they are on the grass, not touching, not groping, as the action might imply, simply seeking the stability of the ground beneath their bodies, needing to know the firm earth is still there, the rock beneath their feet and now their entire beings.

“Will you really burn it?” asks Ginny. The house is a monument, a crumbling monument, to the failure of good to triumph over evil. It should be burned, she thinks fiercely, because it lied, it lied and said that they could win. And they didn’t. Nobody won. Nobody wins in war, why had they thought somebody would? They all lost.

Everybody’s dead.

“Yes, I think I will,” and he says it almost lazily, there is a hint of his old drawl, which he lost in the years shuttling from country to country—goodness, only three years, it’s only been three years!

He gets up and he takes her by the hand, and they walk in. There are dishes on the breakfast table, there is laundry folded neatly on a chair, oh, it’s as though somebody was there only a moment ago! And there are cobwebs, there are things, there are toys for the littlest children, who were born and died so shortly afterwards, there is an absence of life that clenches at their hearts; she squeezes his hand with her skinny little claw, and he does not let go.

They set fire to the curtains and to the tablecloth, to the wood beams and the straw poking out of an old rocking chair cushion, to the rugs and the welcome mat, to the dried up plants and flowers. To the cobwebs first, which sizzle with a strange sound, and she delights in it, in the hot destruction of disuse.

The house burns, slowly, surely, the crackling grows louder and louder around them. They walk the stairs and light fire to all the lace doilies and frilly trimmings of the house that once held a family of nine and then an organization of fifty and then nobody, nobody at all, and then little Ginny all by herself, little Ginny who used to be the dangerous one with the lips the color of her waist-length hair and glimmering brown eyes that promised things behind curtains and in dark corners. Now she doesn’t promise, she doesn’t want for pleasure, she only needs kisses to survive, to know somebody else is there.

They are in the attic, and they can hear the roaring of the flames licking on their footsteps. Flames, mounting higher and higher, fire rushing and roaring, consuming what was once her bedroom, her house, her little bathroom, the nursery for her brothers’ babies, and her sisters-in-laws’, her parents’ bedroom and the workshop and the garage, and the attic floor tilts as beams are being eaten away at. They shake and shudder, and he has his arms at her elbows, they cling to each other for dear life.

“Everybody’s dead,” she repeats, and they will be too, soon, and it doesn’t bother them. Draco has moved his hands from her elbows to her hair and has leaned forward to kiss her. She stills tastes the same, the same as she did when sex was for fun and for thrills, when he was the handsome, intriguing spy and she was the smoldering little sexpot on the home front, oh, how they used to play games, but they’ve forgotten how to!

The attic is starting to heat up, and they sit on the floor and can they feel the flames licking at their legs, or is it their imagination? Then they are lying down, she is curled up and he is curled around her, and it is a beautiful, symmetrical image, even though she is still whispering, “Everybody’s dead.”

“Shush,” he says, lips to the back of her neck, where there are strands of short red-hot hair.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

He kisses her, she kisses him, and suddenly they’re no longer kissing just for the sake of knowing there is somebody within fingertips’ reach, there is mounting passion, rising heat, and they both open their eyes and meet the others’ and are stricken with the thought that they have just reawakened, that something has caught in their chests that watching the clouds (for her) and torching the past (for him) simply could not do, and now they do not want to be where they are—

The smoke curls up the stairs like a beautiful cloud, in swirls and whorls, like in art, not like the clouds of real life, and already they hallucinate that the smoke is alive and poking and prodding at their bodies on the attic floor.

“Draco?” she asks, not knowing quite what is going on as her head swims, though she feels his hands on her sharp hips.


“I love you—I love you even though we lost.”

“Ginny, I love you because we lost,” is his reply.

I attribute the burning thing slightly to The Ballad of Jack and Rose, but only slightly. I liked the imagery.
I know the last two lines make no sense. I don't know where they came from.
And I used "sun" way too many times towards the beginning.
But yeah.
What think we?
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