Quicksand

She is damaged. You know that from the start. She has had more pain in her short life than most should ever have in their lifetime. And it has left her wounded in places too deep to be seen. Nothing is the way it should be when it comes to her. Her hair is too bright and her eyes are too big. Too thin, too pale. Too broken, too deep. She is quicksand, and you are more than willing to sink.

You don’t plan to tell her. It would complicate things far too much, in a way that no logic could fix. You settle for sneaking glances over the top of your text books, for the dreams that leave you flushed and shaking. That is all it will ever be. A dream. To be loved by her is too much to hope for.

You settle for the one that does love you. Your best friend, the one you are expected to be with. You do love him, after all. But not the way you love her. You don’t ache for him, and his face never appears in your dreams. And when you look at him, all you see is a reminder of what you will never have. His brown eyes are too warm, his smile too broad. But sometimes, when you are laying with him, your limbs intertwined, you can look at him, with his eyes closed and the soft glow of moonlight on his hair, and pretend that it is her. That is enough to get you to sleep.

Harry comes around. He begins to pay more attention to her. She has what she has always wanted. Is it just you, or should she be happier about that? Sure, she smiles, and you often see them kissing in the corridors, but you can sense that something is off. You begin to watch her closely. You notice that her smiles never reach her eyes. They retain a hollow, haunted appearance. This goes on for two months, before one fateful November night.

You are up late finishing an essay for Arithmancy when you hear soft footsteps. Slowly, you turn around, to see her padding over to the portrait hole. As she steps out, you feel your stomach twist slightly. You hesitate a moment before following.

She leads you down a series of empty corridors, your heart racing from a combination of apprehension, anxiety, and the feeling that you always seem to get when you are in too close a proximity with her. Finally, she stops in front of a door that you are sure has never been here before and steps inside. She leaves the door slightly ajar. You take a tentative step toward it, resting one hand on the door. In a moment, you are inside, gently pushing the door closed and turning around. She hears you anyway and jerks her eyes upward.

You stare at her, taking in the vision before you. Nausea sweeps over you, vomit rising in your throat. In one hand, she holds a small, ornate silver dagger. Its blade is gleaming scarlet, and there is some blood on her opposite wrist. Without thinking, you rush to her side and pull the knife from her hand, barely registering that she doesn’t fight you. You place your hands over the wound, as if to stall the bleeding, and feel cold liquid against your palms. You feel her looking at the top of your bowed head and raise your eyes to meet hers.

Her brown eyes are burning with fear and confusion and the pain that you know is buried inside of her. They appear even wider than usual. But you see her as you always have. As beautiful. Before you realize what you are doing, you lean forward and kiss her.

Her lips are softer and warmer than Ron’s, more welcoming. But then it dawns on you what you have just done, and you force yourself to pull back, clapping a hand over your burning lips.

She is staring at you and you are sure that she must hate you, and oh god what does she think of you? You are a freak and she loves him and how could you have been so stupid as to think otherwise.

"Ginny, I–" you begin. But you are shocked when she cuts you off with her lips.

As the surprise wears off, you lean into her and let her slide her arms around your neck. Your hands rest on her small waist. She deepens the kiss, sliding her tongue into your eager mouth. She tastes like chocolate and butterbeer and something else that you can’t identify. But you know that you want more. You need to be closer to her.

Soon you are laying on top of her, and she is raining kissed over your neck. You aren’t really sure how to act. This is different than being with Ron. With Ron, your heart never pounded this hard, as if it might burst out of your chest. Your blood never sang in your veins. You never felt like you needed him this much.

She seems to read your mind, and she lets her hands explore your body. As her lips find yours once more, you wonder how you ever got along without this.

*

You return to your dorm hours later. Your hands and white blouse are stained with dried blood from her wrists. Your lips are swollen and your mind is hazy. You fall into your four poster bed with a smile on your face. You don’t fool yourself into thinking that you could ever be together. This is not a perfect or even understanding world. You have your place cut out for you.

But maybe, just maybe, there will come another night when you will hold her in your arms. And even if it is not so, you have gotten more than you ever thought possible. Your dream was a reality, if only for one night. And that will have to do.