An Open Field, Some Wildflowers

An Open Field, Some Wildflowers

By Imbrium Iridum

An open field, some wildflowers/

She breathes the air and flies away/

She thanks to Jesus for the daisies and the roses/

No simple language/

Someday she'll understand/

The meaning of it all/

He's under the laughter/

And the stars in the heavens/

As close as a heatbeat/

A song on her lips/

Someday she'll trust him/

Learn how to seek him/

Someday he'll call her and she will come running/

Fall in his arms/

The tears will fall down/

And she'll pray...

I want to fall in love with you...

Ginny had never thought about death, really. She had never experienced it in her family, or friends, or even enemies. Not that Ginny had enemies. Heroes like Harry had enemies, snakes like Malfoy had enemies. But not a nobody like Ginny. She had sometimes wondered what it was like to hate someone with every fiber of her being, or even love someone equally as passionately. But she had never loathed anyone, not even Malfoy when he had ridiculed her outpour of emotions in the Valentine that Harry had so nonchalantly ignored.

Ginny hadn't even hated Tom.

Tom, with his tilted silver eyes, so unwilling to show emotion, so unwilling to give emotion.

Tom, with his hair as black as raven's wings-Harry's hair. She remembered running her hands through his ever-so-black hair, fringed gold from the torches in the Chamber of Secrets.

Maybe Ginny had loved Tom. She couldn't sort out all those twisted and knotted emotions. Perhaps Tom had loved her, but he had only used her, just like everyone else.

Ginny's eyes filled with tears at the memory of how he had been whispering how her hair reminded him of sunset and gold, of his gentle touches, and then...and then...

"Gin?" Suddenly, Ginny's mind drifted back to her surrounds. She blinked: Ron was staring at her with concern warming his eyes, his fork poised in mid-bite. Hermione, who was sitting next to Ron, brushed an errant curl away from her cheek, watching Ginny worriedly.

"Are you all right, Gin?" Hermione asked, nudging Harry in the ribs to draw him from his conversation with Dean Thomas.

"Er, yeah," Harry said. "Is everything all right?" Ginny closed her eyes for a moment, fighting tears again. The way Harry was talking to her, it was almost as if he cared.

Almost, but not quite.

"I'm fine," she said softly, scooting back in her chair to stand. "I'm off for a quick bath before bedtime. The Prefect Bathroom password is still 'Squeaky Squeegee', isn't it?" When Ron paused between mouthfuls to give an informative "Yeah,", Ginny brushed the crumbs from her robe and left the Great Hall in what could be described as a frenzied rush.

She didn't want Harry to see her cry.

Little did she know, someone else stood and made as to leave, watching her fleeing form with something that could have been sympathy.

*

Ginny took her sweet time disrobing, allowing her time to think. Everything was ready: she had written three letters, one to Hermione, one to her brothers, and one to Harry. She had remembered to bring that little penknife of Harry's; slightly dull, yet it would work well enough for her purposes. When Ginny had taken this aforementioned knife from her robes, the prissy mermaid portrait had begun screaming, flailing her tail and perfect blonde hair, until Ginny had had the presence of mind to flip the portrait over so the mermaid could no longer see what she was about to do.

Ginny took a moment to look over her reasons. Did she really want to die? Yes, actually, she did. For six years she had lived in her own little world of pain, dotted only with happy flowers when Harry Potter had said so much as a sentence to her. Ginny looked back at her actions to him with something akin to loathing. She had poured out so much of herself into Harry, into Tom, that there was absolutely nothing left but a shell of what had been Ginny Weasley.

Silently, Ginny turned on two of the taps; water as hot as she could stand it, and the pale pink, rose-scented foam. It seemed to take eons for the tub to fill, and twice she had had to scream at Moaning Myrtle to make her mind her own business. Ginny slipped into the steaming water, closed her eyes, and, with trembling fingers, took Harry's old penknife to her wrist....

As the pale pink foam around her bare form darkened to scarlet and the Prefects' bathroom began to spin, Ginny found herself thinking that maybe this is what Tom had wanted all along: a sacrifice. And when her fellow Gryffindors started worrying about her, they'd find Ginny in the rose-scented bath, naked, her red hair like streamers of fire around her, and quite dead. Mother and Father would be crushed, as would her brothers, but Harry would understand. He'd understand that he, the hero of the wizarding world, had pushed her to this.

"Virginia? What the hell are you doing--?"

Ginny didn't even feel the strong arms about her waist, dragging her out of the water. She didn't hear the voice screaming at her.

She was gone.

*

Seems too easy to call you savior/

Not close enough to call you love/

So as I sit and think up words I can't mention/

To show my devotion...

I want to fall in love with you...

Ginny was dead. She had no doubt of this because she no longer felt pain. All she felt was the gentle reassurance of a crisp, cool sheet over her and a hand on her forehead. There was a voice murmuring something, a deep, warm sort of voice, and she wondered somewhat giddily if he was an angel. With all she had done wrong in her life, she was surprised she hadn't ended up in the other place. Ginny opened one eye.

Actually, she had to be in hell, because Draco Malfoy was leaning over her, doing something to her left wrist.

"Good," Draco said crisply. "You're awake. I haven't the faintest of ideas what you were trying to pull in there, Virginia Weasley, but if I hadn't followed you in, you'd be dead right now."

"I want to die," Ginny replied softly. Draco looked at her sharply, his silver eyes almost too cold and biting to look straight at, and he sighed.

"I know what a woman looks like when she wants to die, Ginny. And you're angry and confused, but death is just an easy way out. Don't take it."

"How could you know?" Ginny screamed. "Do you know what it's like, do you know the pain, do you--" The look on his face silenced her.

"My mother has tried to take her life eight times since I was four. Each time, I have to find her after my father's beaten her. I have to remind her that I still love her. Don't you dare tell me I don't know what the pain's like." Without warning, Ginny burst into tears.

"You're a man," she sobbed. "Nobody has ever hurt you like they've hurt me." With surprising gentleness, Draco held her close, stroking her red hair as she cried into his chest.

"Has a man ever..."

"Just say it," she managed between sobs. "Rape." His body grew tense under hers.

"Who did this to you?" Draco demanded, holding her tighter.

"Tom," cried Ginny.

"You were only eleven years old," Draco said, his eyes wide.

"Which is better," she said in a nearly-inaudible voice. "Because if I was still eleven, I wouldn't have to deal with what I am struggling with now."

Draco didn't reply; he had taken his wand out of his pocket and pushed her gently back down on the bed. Quickly, he made sure that her cut wrists were fully healed, then, so quietly she didn't hear him, he whispered a spell. The tip glowed blue.

"Oh, God," Draco whispered. "On top of everything else..."