Quote Me if I'm Wrong

Chapter Four: Sacré-Coeur

We hear so much about violence and war, it was refreshing to be reminded that people have the power to bring themselves peace. -Sohelia Vojoudi

I know it might sound sick, or slightly perverted to think that what Ginny Weasly did was an act of bravery. I would never have the will to plunge a dagger into myself, she ended her pain, and I doubt she had any regrets. My sister once tried to run the sharp edge of a Muggle knife across the veins lining her right wrist...but the clatter of the knife o the ground told me she didn't have the inner voice to do it.

I often wonder why Ginny did such a thing, was it because she felt inferior, did she fear the love she could not give, was the grieving process devouring her from the inside out, or was it something deeper...something more. I never knew the youngest Weasly well, I know Ron, and I know Fred and George, but I was never close to Ginny.

I have never had to wonder how Fred and George do it. It was never a question to me, I know, and have always known that they are more than any give them credit for. I think it's like any instinct that parallels being a fellow twin.

For when you share so much with someone it is so hard to put into words the emotions you feel for them, and only another who has done the same can fore feel the bond that reaches between you.

I do believe that Fred was aware of the things that Padma has tried, but I know it is one thing that he has always stayed silent about. He will not intrude upon what is not his to intrude upon. And George...I know he knows, and he presents a brilliant shoulder to sob into.

George was the second man I ever opened up to, the first whispered sweet French nothings into my ear just to get laid. The French boy, however much I want to forget him, told me that I had the Sacré-Coeur, the sacred heart. Now that he has left my life I have long pondered what it means to have a sacred heart, and I find I do not quite know. I once asked George as we sat before the fire in the Commons long after Fred had left us. He told me that I should not understand, because the pure aren't to grasp or comprehend the beauty of undaunted innocence. I have not asked him again, though I do not understand where he thinks I am innocent, white, peppermint, or angelic.

If there are such foes as angels, said sarcastically. I say foe, because I do not know if there are angels on our shoulder or devils in our tongues, and I do not like to think about such issues.

The bond that has forged between George and myself has been said by many to be a courtship, a romance, the roots of a love, I am not sure. Until the day Lav told me I was lucky I did not think of us as anything more than considerably close friends. I now see how dimwitted this was of me. Maybe we were friends, maybe he thought of us as more, but we never figured it out before he and Fred left on the wings of a dream in the smell of a creative hall disturbance.

When I see the fire that burns at the foot of my bed I think of it as the window to the world. The flames are the mouth and are sustained on the curls of newspaper we feed it, the eyes are empty and see nothing and everything, the ears listen to the words on the papers as they melt to ash, the nose inhales the smoke that it makes, thus becoming self consuming, and the fingers of fire wave in mocking as my sister and I stare deeply into the black depths of each others soul.

It came as a shock to me that I heard of Ginny's death not from George, but from Special Correspondent Donald. I think I thought George would have the balls to confide in me, or maybe Fred would tell me because of his dangerous knowledge concerning my twin.

Padma was winded as she read the article, I think she saw how it would have been had she been the one with the seeping wounds. Her eyes are losing the pronouncement of redness, and are sinking back into the dark pupils we inherited from our mother. Eventually she will fall into a fitful sleep and I will be left to cry into my pillow because I must be strong for her, and because I have no shoulder here to weep upon.

I know I shall have to write George and let the gentle words of sorrow and comfort wash over him, I just don't want to though. I will put this off until the last dying ember, because writing that letter will mean I will have to recognize that I am not the Sacré-Coeur. Ginny Weasly was the sacred heart.

Only a person with a sacred and unpunished heart could have jammed her problems away in one deep plunged of the blade, anybody poisoned by the uncertainty of love would have been unable to complete the deed.

Quill in ink, ink to parchment, quill back in ink, back to parchment, this is my meeting with the inevitable, I have to admit, I have to surrender the title that was never mine to bear.

He will read my condolences, and he will judge my sincerity. I don't know what he will think, but I know what I want him to think, I want him to accept what I send to him. Don't know if he will though. Cork in ink, seal to parchment, letter, completed, to owl, owl out the window...and me left with only the prayer to the Sacré -Coeur...