𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖉𝖞 // ғ.ᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Chapter 18: The curtain descends

Summer storms always made you happy as a child. Memories from then weren't abundant, results of you blocking out bad and some good getting swept up with them. But what you did remember was sitting at a dirty window, watching it get washed in the rain. Whether it was soothing to your juvenile mind, oddly calming despite the vibrations it would send through the house, or it was just so beautiful to observe, you loved it. There was always something about the clap of thunder and counting down to the lightning or the rain that became warm to the skin after a little while, that was reassuring.

Feeling safe at home was not a usual occurrence for you, feeling threatened in the one place that was meant to be your shelter from the horrors of the world. That's probably why you spent so many hours staring outside, glass panes became tv screens, the world was your movie. It also explains that when you are outside, or living, you don't feel it to be true. Like you're a character in a movie, wearing a costume and saying your lines just like you're meant to. But when, during filming, as it starts pouring, or you hear a crash of thunder, its soothing. Mother natures way of telling you that this is all real, that you're safe because you can touch the rain. Feeling it soak you to the bone, forcing you to know you have bones and a body that you have control over, that you're you. Whoever they may be.

Summer storms still make you happy. Ginny's room is empty, bar you. It's empty and you feel cold despite being wrapped in one of Molly's knitted blankets. This one has greens and blues fading into purples. It hugs your shoulders, leaving space in your centre for a cup of tea out of a chipped mug. Ginny's room has always been your favourite because of the window seat. Cushioned with throw pillows which have lost their plumpness. The glass reveals miles upon miles of fields, some are bright yellow, and some are plain, stretching green, blanketing the earth and showing off their health. A random tree will be dotted on the hills, overlooking its land like a parent watching it's child's growth.

Currently, the grounds were being attacked by sheets of rain, threatened by calls of thunder and sliced by jagged lighting strikes. Time stood still whilst you watched this episode, in your own little bubble, able to breathe. To think. About the past week.

As far as numbing the pain goes, you were almost a master. It was a lesson the world forced you to be taught at such a young age, and experiences have left you no choice but to grow and become better at the art.

A week ago, Fred abused his power and broke your heart. A week ago, the process began again.

Everyone had tried to speak with you, to comfort you or care for you. None succeeded. In another situation, remorse would flood your person at pushing away people that only wanted to see you heal, but you felt nothing. That always seemed to be the issue.

Wait that's not true, one person succeeded, Harry. In theory, you were closer to George, so he should've been the companion you selected whilst you cared to your wounds, but maybe the fiery red hair flared warnings in your brain, even if it wasn't specific to him. So, Harry spoke to you, no doubt recording your words for the group which stayed downstairs, worried and concerned. Hardly any of them had seen you like this before. So enclosed, so ravaged from an experience that you don't even have the strength to keep a conversation.

Broken sentences were all Harry had to work with. Usually in the morning when he would come to check on you, he could gauge whether you wanted to talk or be distracted, noting tone of voice and body language. He gave you just what you needed, always offering the option of him leaving or doing something for you.

Days blurred together when they were spent the same. Gallons of tea and the odd slice of toast fuelled your body. Its jobs didn't change drastically day to day, mainly writing and reading. Occasionally just sitting and staring. For the days where you needed to be distracted, your brain was too loud and nothing could turn off that incessant internal monologue that screamed obscenities and self-loathing remarks, you wrote. Songs, poems, diary entries. Ink stains of your favourite words or snippets of conversations you had heard in hushed tones through the crack between the door and the wood floor of the room you inhabited. It was nearly full, your journal. When you could hold a conversation, you must remember to ask Hermione to do that spell that gave you more pages, without even changing the size.