Caged
by: Isa
PG-13
Disclaimer: They all belong to J.K. Rowling.
Summary: The war is over. Unlike in fairytales, good did not win. Just a cell like any other. A caged Ginny wanting to set her captor Draco free.
*
A.N.- To SnapeJuice who wanted me to write it.
Taunting Ave:
I've reposted this chapter just in the hope you will really read the story a few more times. I was particularly touched by all of your reviews but, alas, lacking an e-mail to which to send you my thoughts I'll have to post them here. : ) Thank you so, so much for all your kind words. Feel free to always contact me at [email protected].
*
Fear has a taste of its own. A mix of mould and despair, so thick that I can feel it with my taste buds. I can feel it all around me in the cold dungeon walls, in the unlevelled floor. So oppressing that all I can do is allow it to engulf me, as it tightens my chest, forcing the air out of my lungs.
My captors don't need to touch me. I move on my own accord. Their dark presence behind me is surreal. It seems that, if I were to turn around and face them, they would disappear. Like persistent shadows in the corner of my eye. Light impressions marked in my retina by the summer sun.
But there is no sun here.
I look ahead and there he is. Holding the cell door open. He grabs it forcefully; as if he fears that if he lets go it will close on its own with a loud metal clang.
I enter the cell while he still holds the door open for me. He doesn't seem to notice. He does it like he would if we were on the outside world, he does it because that's the gentlemanly thing to do. Giving the surroundings, his gesture, brought by a lifetime of good manners instilled into him, seems so out of place that I almost laugh. But that is probably the hysteria, as the gravity of my situation settles down on me.
He gently closes the door, its soft click barely registering in my ears. If I was harbouring any doubts that he held any compassion for me they are lost when I look into his eyes. Cold and grey. He just didn't slam the door closed because that is not in his nature. It's how he distances himself from us commoners. And I find that his detached care is far more hurtful than violent gloating.
I take a moment to look at him. Really look at him.
Beautiful.
He does not belong here.
The others, in their crudeness, do. Even I, dirty and ragged as I am now, don't seem as out of place as he does.
Tall, thin, elegant.
Clothes that are just too expensive, clothes that suit him just too well.
I find myself wishing to shelter him from this place, this reality.
That has always been my mistake. Wanting to save those that do not want salvation.
He's looking at me but not looking at me at all. He's looking through me. Searching for something else.
For a fleeting moment he seems open. No more that mask of propriety.
A strand of silver hair falls to his eyes. He wrinkles his nose in distaste, like a little boy.
That seems to bring him out of his reverie.
Long, elegant fingers brush the hair back in place.
His eyes harden as his vision focuses again on me.
He turns and leaves.
But I don't want him to go.
by: Isa
PG-13
Disclaimer: They all belong to J.K. Rowling.
Summary: The war is over. Unlike in fairytales, good did not win. Just a cell like any other. A caged Ginny wanting to set her captor Draco free.
*
A.N.- To SnapeJuice who wanted me to write it.
Taunting Ave:
I've reposted this chapter just in the hope you will really read the story a few more times. I was particularly touched by all of your reviews but, alas, lacking an e-mail to which to send you my thoughts I'll have to post them here. : ) Thank you so, so much for all your kind words. Feel free to always contact me at [email protected].
*
Fear has a taste of its own. A mix of mould and despair, so thick that I can feel it with my taste buds. I can feel it all around me in the cold dungeon walls, in the unlevelled floor. So oppressing that all I can do is allow it to engulf me, as it tightens my chest, forcing the air out of my lungs.
My captors don't need to touch me. I move on my own accord. Their dark presence behind me is surreal. It seems that, if I were to turn around and face them, they would disappear. Like persistent shadows in the corner of my eye. Light impressions marked in my retina by the summer sun.
But there is no sun here.
I look ahead and there he is. Holding the cell door open. He grabs it forcefully; as if he fears that if he lets go it will close on its own with a loud metal clang.
I enter the cell while he still holds the door open for me. He doesn't seem to notice. He does it like he would if we were on the outside world, he does it because that's the gentlemanly thing to do. Giving the surroundings, his gesture, brought by a lifetime of good manners instilled into him, seems so out of place that I almost laugh. But that is probably the hysteria, as the gravity of my situation settles down on me.
He gently closes the door, its soft click barely registering in my ears. If I was harbouring any doubts that he held any compassion for me they are lost when I look into his eyes. Cold and grey. He just didn't slam the door closed because that is not in his nature. It's how he distances himself from us commoners. And I find that his detached care is far more hurtful than violent gloating.
I take a moment to look at him. Really look at him.
Beautiful.
He does not belong here.
The others, in their crudeness, do. Even I, dirty and ragged as I am now, don't seem as out of place as he does.
Tall, thin, elegant.
Clothes that are just too expensive, clothes that suit him just too well.
I find myself wishing to shelter him from this place, this reality.
That has always been my mistake. Wanting to save those that do not want salvation.
He's looking at me but not looking at me at all. He's looking through me. Searching for something else.
For a fleeting moment he seems open. No more that mask of propriety.
A strand of silver hair falls to his eyes. He wrinkles his nose in distaste, like a little boy.
That seems to bring him out of his reverie.
Long, elegant fingers brush the hair back in place.
His eyes harden as his vision focuses again on me.
He turns and leaves.
But I don't want him to go.