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The drawing room drowned in an air of sorrow, ashen with ruins and rubbles afar. Draped in the most expensive fabric, he turned to his dear sister— A faint smile tugged on his lips. He said: ‘Ah, Ginevra. What brings you to my humble abode?’ Tilting head in curiosity, he stepped closer but immediately stopped.
The Auburn haired girl stilled, eyes wide but mouth left open just slightly, a whisper of word that couldn't quite be heard. She clenched her fist, ‘You know what 𝘩𝘦 did is wrong.’ She said instead, fidgeting with the hem of her robes— So much for bravery.
‘Why do you still insist on following him, Ron?‘ Ginny blurted, brown eyes meeting ceruleans, but it held no affection nor adoration one would spare for their loved ones. Her heart aches.
‘Because he saw me first. For who I am. Why do you follow that boy, Ginevra?’ He returned the question, leaning on the armchair beside him slightly, dark blue robes swayed and swooned as he settled.
She didn't answer.
She didn't have the answer.
The room felt sick of lavender scent, a far— Far cry from the burnt ebony that is left from her home. Near the balcony, was an incomplete painting: A woman, bushy haired but fierce, eyes determined expression untamed, a beast lie dormant slowly showing its fangs, hidden in the shadows.
In the right side, a mirror stood valiant, unseen of its half as it's covered by an indigo cloth. Brushes sat splattered on the ground, droplets of paint dried next to it. In the left side, a drawer sat neatly, a vase perched on top with intricate details, few was a beautiful arrangement of fox-gloves flowers.
‘Have a tea, Ginevra. You look far too skinny, do they even feed you enough?’
They couldn't. Not with what's going on. But still she accept, reluctantly bringing her lips to the cup, Earl Grey. It tasted like. She peeked through her cups, Ron— Ronald Weasley. Her brother sat prim and proper, legs crossed, hummed he did beneath his breath, a faint melody she too recalled familiarly. His auburn locks left scattered and wild in his shoulder, a stark contrast to the navy blue he wore.
Different was one way to word it.
The 'Ron Weasley' she remembered had short hair, a cheerful smile with his second-hands clothes and shoes alike, with his witty jokes and sarcastic remarks. You're missing, Luna said. As the blonde caught her gazing at the sunset too long.
No, she wanted to deny, to scream, to refute. But she couldn't, not when the truth was a silver dagger coated in the most poisonous adversaries of life that is sorrow and longing.
Ronnie used to watch sunrise. Her mother remarked, said boy absence most noticeable the past few years. He did it everyday.
She sets down her cup, from which she had drank greedily. Shame, Ginevra. Shame. ‘Do you still watch sunrise?’ She asked, but her tone sounded more accusing, interrogative. Luna said her voice is tinged with the small seeds of hopes. She detested that statement.
He turned his head towards her, cerulean eyes bright as he scanned her. Then slowly he nodded, ‘Yes, yes I do.’ he responded, voice soft, silky and enticing: The same way _his_ did.
It made her clench her fist even more, crescent moons carved into her palms. Made her brow creased and jaws tight, made her mind clouded by anger and frustration. Because he stole him. Stole her brother, stole Ron Weasley. Tore him away from his kin, and never returned him. They were devastated, the Weasleys are. Mourned and grieved, why? the Burrow reeked with that word, that question. Then they noticed it slowly, when he started changing. Started to become something else. What was his favorite color? Purple? couldn't be. Red? Too gaudy, Ron added one time, all while pleading to Merlin for his Christmas jumper not to be red. Someone twisted the knife that stabbed the Weasleys slowly, because they lost one of their own— Because there will be nothing to remember him with, because he wasn't remembered at all in the first place. They would mourn a memory, grieve a voice, but not a photo. Not a simple detail often overlooked, because he himself: Is that detail made flesh, soon to be forgotten and a mystery to history and its reader. Shame, they lived with. As they watched the green eyed boy approaches and sway him away, steal him. They were a mere specter in the grand scheme of the world, a minor role overlooked and often forgotten.
How the tables have turned. She commented wryly.
Sitting in front of her wasn't Ron Weasley, the sixth 'blood traitor' of the infamous Weasleys.
But Illustrium Lovelace, Heinrich Gaunt most prized and loyal follower. Second-in-command of the Dark Prince's court, Gaunt's personal Bellatrix Lestrange. Illustrium Lovelace stood feral, clad in prussian blue robes alongside Heinrich Gaunt and Iris Virtue. Illustrium Lovelace kneeled in front of Heinrich Gaunt, an obsessive and vicious desire gleaming n his aegean eyes. Illustrium Lovelace reeked of bloods shed only for Gaunt.
Gaunt, Gaunt, Gaunt, Gaunt. The name a chant from Lovelace lip, a prayer of adoration said in most reverence. Devotion lingers where he stood beside Gaunt, an ever loyal shadow eager to serve.
Ginevra knew she had lost Ron Weasley to Illustrium Lovelace, but still she clings to hope.
O' hope, both an elixir and poison mixed with no way in between. A saviour and a poisoner all the same, a dove so innocent soaring high— A serpent coiling tight, bite venomous.
And still she clings to hope.