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Disclaimer: I obviously own nothing, save for the plot. Alas, earwax.
A/N: I've wanted to write a fic where Ginny was a ballerina for quite a while and lately, after reading a bunch of angst one-shots, I strangely found inspiration. And I'm horrible at a guy's PoV, so don't hate.
The stage. It had not always been her sanctuary, but somehow it now was. She could lose herself in the bright lights and transform into a radiant being under the layers of paint upon her face. Here, she did not have to hide her feelings, her fear. These were all but drained by her character as she flitted across the floor in delicate satin shoes.
She let the live symphony sweep her off her feet and catch her in its swells as she leapt and felt the precise tap of her toes keep time. As she twirled, she allowed herself to be lost in the sheer, pearlescent folds of fabric that rose wildly with her movement, burying her, until only a blur of her red hair could be seen in collaboration with the flurry of her feet.
And so the audience watched, awed by the delicate creature that poured its heart out to them through only a series of movements, some soft, but almost bittersweetly so. But they did not know that it was not a performance, that the acting was not trained, but burned into her very soul.
She took consolation in this, for what were they to know? They were only Muggles and knew nothing of the ancient traditions and rifts that continued to persist their existence in the god-forsaken world of magic; and she had been born into it. The only escape she had was to lave and create a rift of her own, a protection from future heartache and discrimination, a haven from memories.
But as she placed the dagger to her breast and gazed at her lover’s lidded eyes, she knew her sanctuary would end until another performance beckoned her. It was only bittersweet that she would die in the end for his love, hoping that perhaps heaven would unite them if earth could not.
Her death lasted but a minute before a roaring filled her ears and she rose. She let the light show her the way, but the moment the curtain opened the dream was shattered. Her soul felt battered, her body numb, but she plastered a smile on her face and let them believe her natural talent for acting before taking a final curtsey and watching illusion turn to reality with the close of the curtains. They shuddered once in their velvet glory before she turned on her heel and fled.
She fled to her dressing room and hastily gathered her effects and apparated, not caring if anyone saw. A sob escaped her throat as she sank to the floor, dropping everything, and pulled her knees up to her chest. It didn’t matter that her make-up was sliding down her face. All that mattered was that she was alone.
***
He watched her from his seat in the stadium, his gaze trained in accordance with the spotlight that followed the sprite’s every move, and couldn’t help but feel that this meant something more to her than anyone could possibly know. He had stolen various glances at the people around him and all bore the same look of awe and admiration. But he only smiled to himself, an estranged smile that didn’t meet his eyes, and would have called those around him naïve had they known what he knew. But they didn’t.
He could only resign himself to follow her leaps and wild pirouettes around the stage as she danced out her emotions and drowned into an inevitable catharsis. Her display was not for show and had she known that he was in the audience, his eyes trained on her just like everyone else, he knew that her performance would only have been heightened with emotions. So powerful would it have been that she might have almost convinced him that she truly was the character that she merely portrayed from pieces of parchment to life.
Only when she died did the full impact of it strike realization into his gut. He saw how she gazed into her character’s dead lover’s eyes and he felt guilt quell up in his throat. It was him. He saw how had she had a real dagger then and there, she would have pierced it through her heart with naught a second thought, gladly ending the pain. But she was not dead, and neither was he.
When the curtain finally came to a close, he rushed out of his seat and down the corridor backstage, ignoring the shouts of security. He saw a flash of red hair and called out to her, but when he reached her room, she was gone. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he sank into the chair, avoiding the mirror’s reflection, and let his head rest heavily on his hands.
He had been so close, but she had slipped away again. There was no way to track her, now way to stop her, and no way to find her. She was like a phantom, slipping away into her solitary haze. He didn’t know when he’d see her again, or find her. All he knew was that he had to somehow, someway. He wouldn’t let their tie fade or their thread be cut. He wouldn’t lose her.
A/N: I've wanted to write a fic where Ginny was a ballerina for quite a while and lately, after reading a bunch of angst one-shots, I strangely found inspiration. And I'm horrible at a guy's PoV, so don't hate.
The stage. It had not always been her sanctuary, but somehow it now was. She could lose herself in the bright lights and transform into a radiant being under the layers of paint upon her face. Here, she did not have to hide her feelings, her fear. These were all but drained by her character as she flitted across the floor in delicate satin shoes.
She let the live symphony sweep her off her feet and catch her in its swells as she leapt and felt the precise tap of her toes keep time. As she twirled, she allowed herself to be lost in the sheer, pearlescent folds of fabric that rose wildly with her movement, burying her, until only a blur of her red hair could be seen in collaboration with the flurry of her feet.
And so the audience watched, awed by the delicate creature that poured its heart out to them through only a series of movements, some soft, but almost bittersweetly so. But they did not know that it was not a performance, that the acting was not trained, but burned into her very soul.
She took consolation in this, for what were they to know? They were only Muggles and knew nothing of the ancient traditions and rifts that continued to persist their existence in the god-forsaken world of magic; and she had been born into it. The only escape she had was to lave and create a rift of her own, a protection from future heartache and discrimination, a haven from memories.
But as she placed the dagger to her breast and gazed at her lover’s lidded eyes, she knew her sanctuary would end until another performance beckoned her. It was only bittersweet that she would die in the end for his love, hoping that perhaps heaven would unite them if earth could not.
Her death lasted but a minute before a roaring filled her ears and she rose. She let the light show her the way, but the moment the curtain opened the dream was shattered. Her soul felt battered, her body numb, but she plastered a smile on her face and let them believe her natural talent for acting before taking a final curtsey and watching illusion turn to reality with the close of the curtains. They shuddered once in their velvet glory before she turned on her heel and fled.
She fled to her dressing room and hastily gathered her effects and apparated, not caring if anyone saw. A sob escaped her throat as she sank to the floor, dropping everything, and pulled her knees up to her chest. It didn’t matter that her make-up was sliding down her face. All that mattered was that she was alone.
***
He watched her from his seat in the stadium, his gaze trained in accordance with the spotlight that followed the sprite’s every move, and couldn’t help but feel that this meant something more to her than anyone could possibly know. He had stolen various glances at the people around him and all bore the same look of awe and admiration. But he only smiled to himself, an estranged smile that didn’t meet his eyes, and would have called those around him naïve had they known what he knew. But they didn’t.
He could only resign himself to follow her leaps and wild pirouettes around the stage as she danced out her emotions and drowned into an inevitable catharsis. Her display was not for show and had she known that he was in the audience, his eyes trained on her just like everyone else, he knew that her performance would only have been heightened with emotions. So powerful would it have been that she might have almost convinced him that she truly was the character that she merely portrayed from pieces of parchment to life.
Only when she died did the full impact of it strike realization into his gut. He saw how she gazed into her character’s dead lover’s eyes and he felt guilt quell up in his throat. It was him. He saw how had she had a real dagger then and there, she would have pierced it through her heart with naught a second thought, gladly ending the pain. But she was not dead, and neither was he.
When the curtain finally came to a close, he rushed out of his seat and down the corridor backstage, ignoring the shouts of security. He saw a flash of red hair and called out to her, but when he reached her room, she was gone. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he sank into the chair, avoiding the mirror’s reflection, and let his head rest heavily on his hands.
He had been so close, but she had slipped away again. There was no way to track her, now way to stop her, and no way to find her. She was like a phantom, slipping away into her solitary haze. He didn’t know when he’d see her again, or find her. All he knew was that he had to somehow, someway. He wouldn’t let their tie fade or their thread be cut. He wouldn’t lose her.
The End.
amor_quies is the author of 6 other stories.
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This story is a favorite of 4 members. Members who liked Dancing Death also liked 405 other stories.
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