cinder.

ginny weasley. xxi. dada.

[pnsyprkn]

time: 6:30pm location: faculty lounge status: @gincvra​

“dreadfully boring,” pansy says, as she lets her body fall next to ginny’s, trying not to get her clothes creased. “we have to perform a waltz, be pleasant, hold proper conversation over dinner, and not get absolutely shit-faced while doing so? why didn’t they put that in the orientation pamphlets?” they’re sitting on the floor, backs against a surprisingly comfortable couch as blaise, neville, draco and luna make conversation in the background. the sun necklace burns a hole in her pocket, but instead, she turns to ginny.

“i’m assuming you’re not particularly pleased with your… waltz partner?” she takes a quick look at neville, thinks of their conversation mere hours ago. “i’d offer to trade but i think neville’s still scared of me, and nobody wants to talk to mcgonagall about changes in the itinerary today.” she presses her fingers against ginny’s forearm, tracing random symbols on her skin. “plus, blaise wouldn’t have it. if you learn how to waltz with someone, you’re bound to be partners for life.”

[gincvra]

ginny smiles in spite of herself, her head bows forward in defeat to the unwanted grin pansy finds in her, and coaxes out. “you say that like anyone but you actually read those pamphlets,” she teases.

a sardonic laugh leaves her before she can swallow it, her eyes open to find the back of neville’s head. “neville taught me how to waltz. sort of. so maybe we’re bound to be as well. besides, it... it can’t be that bad,” she mutters. how much more could she disappoint neville? she anticipates the shared awkwardness, she only hopes that awkwardness is all that is shared between them. “and if it is, you are cordially invited to get shit-faced with me in the garden right after. maybe even teach me how to dance properly while you’re at it.”

her head finds its resting place on pansy’s shoulder, as her eyes follow the fingers trawling along her forearm. her forearm flexes under the tickling touches. “besides, i don’t know why you’re dreading tonight. isn’t this what you were trained to do? make small talk, play nice, and prance? i can just imagine little pantheia and little blaise learning how to waltz. so proud to show everyone at the next big societal ass-kissing party,” she jibes, as she tries to hide her smirk, all too wide and all too pleased with herself, in pansy’s shoulder.

[gincvra]

time: 8:45pm location: the great hall status: closed for @offireandseeds​

ginny was born with athleticism in her blood and two left feet.

rather, that was what she told herself since neville, kind and quiet neville, asked her to accompany him to the yule ball. she was one of the few of her year who were able to attend, and her dormmates were quick to throw their energy into fussing over her. her hair coiled into a high, tight bun, stuck out from the back of her head and pulled on her scalp. the dress, made by her mother’s loving hands, had more frills and pleats than her aunt muriel at christmas lunch. 

to top it all off, she was too proud to admit she didn’t know how to waltz. a pureblood who didn’t know how to waltz. on any other day, she’d have taken that title and worn it proudly on her sleeve. she didn’t want to be like the rest of them, born with silver spoons in their mouths and parent issues. but standing in front of neville, the quick three-beat measure in full symphony, part of her hungered for that taste of silver and the air of elegance that came with it. but neville still smiled at her, even when she bumbled her excuses not to dance, until the confession came tumbling out too. he even smiled at her then, took her hand, and placed it on his shoulder. he put his hand on her waist, took her hand in his, and gently guided her around the floor. his smile was warm, and comforting, and drew her gaze like a out-of-time moth to a flame. it was a bit clumsy, toes were crushed, but she laughed, and asked if he was trying to fix one of her left feet. she was almost sad to hear the waltz draw to a close.

that was, until the weird sisters stormed the stage. she pulled her hair down, and it flowed freely over her shoulders. her hand reached for neville’s, and she dragged them into the middle of the sea of students. they danced and sung until filch cleared the handful of remaining students from the hall, arm in arm, her ears still ringing from the music and her cheeks still aching from smiling.

it is a far cry from this evening, as professor mcgonagall announces the waltz proudly. (ginny barely kept her protest from leaving her mouth at word of the designated pairings. a very loud expletive silenced only by a sharp look from pansy, and a nudge of her shoulder from blaise.) neville is taller. ginny has no frills. and yet, she still holds all the same giddy trepidation she did the last time they danced together. she can’t meet his eyes, her gaze brushes over the other pairs of apprentices, all suitably matched. the guests gather too, and their attention is no easier to swallow. it’s as if she’s thirteen again and doesn’t know how to waltz.

this moment has rattled in her mind all evening, drawing all of her attention from the moment of its announcement. a small part of her tells her to run. another part whispers tell him to run. three years of separation and healing still had not been enough— she only realised when she snapped at him for asking about her plans for her project. he pretends like nothing has happened, like she hasn’t ignored every owl he sent her. he takes the high road, and she can’t stop the bitter remark before it leaves her mouth. she has avoided him, like identical magnets, ever since.

but they are forced together, and she approaches him as the orchestra is called to attention. she places her hand on his shoulder, barely touching the sleeve of his golden robes— as if the touch alone scorched open wounds. he’s dressed in gold, as he should be, as he deserves— she holds her tongue and bites her cheek. her other hand is barely open, held in the air in a stiff frame, elbow locked, waiting to be met halfway. she clears her throat, the silence too heavy for her to hold.

“let’s get this over with? and watch out for my toes this time.”

[gincvra]

⤕ ginny & pansy.

you cannot look at the sun, but there is nothing to stop you from staring at the moon. 

[pnsyprkn]

@gincvra said: ♆

             — ♆ for a mythology au

they say when the sun and the moon meet the world shivers in darkness. the seas rise in celebration, like they are pulled by the moon for a fleeting instance of touch. the sun becomes full, they say, bathed in shadow. the worshippers of the sun goddess and the followers of the moon goddess meet in temples built in their image so they can dance the rhythm written at the very beginning of time.

they say when the sun goddess presses her palm against the moon goddess’, the world stays still in anticipation. sunflowers reach for the moon, the push and pull of water slows. the sun takes the first step in bridging the gap. they say the moon burns, fire collecting in the crevices, but the goddess of the moon is lured into the touch, every single time. the moon bleeds rocks as the goddess presses kisses all across the sun, they say, but the sight is worth it.  

the sun and the moon live separated, one following the other, always out of reach. the sky becomes their enemy as it stretches out the distance between them. they like winter best, they say, as the day melts into the night, as the sun passes by the moon, so close, but just out of reach to touch. they say the moon basks in the light of the sun all night, just so she can remember what it was like to be loved.

it is a dance, they say. it is brutal, but so is every love.