Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
❝THE BABBLING BROOKS❞ {Chapter II}
❝There’s a bundle of bumble nests / a profusion of yellow begonias are laid out in the garden front / summer’s sticky sweet / fresh-squeezed lemonade and whispered tales are told of the babbling brooks and the creatures they may hold / the sun has set / the world I once knew for certainty gone away at rest / caterpillar in repose / we're just a few butterflies all alone.❞
═══════ ೋღ❆ღೋ ═══════
Ginny laid on her bed, peering up at the white speckled ceiling of her new bedroom as she sucked her cut finger into her warm mouth. Her mattress laid flat on the hardwood floor, and boxes and boxes of her things were spread in a plethora of mess all around her.
Tomorrow she'd unpack, but tonight, Ginny was too exhausted for more of anything. She closed her eyes, mentally checking off a to-do list in her mind. She had so many tasks to accomplish in this next week or so, and sooner or later, she'd also have to try to find a new job.
Hopefully, it would be something nice.
She didn't just want to accept anything because she needed an income, but at the same time, Ginny knew she couldn't depend on her parents. For the first time in their life, they could allow themselves some small leisures because their children were all out of the house. Ginny refused to take that away from them. They deserved it after all of their years of love and support.
Ginny counted upwards, trying to clear her mind of its earlier sadness, and listened to the sound of the alarm clock Hermione had gifted her tick tock away. At first, Ginny hadn't made use of the Muggle apparatus. It had fallen on her nerves even, but like many things, she'd grown to like its soft, soothing sound.
Patiently, Ginny's wounded finger now resting at her side, she waited for sleep to notice her. And in only a few minutes, sleep had done just that, and the witch had fallen captive to her own dreamland, whether it be a place of escapism or further grief.
“Ginny, honey?” Vibrant red waves ebb and flowed down the young witch’s shoulders, a piece of her hair caught in her strawberry lip balm. Ginny was eight or nine again. Her bright brown eyes aligned with her mother’s regard; sweet and patient. “I think we're done here for the day.”
Ginny, youth painted on her visage like a blooming flower, looked around at the books sprawled out on the kitchen table. Today, mother and she had learned about the different shops in Hogsmeade and their purposes. It hadn’t been very interesting, learning all the names and histories, and Ginny was glad to be done.
