( currently under polishing, multiple chapters in the works )
|| 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒚 • ginny weasley ||
|| Ginny Weasley x fem!oc ||
|| Summery;||
IN WHICH GINNY WEASLEY DANCES WITH AMORA NOTT AND CANT GET THE NOTT FAMILY HEIR OUT OF HER HEAD.
|| achievem...
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tesorina; little treasure (an Italian phrase used something like "my darling.")
Amora February 12th 1998 Your beauty is a weapon Amora.
She stared in the mirror, she could almost see the black magic hanging in the air around her. She pulled down her already droopy eye revealing the red underneath her pupils.
Though she supposed her mother was right. For once, she understood.
Her entire life she'd watched her mother weaponize her beauty, lie to herself even.
Lyra Nott was many people.
It all depended on who you asked.
Some would say she was kind, caring, some would say she was bright, strange even. Loud, quiet, rude. It all depended on what Lyra wanted from you.
Amora was only born to be a weapon. She'd figured that out at a young age. She was born to be Voldemort's right hand. In a way, she was born evil.
Maybe she was.
Ginny had been the only one to break her mask, all of her walls, defenses, and everything in between her mother forced on her all those years ago.
For once in forever, she finally felt like she'd finally done something good.
She should've known it was all another lie she'd put on to protect herself.
Behind all her masks, she loved Ginny so much it terrified her, it drowned her until her lungs were dry and weak.
And when you drown, eventually your body forces you to take an involuntary breath.
That's when your life comes to an end, the death more forgiving than the breath.
Whenever it decided to happen, she hoped her body would force an involuntary breath soon. Because, when you can't breath on your own, it's hard to tell where your mask ends and your soul begins.
Amora sighed and made her way back to bed. She didn't know how long she laid there that night, awake and emotionless. All she knew was; at exactly 1:26 am Amora shot up with a jolt. The window of their small bedroom wide open, wind blowing the curtains. She felt in fimiliar sting in her veins, like a million miniature bees floating around her bloodstream. Her heard— was that yelling?
