TABULA RASA
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Tabula rasa: the theory that the (human) mind is at birth a "blank slate" without
rules for processing data, and that data is added and rules for processing are formed solely by one's sensory
experiences. The notion is central to Lockean empiricism. As understood by Locke, tabula rasa meant
that the mind of the individual was born "blank", and it also emphasized the individual's freedom to
author his or her own soul.
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It's a typical happy ever after.
Discoursed dispute that was tied up neatly by the limber fingers that scuttle underneath her threadbare sweater. She laughs and that's it. It's all about the present (don't think about the fights) and it's all about his red hair trickling down to his brows that are, for once, not covering a frown.
This is how it's suppose to be, she reasons. The bruises accumulated (but they don't count now, this is all that matters) are gone. Or at least she can forget them right now.
She waited so long for this.
The moment starts receding, but it's there. His hands pull away and he hiccups a laugh as she blushes and pulls down on her Weasley sweater.
They want to go further (at least he wants to) but it's always stopped here. Both don't know why.
Now he's there, looking at his bare feet. Her own itch horribly because of the crab grass (and it's getting to be so cold), though it doesn't matter.
He does.
They do.
Vexation is released at last. And he's sorry, so sorry, for the banters. But she tells him that's what they're famous for. That's what makes them them.
And he smiles in reply.
But the day has been turning too cold to ignore and she knows they're going to have to return back to reality. She trembles at the passing wind that somehow (she can swear) mocks her. The shift begins.
He only looks curiously at her (she can't stop shaking) and she only can see a blur of thin lips asking (questioning) whether she was alright.
She was (has to be) and she has no idea why suddenly dread is clogging up her veins, her sheer sweater should at least cover her from this brutal response. Her front teeth bite her bottom lip as she sees him disappear like a shadow to the mutual sunset.
"It's getting to be dark." he says.
Obvious comment.
Awkward tense.
"Yeah, I can see."
She's starting to recoil back to some pressing emotion. It claws into her arms and abruptly (she wants to get away, let her go), she's starting to see too much.
Her teeth chatter and Ron seems quite placid across from her. She can't stop trembling and her head throbs. She can taste the blood rising from the bite on her cheek. Ron only betrays a frown through her hazy view.
Then, it all stops.
The moment is finally broken. The threads unravel at an impressing speed (she can only stay transfixed by its dance) that she doesn't know quite what to do but hang on. Her index finger and thumb pinch the thin cord.
Ron suggests that they hurry back in case she caught something. Her stomach still tingles from the aftertaste of his hand and it stings something pleasant, but she consents.
Still, as they both walk back, she doesn't take his hand.
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The walk proves to be too short.
She can compare it too well to their relationship.
The shaking has resided and he only responded with a quick "good, you're not dying." The realities are being acknowledged once again and each step is a wash of that.
His crabby mood has always been overbearing and she can practically feel the arguments, those coarse words, bubble on their tongues. Waiting to be released, waiting for the exchange they can only do.
It seems that their - whatever it is - has been marked by disputes. Internal or external.
Like, she remembers how she took the porcelain brush from her vanity and did her daily ritual back sixth year. She remembers how Lavender reclined on her bed post and she could see her pained expression (through the mirror's all-too-open reflection) as she finally broke down.
"Hermione, I can't - I can't do this anymore."
She remembers how her face stood impassive and that smug arrogance started rising to her lips. She was a marionette under its seductive control. She relished it.
Lavender simply continued to cry. And Lavender's eyes were a grimace to themselves as she continued to brush her curls.
The blonde girl only stared "I suppose you're happy now, Hermione? Huh? Another top mark, another title to
add to your trophy case?"
The delicate acquaintance between the girls fell loose.
"You know that's all you were Lavender?" Brush, brush, brush, and her head turned around.
"A second-rate trophy."
And it was all undone. Petty girl altercations.
Asides that can be found in each of those books dog-eared by a gossip-friendly generation.
"You know you'll make yourselves hate each other?"
Pride's last few words.
"I know everyone sees it happening, but do they see an end? It's going to all come to the same conclusion, Hermione."
The brush was left to drop. Spiteful words tumbled out.
"You're delusional."
A light started entering Lavender's eyes as a rough laugh echoed in the empty room. It shook her frame and unexpectedly Hermione felt inferior.
"Is that the best you can do?"
"I don't have to intentionally hurt you. It's already obvious who's won here."
The words resound in her head.
She can see Lavender taking a glass of gin and tossing her head, her plump red lips sipping the rim as she carelessly winks at her.
"I can't promise I won't say I told you so."
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They both look at each other as they see Grimmauld Place lit up.
It's late and they expected everyone to be snug in their beds or shrouded in darkness as they went about their endeavors.
She hears Ginny's words from a lone Saturday of sneaking into the boy's room and grabbing Harry. It would be risky (but Ginny was always like that) considering her brother would be about two meters away.
"Also disturbing," Hermione giggled.
"That's why you're here. You can distract him, if there is any need to, considering his snores..."
And then Ginny would leave, her hips sashaying, as she would make any excuse to touch (feel) Harry. A laugh with an intentional place of hands and Ginny would flash him a smile.
Little promises of her continued loyalty for Harry. But, it seemed, he took them for granted.
He had reverted back to that lone soldier archetype. Only her persistent (steadfast) arguments with him would remind him to show emotion.
Ginny only grew frustrated. Her small hands shook as her fiery temper took control and she would enter their room to see fallen debris. The girl's (she was so much younger than them) shoulders shaking as her hands bled.
"I - I don't get it Hermione. Why doesn't he care anymore? Why isn't he like last year?"
It would be back to their sessions. Ginny's begging of her need to dive into what can figuratively be interpreted as her fountain of Harry.
"Hermione, I need to know -"
"You're his best friend, so you know -"
"I don't know him quite well, but do you think he'll like -"
Advice, advice, advice.
It pricked at her everytime Ginny came for one of her Harry lessons. She would only smirk at the girl and tell her that she knew Harry in a way she never had.
Ginny would reply, "I know," but her smug tone would waver. Back again to the constant plaguing doubts.
She already heard it all. There was no need for Harry's "we broke up because I needed to," Ginny would fill her up with the details.
"He told me we could have had years. We could have. We can still! It's over, his job is, what more is there?"
She asked Harry and he merely looked at her sadly.
Now, as Ron and her gaze at the burning lights coming from the Black House she feels her beginning to comprehend his look.
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Ron offers his hand as they stand in front of the back door. But her fists are clenched tightly around her summer skirt and she fights the strong urge to cry.
It's back to those days.
Paranoia. Adrenaline. Death.
The trepidation is seeping and she can't stop breathing it in (she doesn't know where to run to).
Ron's feeling it too and it hardly comforts her.
His hand is still stretched towards her (she needs that condolence), but, but...
She can't move.
The door bangs open and the light shines in her eyes. It stings and a dam of tears are ready to be released.
Mrs. Weasley's watermarked cheeks seem to confirm the situation. A ringing noise envelops her (she's trying so hard to be there) after the older woman huddles her close and whispers. The words slip and slide and she can't hear a thing.
She doesn't want to hear it.
"Your house was attacked today, one hour ago."
Mrs. Weasley has to hold her up.
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A/N: I've been busy revamping this fic and trust me that the first few chapters are just to prep you guys up for (hopefully) the shocking details that are going to come. I tried to be subtle with some hints, so maybe you'll catch them. ;)