feigns | ► two → video/action。

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► two → video/action。

[When the video first clicks on, all that's visible is Will's face and the top of his shoulders. The feed shifts slightly, and from the angle it's being held at, it would be reasonable to assume he's led down, and even more reasonable -- from the slight squint and the admittedly somewhat dirty red bricks visible in one corner of the screen -- to think that he's outside and on a wall. After a moment, he appears satisfied that the device is, in fact, turned on, and places it somewhat clumsily behind his head, slightly further along the wall.]

I assume if this were normal, it would have been mentioned somewhere in between the rampaging wooden animals and the impromptu, temporary marriages ― perhaps just after cats, but before the clones. I shan't complain, though I feel as if I ought to be speaking of― [he pauses for a moment, waving a hand vaguely and briefly adopting something approaching a passable West Country accent] ―thic faraway lands, visited only by a daring, and arguably foolish, few on gurt maggoty ships.

[He sits up suddenly, and turns round to study his device; he looks cheerful, albeit slightly grubby and fairly nonplussed by the situation as a whole, although it soon fades into poorly concealed irritation.]

Perhaps Bristol's only up the road, or Teignmouth to the west and Torquay just below that. I suppose we shan't ever know; in a few hours more, we'll be somewhere and somewhen else entirely, taking part in a wholly ridiculous scavenger hunt. Why would it be as simple as playing along in what amounts to a bastardised children's game?

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Oh, Merlin's beard. He knows poetry, too? I don't know if I can take it.

[Ginny affects the most ridiculous, breathless voice when she says this, and goes as far as swooning almost bonelessly over the wall, a hand pressed to her heart. She can be quite the little actress when she needs or wants to be (see: garroting gas and Ron failing spectacularly at Quidditch), and right now, it fits. She holds that successfully for maybe five seconds before dissolving into laughter, and she rocks back up into a sit with a swing of her legs, grinning widely back.]

I don't fancy being a damsel in distress at all. It doesn't suit me, just like I'm not so sure being a knight suits you. [Her eyes rove his frame once, and she adds,] I can't imagine you in armour.

[Will watches her display of theatrics with amusement. There's a distinct difference in the way that people here respond to him -- people from the future, as discomforting as it was to think of. When she finishes, he announces airily:] If I didn't know any better, Miss Weasley, I'd say you were taking the piss.

And armour gets in the way; it's only convenient if you're not planning on moving at all.

Mr Herondale, I'm shocked! Me, taking the piss? Never.

[But the cheeky wink she sends his way says Always.

She gets her kicks where and when she can, after all. You never know when times in the City are going to throw you for another loop, and the summer's not over yet. It's a shame she associates the season with less favourable things nowadays - that wasn't always the case - but that's how it is.

She raises an eyebrow.]

Speaking from experience?

I've never worn armour. [He glances up at the sky for a moment, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his lips.] Not in a fight, at any rate. It occurred to me once that they might be good hiding places when an entire household is looking for you, but― [He presses his lips together and feigns a look of thought.] It turns out they're not, actually, especially if your balance isn't as great as it ought to be for one reason or another, and people tend to notice if they move when they were previously entirely stationary.

[Ginny snorts in laughter, leaning back again until she's lying along the wall, arms and legs outstretched. And then she talks to the sky, but directs her words at him.]

I've hidden in armour before. What was your reason, then?

Jessamine would have been upset with me about something, undoubtedly claiming that I was being ridiculous and preventing her from checking her reflection for the twentieth time that day, or perhaps I pointed out that the precise shade of whatever she was wearing didn't complement her quite as much as she'd like to think. I imagine Sophie wanted my guts for garters for traipsing mud around, or I might have offended her by attempting to speak civilly; I've never quite been able to work out which upsets her more.

I suppose I might have commented that Charlotte was doing a fine job of being our governess, particularly for one so small. [A beat.] Or I insulted her husband. He has a habit of setting himself on fire and not noticing, along with inventing objects that do the exact opposite of what they're supposed to.

[He scowls briefly, remembering the events at De Quincey's, and how the room had been set on fire instead of signalling to the Shadowhunters outside that help would be appreciated.]

I was fairly certain he blinded me recently, and she still defends him.

[He pauses again -- for longer, this time -- before continuing in a more dismissive, offhand manner.]

I can't remember. There may have been any number of reasons. Sadly, it's not unusual for me to find that I'd be safer outside than I'd be inside.

[The first few reasons make sense to her. In fact, she smiles as she hears them because it's not too terrible at all. She's hidden in suits of armour for similar reasons... as well as avoiding detentions by being caught out after curfew. But there's something about his tone that has her smile fading, her brows knitting, and though she remains lying along the wall, she's listening intently.

It's the last thing that has her rolling back up to sit so she can look at him. Blinded? Ginny remains silent for a few moments, then simply states,]

They sound terrible.

[He shoots her a sharp look, somewhat surprised by her reaction; he hadn't imagined she'd take it quite as seriously as it seemed she had. But then, he supposes, she doesn't know him enough to assume he deserved it or that he was embellishing facts.

He lifts his chin, regarding her before continuing quite cheerfully as if he hadn't heard her.]

I'd always imagined Jem would come to my aid should the women of the house decide to gang up against me, but it turned out he was of the opinion I utterly deserved it and left me to it. Henry, of course, hadn't realised anything unusual had occurred.

[Family - or living, for that matter - situations less cheerful than her own usually earn something solemn from the youngest Weasley. True enough she doesn't know what he'll say next, whether it's the truth or an elaborate version of it, but still.

She inclines her head a fraction as he continues, lip caught between her teeth. Why does she always manage to find people in the City that leave her with more questions than answers? She's the same way, she knows, but rarely to the extent as the others. Some days, she wishes she could carry on a conversation without feeling like she's speaking in code, through a filter, around an invisible elephant in a room.]

Siblings?

[He stiffens at her question. In retrospect, he realises that it was probably a logical assumption to make, but he still hadn't expected it. His thoughts briefly travel to his sister and it takes him longer than he'd have liked to reply, longer than he'd have liked to grin at Ginny.]

No. None of them would wish to be related to me. Jessamine, I'm certain, would prefer to sell all her fineries than be related to someone that 'behaves like a lunatic'. [He lowers his voice so that he's speaking in a conspiratorial and admittedly rather loud whisper.] She says it's because I'm Welsh.

Sophie. [He laughs.] She's a maid, and I know for a fact that she'd rather throw me out on the streets than do anything else; I don't know how she'd react if it transpired we were siblings. I imagine her opinion coincides with Jessamine's, although she's never outwardly said as much. She's said plenty more, of course. Charlotte gave her express permission for her to treat me as she wished.

[He sighs dramatically and finally turns his attention back to Ginny.] Perhaps you were right: they are terrible. I can't think what I've done to deserve living with them. Of course, I've nothing like your abundance of brothers.

[For some strange reason, this all bears a vague resemblance to her family's status among the other pureblooded families. The Welsh thing must be a joke, of course, but there's something that feels somewhat familiar. It's a brief, passing thought that doesn't earn more than a few seconds' consideration, because the rest reminds her of what she's heard of Harry's relatives. Those Dursleys.

Muggles are no different from Wizarding folk, but sometimes, despite the war and all she fights for, it doesn't feel that way. The remark about her brothers earns Will a fleeting smile, and she shrugs.]

You're not the only one. I can't imagine what it must be like without the whole lot of them, even Percy, and he's an absolute tosser, but...

[She pauses, takes a breath because Percy is not the topic at hand here, then asks,]

Erm. So why live with them at all?

Charlotte would say it's because we are family in so much as it matters, but she has a tendency to be absolutely maudlin. [He shrugs; elaborating on Shadowhunters isn't something he has any great interest in, but it holds greater appeal than touching on the subject of his family.] Jessamine, Jem, Tessa and I are all under eighteen, Charlotte and Henry are our guardians, in essence. It's somewhere to live and whilst I suppose I could find somewhere else to live if I really wished, at present, I pay nothing for my keep.

[That would all change, of course, when he turned eighteen, but he was trying to avoid thinking about it.]

It hardly matters, though. Do you always take such discussions so seriously?

[Ginny nods, though there's still that crease between her brows that means she's still thinking about it. This isn't the whole story, or at least, it isn't enough for her. But the mention of guardians - again, those bloody Dursleys - has her drawing the conclusion that maybe Will doesn't have parents. She's always known she's lucky to have the family she does, so happy, and full, and whole (at least for now); so though she understands it isn't the norm, it still troubles her that not everyone has that.

The question has her blinking at him, thrown for a moment, and then she actually blushes, a tinge of colour washing across her cheeks and the tips of her ears. The redhead shrugs again, glancing up and away, and she speaks her thoughts.]

I take family seriously, I suppose. It's the one thing I know I'll always have, because we don't have much of anything else but each other. [She pauses, because she doesn't like elaborating on how poor her family is, then presses on.] I expect it sounds a bit silly, but that's the best way I can put it.

[He watches her as she answers him, a look of slight satisfaction gracing his features as she blushes; he's never particularly understood why people find the stories of other people's lives so fascinating, and he hopes that perhaps now, she'll live it well alone.

Nevertheless, when she does speak, he simply blinks at her for a short moment, as if he's not entirely sure what to make of her comment, and then he laughs. He can't quite help the mocking tone that enters his voice when he replies, and he jumps back down off the wall, frowning.]

Are you truly that naive? You don't know that you'll always have anything.

[He'd always thought that he'd be able to live happily-ever-after (as it were) with his family, and then he'd opened that box and it'd all changed. And then, foolishly, he'd thought that perhaps he'd be okay at the Institute, but that had faded quickly; it wasn't as if Jem was going to live a long and fulfilling life, and he'd have to leave the Institute as soon as he turned eighteen.]

[That comment cuts her sharp and deep, regardless of if he meant it to or not. The rational part of Ginny tells her that he couldn't possibly know the details of her war, how fragile her family's lives are at this point, how she knows her family's happiness is fleeting because they'll lose one of their own soon. No. She won't always have them, not the way she wants them. But it's something she'd rather not think about at all.

Her smile crumples in an instant, the colour on her cheeks deepening in a flush that only speaks of irritation. The other half of her doesn't care that he doesn't know. Her right hand reaches up to snatch her wand from her hair, but the moment it's resting in her palm, she realises what she's doing and shoves it back into her belt, playing off the reflexive movement as if she'd meant to undo her hair all along.

Overreacting. That's what you're doing, Weasley. She shoves her loose hair behind her ears and releases a breath, and all this takes place in the span of maybe ten seconds. It's remarkable how much control she has over her temper nowadays―that wasn't at all the case when she first arrived in the City. Now, in a voice as even as she can manage it,]

You don't know my family. We've gone through a load of shite together and we're still together. I know that isn't always the case. I'm just speaking from experience, Will.

[Pause. Then in a cooler tone,]

Though I'm sorry you feel that way. It must be awful going through life with that sort of perspective.

Spare me your pity.

[He doesn't bother snapping at her, or even turning back round to face her. Instead, the utterance is quite flat and lacking in any discernable emotion.

Awful. He doesn't think of it like that anymore -- he tries to avoid thinking about what his life had been before, and as such, he tends not to entertain terms like 'awful' when contemplating it all. The only time he ever gives it much thought is his birthdays, when he writes the letters he destroys almost immediately after and even then, he's aware that as much of what he writes is fiction as it is reality.

He remains quiet for a little longer, thinking. Then, quite suddenly, he spins back round, speaking as if the previous few minutes hadn't occurred at all.]

You know, I've not spent any time in any of the taverns here. I think I'd be quite disappointed with myself if I were to wake up tomorrow and find I'd missed out on that opportunity entirely.

Don't tell me what to do.

[The retort is just as flat, but not enough to curb the edge framing her words. Every conversation seems to follow this pattern of casual banter interspersed with butting tempers, and it's more Ginny's penchant to rise to barbs than anything else―that much she knows. Nine times out of ten, she cannot stop herself. She's not sure why she bothers. Maybe because she so strongly dislikes it when things are kept from her, maybe because she's too curious and too stubborn for her own good. Maybe because she loathes people treating her like a child.

Whatever the case, she hops down off the wall and sweeps her flaming hair back with a gesture worthy of Fleur Delacour and rests a hand on the handle of her wand to make certain it's still in place. She meets his gaze with relative ease, despite her shorter stature, and remarks.]

Go ahead, then. I work at a bar so it isn't a sight I'd hate to miss out on. Don't get lost, now. The City might leave without you.

[It's a lie -- he has no intention of going to a tavern at all. He'd said it because he'd doubted that Ginny would want to accompany him, and he's glad to be proven correct. He's done it more often than not in London -- said that he's done one thing when he's done something else entirely, choosing instead to walk down to the docks or explore the various sights and sounds he must have seen a thousand times or more, and no-one seemed any the wiser. There were occasions when he thought that Jem might suspect that he doesn't get up to half of what he claims to, but Jem doesn't question him on the matter and they continue as normal.

He's not bothered by the fact that his conversations with Ginny seem to dissolve into arguments of some description; most of his conversations have a habit of doing as much, be it the result of him seeing how far he can push the other person or not, and he doesn't have a great deal of -- or any -- interest in 'making friends'.

He acknowledges her response with a slight tilt of his head.]

I'll do what I like.

Edited 2011-06-20 12:38 (UTC)

[Ginny shoots him a look, one that holds a number of different expressions, all of them difficult to discern from the other. This conversation is over, that much is clear. And whether what she's heard from him about his life back home is true or not is hard to say, but the former implies a measure of trust between them that Ginny doubts exists. Silently, she admonishes herself that she gives up stories of things close to her heart too easily, and maybe it is naivety on her part, some girlish optimism she often cannot afford to have, that has her doing so. Not everyone is a friend, not immediately, and the youngest Weasley knows that better than most people. Her history at home and in the City is testimony to that. And yet, she still tries.

Gryffindor persistence, after all.

She gives Will a final once over, lips pursed in mild irritation, and then she shrugs.]

Fine, then.

[She inclines her own head in a minute gesture, the movement stiff, and then she turns and heads the other way, resting the palm of her hand on the wall and leaping over it to the other side with an ease born of training for Quidditch and a warfront. The redheaded witch walks as far as she thinks is safest, and as soon as she's fairly certain Will isn't looking, she Disapparates with a sharp crack snapping through the salty air.

It could easily be mistaken for gunfire in this place. But Ginny needs to get home, needs to get to her broom to fly and unwind the tension, and disappearing on the spot is faster than walking.]

Edited 2011-06-20 12:58 (UTC)

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