play me in the darkness.
Pairing: GeorgeRosmerta.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise I do not own. Plain and simple.
Note: This is a response to babygirl121896's Unusual Pairing challenge over at the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges Forum.
After the fighting ends she makes her way back to her pub.
There's a cut oozing blood down her pretty face and the crinkles around her eyes from laughing so much, do nothing more than age her far more than the years have ever managed.
Her hands shake as she pushes the door open, a mix of numbness and shock; because she's killed tonight, seen friends, customers, people killed.
All she wants is a tumbler, a bottle of firewhiskey and enough time to forget the events burned to the back of her eyelids.
The pub is dark, the room cold, but the clink of glass against glass echoes.
She slides onto the stool next to him, the stain of blood on his clothes and ash from the fires tracing patterns so similar to those on her own.
They drink until the bottle is empty, then the next, and the next.
Until the world is nothing more than stardust at their fingertips and memories of fire, of cries and the smell of blood are nothing compared to the detached indifference caused by the alcohol flooding their bloodstreams.
She thinks through the haze that his family must be looking for him, must be worried about his disappearance, but the silent tear tracks staining his cheeks tell her he's simply not ready to be found.
Tentatively she rests her hand on his thigh and when he looks up at her, his eyes reflect the castle in flames, the protective barrier dissolving and the sight of his blood-spattered, spell-worn twin brother, dead on the debris-covered floor.
She doesn't know how to make it better, (though the firewhiskey has burned away the edge) so she kisses him, softly and sweetly.
He kisses her back, and soon he's pressing her against the wall, pushing up her skirts and it should be wrong because of who they are and what's happening around them.
Except they're both frantic to feel, to forget.
There are no names, no whispered declarations of ever-lasting love, just moans and desperate touches in the darkness.
She wakes up at dawn, the early morning light bleeding through the window shutters, and the memories pour back in.
Blood. Pain. Loss. Victory.
He isn't there though (she never expected him to be) and she finds out later that he's gone. Far enough away that no one can find him.
In the late nights that come, as she pours herself drink after drink, she can't help but wishing that even though they were only forgetting, he had remembered enough of the agony to take her too.