"Things are sweeter when they're lost. I know—because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly…And when I got it it turned to dust in my hands."The Beautiful and Damned
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I sat next to Tracey, reading Fitzgerald, in the common room of Slytherin. I wore my hair like Joe Strummer. Tracey cut it a few days earlier. It fit with my punk rock look: the large black boots, leather jacket, and tight black pants. Tracey sat still, listening to her cassettes of Bauhaus. She looked like PJ Harvey with her slick black hair. Her white dress shirt was tied with a tight black suit jacket. She sat with her knees close to her chest. I lounged my arm over top of the couch. We seldom spoke.
Near midnight, Tracey sat up from her spot, traced her hand hither and tither up my leg, before standing, and heading to her dorm room. I put down my book. She walked slowly. Her walkman rested in her palm. The room was nearly empty. Two lovers held each other on a chair, and a boy with unkempt hair scribbled in a notebook. I closed my book, placed it on the seat Tracey had just been sitting in, and got up from my spot.
I zipped up my leather jacket, and felt in the chest pocket. I had a half empty pack of cigarettes, and an ugly yellow lighter I'd stolen off a Ravenclaw. I left the common room, headed through the front door of Slytherin, down the hall, up the stairs, to the doors outside. I walked down the barely lit gravel path. The bitter winter was slowly crawling towards spring. I took a cigarette from my pocket, put it in my mouth, and lit it with the ugly yellow lighter, exhaling in one long, slow breath. I liked to smoke near the lake. There was a small dock with a bench near the water's edge, under an old lamppost I'd sit, alone, and pretend to think. The water was always still. A large black mirror reflecting the world back at me.
As I approached the lake, I noticed a dark silhouette before the water. Someone else was there. I stuck my hands into the front pockets of my leather jacket, inhaled, and greeted the figure. "Hello," I said. I sat down on the bench, and crossed my legs.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I'm just here to smoke. I could ask you the same thing."
"Don't."
"Alright."
Hermione Granger. She wore a green army jacket over a black dress, and slim black flats. Hardly clothes for an evening stroll. Her long curly hair rustled in the anemic wind. I took another drag. She continued to look out at the water. Her right arm folded over her stomach. She did not turn around to face me. I watched the bottom of her dress move, as she swayed slightly, side to side. We stayed in silence. The water hit lightly against the shore.
"I hate staring at the stars." She said.
"Why?" I asked.
"They're a lie. They pretend to be so close, like I could reach out towards the sky and touch one. But really, they're farther away than we could ever imagine. The proximity's a trick; I hate being tricked. I hate this. I..." She trailed off. Her shoulders shook. I ran my fingers through my hair. My cigarette pinched between my fingers. I sat quiet, watching her. "They're always there too. This constant reminder of how far we are from them. A new lie each night. Continually trying to convince us that we're close, that we know each other, we're friends, we're closer..." she trailed off again.
"Rough night?" I asked.
"Yes."
She turned around. Lines of mascara ran down the side of her face. Vibrant red lipstick covered her lips. The green army jacket was unzipped; her black dress had a low cut, with two thin straps bolstered on her shoulder. She must have been cold. The stubborn winter air lingered in the early spring. I gave her a gentle wave, my legs still crossed on the bench. Her arms held tightly over her stomach. She feigned a wave back, with the flick of the wrist.
"You smoke here often?" she asked.
"When I need to clear my head."
"Have a rough night as well?"
"No. Not really. Although, to be honest, it may be the lack I need to clear my head from."
She turned back around, and faced the lake.
"Would you like a smoke?" I asked.
"I'd love one."
I stood up from the bench, and approached her. From my chest pocket, I grabbed the pack, and handed it to her. Her hand shivering, she reached in, and grabbed a cigarette. She brought it too her mouth, and cupped her hands. I brought my lighter up, till it was touching the tip, and lit it. She inhaled, slowly, and nodded her head.
"Thanks," she spoke.
"No problem." I said.
"You know, we've been here for seven years. I've seen you almost every day. And, yet, I don't think we've ever spoken."
"That's probably true."
"It's nice to meet you, mister Nott."
"Same to you, miss Granger."
We shook hands.
"The past couple of weeks," she began, "I've often been thinking on those terms. Looking back on the seven years we've been here. There's something about an end, an approaching, definitive, final end, that makes me think back about everything. Who I've spoken to, who I haven't, what I've done, what I haven't. What about you Nott?"
"I think everyone does, to a certain extent." I said.
"But it's stupid right? Why do we care so much at the end? When there's no chance to change anything. When we can't go back. We can't fix things. All we're able to do, is focus on them, those fucking regrets that are out of our reach." She stared down at her fingers, the cigarette burning slowly between them.
"It may be foolish, but it's not like we're powerless. Our lives aren't over when we leave these walls." I said. I threw my butt into the water. It sizzled, momentarily, before floating away in the dark.
"This life is over though: our life at Hogwarts. It's done. We'll never be able to do anything in that capacity again. No matter how much we want."
"Do you have many regrets?" I asked.
"Maybe," she said. "When I look back, all I see is missed opportunities. Times when I could have done something, when I wanted to do something, when I should have done something, but I did nothing. It bugs me, frustrates me. I can't get it out of my head. Why did I not act? Why did I say nothing? You get me?"
"Yeah. More than you could know." I sat back on the bench, and crossed my legs again. Tracey was probably asleep now: her PJ Harvey hair; her black clothes; her soft skin; her silence. I fingered the inside of my pocket, and took out another smoke. Leaning downwards, with one hand blocking the wind, I tried to light it. Each spark was blown through my fingers by the wind. Hermione turned towards me, and cupped her hands around my face. A final burst erupted from the lighter, and lit the tip. I looked upwards, towards the stars, and exhaled.
"I feel so defeated," Hermione said. "I'm afraid my whole life will be lived this way. A continual series of regrets, missed opportunities, and false hopes. When I'm old, I'll look back at 'what ifs' and not how I actually lived." She sat down on the bench next to me.
"Have you ever read Sartre?" I asked.
"A little."
"He says that when we pretend we don't have choice, or when we don't act on our own accord, then we're in bad faith. In fact, we always have a choice. We are doomed to be free, always faced with the responsibility to act. So, in a sense, the only way to free yourself from that kind of thinking, of that pervasive action, is to simply act."
"It's not that simple."
"I think it is."
"Are you able to do that? Act?"
"No. I'm just as trapped as you are. Even when I get close, I still hold back. I never tell her..." I paused, inhaled, and turned towards the lake. "And yet, I feel like the solution is right before me. If I could simply act, to perform, then I'd break free from it."
Hermione stood from the bench. Her back dress moved in the wind. She put her hands in her pockets, and walked towards the water. "We could do something now. We could act. Do Something real. Start right now."
"You want to?" I asked.
"Sure."
"What can we do?"
"I don't know."
"We could jump into the lake," I suggested.
"That'd be a little dramatic, would it not?"
"Hey, I'm just giving suggestions."
She took one hand out of her pocket, and placed it on her hip. She stared out at the lake. The water was still. I uncrossed my legs, and took a drag. Smoke rose from my lips. "This is a pretty spot." Hermione said. I watched the line of her back, and the length of her legs.
"I'm fond of it. Been going here since sixth year. I'll be sad to see it go, when we graduate."
"I'll be sad about many things when we leave," she said. "Is the water always this calm?"
"Always." I stood up, and walked beside her. "Still as a mirror."
"It's beautiful."
"Yeah."
My reflection resembled a silhouette. The Joe Strummer hair cut faded in the dark water. An image adrift on the ebb of life.
Hermione turned towards me. The green army jacket fell loose on her shoulders. Her mascara carved a black line down her cheeks. She bit her lip. I gave her a smile. Slowly, she moved closer. Her long curly hair blown to the side. She placed her palm on my cheek. I stared into her eyes. She moved closer. I breathed a half breath, and she kissed me, under the stars, near the water, by the lake, in the light of lone old lamp post. I placed my hand on her stomach. Her black dress soft to my touch. I moved my hand to her hip, and then around to her back, underneath her green army jacket. I opened my palm, and pushed her closer to me. The line of her body rested against mine. Our mouths stayed together. She ran her fingers through my hair, gripping the back of my head.
We paused. She breathed deeply. And again, we kissed. My hand traced over her back. I raised it high, above the cut of her dress, and brushed my fingers against her skin. She loosened her shoulders, and let the green army jacket slip off to the ground. I placed my other hand on her stomach, grabbing hold of the dress. We pushed closer together. Her thighs dug into mine. She held onto the back of my head, and she moved her other hand onto my waist, between my shirt and pants, placing her cold fingers on my skin. I moved my hand on her stomach upwards, cupping my hand over one of her breasts. Between my lips, a small moan escaped her mouth. She pushed her waist against mine. I moved my hand over her breast higher, wrapping my finger over one of her dress' thin straps, pulling it slowly down her bare shoulder. She moved her hand down from my waist, over the crotch of my pants, rubbing her hand on my erection. Once I'd pulled the strap down, I moved my hand over top of her bra. She tightened her grip on my hair; our faces pushing against each other. I folded my fingers into her bra, felt her soft skin, and brushed her nipple. She pushed her tongue into mine, her grip tight on my crotch, my hand grasping her breast. I moaned.
"Wait," she said, pulling away.
Collecting myself, like waking from a dream, I stepped back.
"Okay," I responded.
She lifted the dress, and adjusted her bra. She picked up her green army jacket off the ground, threaded her arms through the sleeves, and zipped it up. In a daze, I took out my pack of cigarettes, but before I could grab one, Hermione snatched it from my hand. She grabbed a smoke, placed it in her mouth, tossed the pack onto the ground, and motioned me to light it. I obliged, stepping forward, cupping my hands over her red lips. She inhaled, and rubbed her face with her hand. I picked the pack up from the dock.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"It's alright." I said. I tried to light a cigarette myself, hitting the lighter, she cupped her hands around my mouth, brushing the side of my cheek with her fingers. The tip burned a deep crimson. I inhaled. I exhaled.
She sat down on the ground. "Damn it," she exclaimed. She held her head in her hands. "Why do I do this? Why can't I?"
"Hermione?" I sat down next to her, and rested my hand on her shoulder.
"I just, I just couldn't do that to you. I know about you. I know about her."
I sat back, staring at the stars. "Shit," I spoke, like an epiphany. Slowly, I traced my hand hither and tither up my leg. "You're right."
"Why do we do this?" she asked.
"Oh God, I don't know." I inhaled from my cigarette, and rubbed my eyes.
"It's funny," she chuckled, "We're so afraid to doing anything, of acting at all, and, yet, whenever I do, it's always like this."
"Yeah."
"I wish it was easier. Like, there wasn't this constant give and take. There'd be an clear answer. I wish I didn't always make it worse." She threw away her cigarette. "Fuck!" She buried her head in her hands.
I stood up, and walked towards the edge. The black mirror stared back at me. I watched my fleeting tenuous reflection try to understand. The Joe Strummer hair cut faded. Small white stars littered the water. My head felt heavy. I rubbed my brow. I felt like crying. I wanted to act. I wanted to be alive. But it all came out wrong.
Gradually, my weight shifted forward. My black boots edged forward. I held my breath. The cigarette pinched between my fingers. I fell. Her silence rang loud in my ear, my sleeping PJ Harvey, and my approaching end. The water burst open. The large black mirror broken. And in the moment, I felt distant. Hermione was as far as a star in the sky. And I felt no more alive.
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I hope you like it.
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Thanks. BJ.