How odd, he thought, To not feel the chill.
It was the warm throbbing in his mind, the dull, uncomfortable thudding of his pulsating mind and heart straining, pumping in harmony. All to cause him more pain; pain, what was it? He closed his eyes and pretended he was Neville Longbottom. Stupid, fat, lazy Neville that no one liked... And yet where was he now? Gone, faded, in the smoke…evaporated into his surroundings.
They must have become so used to being superior to him (he spat.) that they raised such a ruckus when he was gone. Whispers left to chill his skin as he shivered with delight at the nuisance he had become.
We're all still the same, dear.
Her dress blew back as she stared up at the stars, head thrust back. They reflected in her eyes, and for a second they showed her his face, smiling at her shyly, blushing. She smiled as she closed her eyes, tasting his mouth on hers. Savoring the flavor, she remembered how his arms had found her waist at last, holding her.
It was even better than…well, magic. It was magic…but with magic came responsibilities. And so she lowered her head to stare out across the hills. Where was she? Prisoner…her mind whispered, concealed inside her long blonde tresses. And he had spread them between his fingers, looking into her. Inside her.
The wind blew violently. The Ferocities will be out soon…she fretted. But throbbing sore in a raw scab recently re-opened, she knew she didn't care. They were wind spirits, rumored to pick a person up and throw them a hundred feet in the air, then catch them before they fell with their smoky grey, dissolving talons. Once they tired of their sport, they let their victims fall.
She walked home through the damp grass as the stars faded behind a pale pink curtain of dawn. Her mouth was set; a new day to discover the old victims. How long would it go on? How much longer would he try to prove himself? He didn't understand…she gazed straight ahead, eyes looking at what she no longer had to see; she knew her home., where it was and what it was like. He could blind her if he liked; but he'd never stab her heart, the liar. He only slashed the outer tissue, although that was certainly enough to make her bleed. Bleed blood; state the obvious.
He smiled nervously down at her from the sky, something about him seeming sharper, although she wasn't looking at him. The stars were all around her but she looked through them, blonde rays the sun to destroy the night's tinklings.
I have owned this life forever;
I'll always remain.
"Avada Kedavra." A question and an answer at the same time, yet he whispered it. As she fell, eyes wide in shock (his were too), mouth slightly ajar (his were too), drips of sweat falling delicately from the end of her wand (he laughed at the futility), she became borne by green light. He took a step back, shocked at the consequences of one little whisper.
….
"I love you."
….
And such a jolt that neither expected; his first kill, his first love…all the same.
If it's just the same, dear, why have you left before "forever"…
Because it didn't matter! It didn't mean anything! And perhaps that was the point…to slash and rip and tear, stabbing, until it did. Until she came back? No…until she moved. Direction didn't matter; objective did.
Neville Longbottom had always been a sheep. He clung to his "chopp'd logic" ("how, how, how, how, how?") like a shipwrecked man to a floating piece of wood, ripped from his sunken boat, convinced, persuaded, brainwashed with a black vs. white piece of a tattoo.
He kept doing his messy, red business until maybe the day would come when she would look for him. He could see the titles now: "Senile Woman Looks for Ex-Auror", or maybe: "Potter's Comrade Seeks Fallen Murderer."
But he always had to shake her shoulders to make her stop and face facts, the obvious staring her in the face. That was why he loved her; had loved her. Because for once he, Neville Longbottom, could be stronger and more sensible than someone else. Had it even been love? Who knew. He didn't care. (All lies, of course…)
And that was precisely why they couldn't catch him in the act, couldn't catch his white porcelain fingers sliding the knife along the pale, ghostly throat, as if it anticipated what was to happen. The eyes, oh god, the eyes. That was the hardest part, watching them stare in horror as they felt every movement, every slice, every jerk, though he usually did it slowly and painfully. But the random pattern – the random sparkle of her eyes – alerted the police, the Aurors, to this simple fact: (because that was the only kind of fact Neville could ever comprehend) that they didn't know where he would be next.
After a while, he came to even enjoy it. There came a twisted, sadistic pleasure from seeing a fallen angel seize its place in the skies, flying from its site of death.
…yet returned again?
She prayed for him, kneeling with painful, old-woman, knobby legs on the floor.
Magic was sympathetic, brewing her tea. God mocked her, even in her pain.
She knew it, suspected it more like, but she had never been good with coping with reality, even if she could look the more poetic things in the eye, the tragic things.
But this wasn't tragic. This was Neville…just a different side. She suspected Bellatrix had started it, invading his head to unlock black wooden doors with red X's over them in his mind and throw them wide open, manic laughter slipping from her mouth. She shuddered; he laughed.
If you show me heaven, I will meet you there.
It was clumsy. It was cold. He was sweating. It was weird.
But then again, she was Loony Luna. She didn't mind the awkward of cool air against her naked form. He was shaking. She kissed him to tell him it was alright. From then on he led their struggling dance.
….
Serenaded her yet? She hissed, and Neville obliterated her. He had. He had. He had.
And so why was every face glaring at him suspiciously? Only her cool blue, peaceful eyes showed him the forgiveness of a lake. He had…to. She had led the first time, after all.
Hers was the black part of a tattoo, though, and only a dot; his victims painted a picture of white.
…..
He giggled. He giggled. Was Neville back? He whirled around, still giggling, eyes wide and a manic, desperate expression on his face. Savage beast…his mind purred.
How it breaks their hearts that we've made an art of desecrating our sanctuaries.
"Do you love her?" Granny squawked, as soon as he had walked through the door and stood by her place sitting on the sofa (reading quietly, of course, but breathing annoyingly loud; nothing new to report…my job is deathly boring.) for a couple minutes.
He took a deep breath. "You're number two now."
…
The police lied. They said it was drug overdose that had done them both in. (Of course, they had been staggered as soon as they strutted in and then stopped upon seeing the blood-spattered walls.) He laughed at that. It was true if she was his ecstasy; do whatever you can to get more of it, Neville.
Of course, they spoke to the public in their blue jay uniforms, waddling like penguins, saying that it could have been suicide. And it was probably better that he hadn't heard that.
We're one and the same, dear, you were born for this.
Proud? Would they have been proud?
The man was a heap of bones, gore, and entrails (a few flaps of dark chocolate skin here and there, of course) by the time the sun rose. A funeral fit for a peasant; certainly no king. No Auror.
And to think, he mused,
Love is like chocolate; it melts. But it sure tastes good while you have it…
Forever forget your restraint.
Oh, he was past horror movies. He went to the very beginning, with cheesy eyepatches and clichéd lines, such as, "Santa caught you being bad. He sent me." They weren't even lines, actually, they didn't even make sense, they didn't even create much of a stir among the Aurors, and she didn't even give a fuck.
Neville kicked a brick wall. Ow. He giggled.
He rammed his head against the tree, driving his forehead into the rough bark. Flakes fell off. It hurt.
How could the smallest bits hurt the most? How could the things he didn't even remember storing away in his brain come back to haunt him? He glanced around furtively.
Neville thought about her. He suddenly doubled over, gasping in pain, choking on acid rain. His heart was being ripped out. He could feel it. He wanted it.
….
The sharp blade drew forth beads of crimson. He smiled.
…
He was sorry; no, he wasn't; and he was, yes, he nodded his head, bobbing up and down, fell backwards on the ground and wished he could be mad instead.
He wasn't himself, he was sorry; could you come back later, please?
A hysterical giggle escaped his lips. His eyes began to tear.
He cried and laughed that whole night away. He laughed at the moon and the earth and God and magic. He cried for himself. He cried for Loony Luna, for his perfect match.
She prayed as she bent down stiffly in her fluffy highlighter-purple robe. "Please bring Neville back," she prayed.
He howled at the moon all night for her, panting like a dog in ecstasy.
"I love him." Her mouth was a line.
He paced around in circles quickly, mouth not knowing whether to smile or frown. He foamed instead, rabid, infected. Diseased.
"Oh, help us!" she cried, crawling into her bed where she lay awake all night.
They smirked at her, drawing nearer. She could feel the small creatures (oh, what were their names? The ones the Prophet had denounced as rumor, myth…) lurking, rustling under the sheets. One slithered by her leg. She whimpered, whined, like a bitch in heat. Oh God, make it stop!
They were both miserable that night. Shooting stars blazed across the sky, flickering, then disappeared into a stronger being, a black hole. Devious as they are, disguised with the sky…oh how she wished she had chosen a normal man…boy. But then again, she knew better than most people that no one is as they seem.
No magic could take the pain away.
Pain = fear of the unknown.
As for him? Well, Neville had always been scared of everything. Especially love and the velvet caress of night. Snape, yes, but hadn't Snape always been draped in black robes?
Yes, he was scared of what hid him.
Remnants of a past here pass like light through dust as memories fall, fleeting like pain.
Years passed. Months passed. Days passed. Time was sucked up through an hourglass, grains of sand equaling their tears. Most were accidental, ones he couldn't stop from overloading his eyes, but it didn't matter. He was old now.
The papers slowly stopped telling (with some exaggeration, though most times it wasn't needed to get the desired effect) the stories of the latest victim.
She had made up her mind long ago. She would find him, for it wasn't the number of victims killed, the growing rates…now it was the lack of them. In a demonic way (oh, how she envisioned the flames licking her feet and slowly climbing, climbing, leaving behind black embers…) she almost enjoyed hearing the stories. They were for her, these bodies, these corpses. All for her.
But where did she start looking? Her mind was constantly reminded of old times with him. With Neville. They hadn't had nicknames, and he had never called her sweetheart. Each touch was for her, and that was more than satisfactory (blissful ecstasy…). More than perfect. He was an angel, she was a goddess.
Fly, Angel, she would command him silently, urging him to begin with the curl at both ends of her lips. And he would carry her with him to the heavens, through the blue-black sky to eternal infinity.
And the bruises she would get from fumbles, from mistakes, were well worth it. The allure of passion so surpassed the climaxes. Allure.
….
"I love you too."
….
If you show me heaven, I will meet you there.
She called his phone. But then again, you can't call collect to the damned rings of flames below, forever scorching and dancing.
Was he rich? Did he have money?
He was wandering the streets, stumbling. Laughing. Watching. Grinning. Slipping. Flying.
The allure of…desperation?
She moaned. His face was slick from desperation…perseverance…the art of pleasing. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't want her. Need her. Forever, to fling around like a rag doll.
I…am…superior. And he was pleased.
How it breaks their hearts that we've made an art of desecrating our sanctuaries.
Curious, curious, how when she wasn't looking she did find him.
He was asleep, snoring. A sad smile flitted in shadows on his eyelids.
"Neville…"
He slept on, knowing it was a dream. But her cold touch felt so real…he fidgeted.
And awoke.
To find her.
In a flash he was on her, touching her, making sure she was different but looked the same.
She stood up calmly and brushed herself off. So she wanted to act…civil. He could do that, would do that, needed to do that, didn't want to do that. What was he?
"It was for you. All of it," he growled. She looked at him.
"I'm so glad I found you…" she whispered."Are you all right?"
"Yes," he snarled, "I'm fine. I've been fine all these years, while you sat at home curled up in your warm little fire-"
"In?" she asked, bewildered. Mind reader. Soul reader.
"By. Whatever. Bloody hell." He looked away. Suddenly he didn't know why she was there. Suddenly he wanted her gone. Suddenly he wanted to kiss her. Suddenly he wanted to kill…
….
"Snap my neck."
"No."
"Snap it. Now. I'm going to die anyway."
He stared into the old man's eyes, glaring. He glared back. He killed him.
He snapped his neck and let the soul soar free. It was the first time he felt bad. It was the only one he remembered, because normally he only saw her face instead of theirs. Victims, all of them.
…
She knew it. Sensed it somehow. "Are you going to kill me?" she asked softly.
He wanted to hold her for a brief second. "Why are you here?" He suppressed the desperate laughter.
She looked at him, blonde hair flowing over her shoulders. Her clear blue eyes seemed dull now. They were old, so much older…and he only looked like a fool now. He was no longer the proud killer who took such enjoyment. If he tried to snap someone's neck now, they would most likely knock him to the ground. They were that frail, feathers blown on the wind.
She smiled, almost…mischievously. "Isn't it obvious?" she asked, words floating like always, borne by some mysterious confidence. "I'm here to die…" she whispered, now looking down at the ground. He stared at her.
"I'm going to die soon."
He stared at her.
"I am too," he said.
And they meant it. They knew it. They felt it, ice creeping into their veins. One slow step, two slow steps, draw your weapon. A sharp crack cutting through the night.
They were together. Dying in slow motion, every second pulled, stretched into days, weeks, months.
The ground was suddenly a pillow, a bumpy pillow, hurting the head. Searing pain tore through the skin and veins and blood and cells and tissue. Acid burned in their mouths, tasting putrid, disintegrating their tongues, and they screamed silently in a black-and-white movie, horror running through their body. A thrill. A prayer. A passion.
And so there he lay, no longer able to feel the cold in her hand. They stared at each other there in the dark black alley.
Suddenly a surge of energy filled his body, and he retched as the blood around him pooled even more, slightly sticky.
Neville was back. Neville Longbottom. Stupid, fat, lazy Neville. And just as he was leaving…just as he was no longer scared of the night. Because he was scarier; or who he could be was.
Was?
And what pain she was in. But she looked at him, eyes full of literal – and some black metaphorical – pain. Trust…faith…compassion. Forgiveness.
"Fly, Angel…" she whispered. The Ferocities were on their heels…
And so he carried her up through the blue-black skies, just before they could fall back down to Hell.