It's strange how darkness comforts us, we who were once so at home in the light. At least, that is what our memory tells us. Can we trust our own memory? The question hurts us, our mind cannot reason it out, so we push it aside. Whatever we were, whatever the Child was, we are no longer. We can't even remember the feeling anymore. It is odd that we should remember that we used to feel a thing and yet not a shred of that feeling remains. All that we have is what we are now. Now, we are at home in the dark, in the quiet of night, in waking sleep. Light is harsh, it blinds us and it burns us, it reveals that which is better hidden. We hate the light, hate it like we hate the fear that stalks us each day. It has been with us forever, always behind, always just out of reach, yet gaining. And so we move onward, knowing the fear is there, hating it, yet relying on it. It is a constant for us, a single point to keep our course true.
Who are we? The question amuses us. We are not who we were. We remember being the Child, inquisitive and free, able to take the world at face value and smile. The Child did that, the Child smiled and was happy, we were happy, weren't we? It matters not, that was then, this is now. We were what we were, and we are what we are, not because we should be and certainly not because we want to be. We are what we are simply because we are, a product of necessity. The Child could not survive. The world is too hard for the truly innocent. In the end, it corrupts what it can and kills the rest, but not us. We will survive, simply because we must. We have proven our strenght, have we not? We are they who held our dying father in our hands and could show him only pity. We suffered through the bliss of evil's worst tortures and the endured agony of the purest good in the name of a cause, a belief that the Child was convinced was the right course.
That was before, of course. That was when the Child was in charge. The Child struggled and fought to make sense of the world, but failed. Questions surrounded it, cruelty perverted it beyond what it could endure. Now it sleeps, safe and secure, while we are in control. The Child didn't understand. Despite its efforts, fear kept it blinded, prevented it from finding the truth that it needed to survive. We aren't blind, we can see that truth:
Survival is all that matters, nothing more. There is no good, no evil, only life, or death.
It was a lesson hard learned, but never forgotten. In learning it, we learned much about who we are, who we must be to survive. We are a master yet we are a servant, we are a valiant warrior and yet we are a monster. We are the betrayer, the dagger in the dark, destroying all that would threaten the Child, whom we love. The Child, however, does not love us, rather, it resents our strenght. We have accepted this as our role, our place in the world without question. Good or evil? We have seen both and have chosen neither. Good? What is it but the lack of direction, the lack of will and the utter lack of freedom? Evil? What is that but the lack of hope, the promise of despair and the destiny of defeat? We saw this, in our heart we knew it, but the world made us choose, one or the other.
Choice is a thing that is made, yet it can be unmade with care and effort. That is what the Child could never understand. Choice is fluid, and free to flow. We followed evil in its turn, and good just as willingly when we had the need. Should there be guilt in our heart at that? Perhaps. It occurs to us that once there would have been. The idea is laughable to us now though. That was before, when things made sense. Good was good and evil was evil, and the line in our soul was clear. No more! We didn't choose this path. Once we chose, once we were good, but then we were evil. Once we were whole, the conscience of the master leading the servant, a good heart trying to overcome a weak soul. Now though, we exist, we survive, just as an animal survives.
Animal instinct is pure, it pervades all of the world and drives the soul. No amount of culture and civilisation can rid the human heart of it. We did not always accept this. There was a time when we denied the truth, just as the world does. The arrogant belief that we civilised beings are above such feelings once gave us solace, it gave the Child in us the strength to endure the torture of the world. Strength, however, fades. The mind is a turbid storm, the cruelest of all creations, and its own first, and worst enemy, but we digress.
Our discussion, the reason that we are now speaking to you, to impart a lesson. A little tidbit of truth, a measured dose to still the questioning mind and ensure peace. That said, it is a simple lesson and, if you'll indulge us, we will show you. We begin, as we began, with darkess. Darkness is pure. It is beyond evil, it is above good, it is constant and unfaltering. We love darkness. It is the one place where our reflection gives us no pain, where the truth can lay open and free.
The passage is dark and unyielding. Our toe stubs on a raised tile that our mind failed to remember. How long has it been since we were here? How long since the last lesson? Hours? Days? Sometimes they blur beyond recognition.
The Creature must be hungry now, it must need nourishment. The tray in our hand will sate it, at least for today. The meat is rotten, the smell of it nauseates us, but it will eat, or it will die. It deserves less kindness than it gets, but we cannot help it, it is our nature. The Child within us stirs and threatens to wake unless we are kind. Is it kind to feed a starving animal and prolong its suffering? Or is it a greater kindness to allow it to die? Perhaps, but perhaps one day it will learn to see the truth as we have, and then it will know; then it will understand. Is it capable of that? Will this rotting meal give it the strength to see the truth? Has its time here made a difference? Or will it simply continue in its ignorance? Will this just be food to it? Will the cup hold nothing but water?
The questions cause pain. We know not the answers, and that hurts us. The Child stirs, seeking answers. As always, they draw it out. The Child moves, but we hold on. We will find out, you need not face it. Let us deal with this. That is, after all, our purpose. Do not worry yourself with its well being. It is an animal, low and primitive. It will feed, it has no choice. It resists, but that only makes it suffer, it will learn that, we promise.
Yet, the question remains, can it ever truly understand its existence? Can an animal ever know it is but a beast?
The candle looms – an affront to the blissful darkness, yet it endures. We allow it to remain, merely so that its purpose is not lost, its message not forgotten. We can see the doorway, and we hear the silence. No screams, no pitiful scratching at the door. Surely it has heard out footsteps. Does it not want to feed? Does it not know that we are its only means to survive? Or does it yet possess the arrogance to defy us?
Anger rises from our heart, it does. Our work with it, these long days of starvation and teaching have done nothing to break its will. How dare this thing defy us? How can such a thing claim life, claim the right to freedom, and yet refuse such simple truths as its own instinct? Does it think itself wise? Does it think itself better than us?
Standing in place before the door, our hand lashes out and smashes into the rough wood. Pain explodes from the contact and flashes up our arm. The smallest knuckle, the weakest point of the hand has broken. Laughter rises to take the anger. Let the weak perish, let the pain burn all weakness from the world. Let that thing cling onto its feelings of superiority. In the end, the pain will fade and we will be stronger for it. In the end, we will be proven right.
The rusted key groans in the lock. Our damaged hand sears with the effort of turning it, but we ignore the pain, it is weak, beneath us. A forceful shove and the door swings inward on creaking hinges. The darkness beyond is absolute to our eyes. The tiny light from the candle has, just as always, robbed us of the darkness we crave. The creature is in here, and it can see us better than we it. Our ears seek sound, if it moves, we will hear it. It has struck us before in such times, and it has failed because it hesitates. Pathetic! It hesitates now, perhaps it is too weak to strike, or perhaps it has lost the will. That would please us.
No sound comes to us as we cross into the cell and wait for the darkness to return our sight. The room stinks. The creature has defiled itself again and again in its squalor. The thought of it reviles us. This filthy thing that once we though of as a prize. How could we have not seen? How could our blindness be so complete?
Our anger pleases the darkness, it returns shapes to us. Shadow and space takes form before our eyes. The polished stone of the floor, the double arch of the rear wall, the only places for it to hide. We know this place. It is darkness, it is home. It is heaven, and it is hell.
A noise splits the air. A tiny sound it is, less than a whimper, but it is enough. Our eyes follow our reaction to fix the spot without sight. There it sits, and it watches us. It sees us and it sees the tray, and the food that we came to deliver. It won't ask, it knows better to speak. Good, it has learned that lesson at last. A bended knee and a flick of the wrist and the tray skitters to a halt halfway across the floor. It sees it, and it knows that it must cross to claim it, we give it its chance.
No movement comes, it is being defiant. Anger fills us again, it still defies us?
Our mind stalls our anger. 'Patience,' it urges. This thing is an animal, its resolve will break. It is a matter of time, nothing more. Let it have this moment, it will not have another. Time will teach it humility better than we can. We smirk at the darkness and stand once more, turning to leave it for another day, perhaps two.
"Please…" a voice tears us in two. It speaks.
It is disbelief that turns us round. It has been days since it spoke. That lesson was learned.
"What?" we answer. It was unintentional, but no harm. Our fist clenches. It has already earned its reward, and it knows it. We speak to indulge it nonetheless.
A dark shape detaches from the pure black and shuffles toward us. Though it doesn't draw near, we step back in disgust. The Creature sees us and stops beside its meal, though it does not touch it. It should eat, we will let it eat before the lesson. Why doesn't it eat?
"Please," it speaks again, "don't…" a grating cough tears its throat. How long has it been since we gave it water? "Don't do this," it pleads.
A laugh rips out of us. The thing coughs again, stopping our laughter, "Eat!" we order. "You must eat."
We stop, that was the Child that spoke, it wakes within us once more. That cannot be, we cannot protect it if it speaks out of place.
"Please," the Creature pleads again, "Let me go," it croaks between wheezing coughs, "We…I…will…forgive you…we…" another cough, "…we can work this out…just you and me. Nobody need ever know…I…I won't tell anyone…"
We stare at it in disbelief, those few are more words than it has said to us in weeks. We glare at it, and then sneer. It expects that to work? "I believe you," the Child speaks once more, 'Damn!' Be silent!
We force a laugh, "Who would believe you?" we sneer at it, "Who is left to listen?"
That works, we cannot see it, but we know it all the same. The thing pauses and shuffles about on the floor, "Who…What have you done?"
Another laugh. Its mind is indeed breaking. Its memory, doubly so. What have we done? It was there, it saw us. That is why it is here, arrogance and pride to challenge a stronger foe unprepared.
The Child stirs, "Eat, and you will feel better."
Compassion, a weak emotion that we have long since purged. The Child, however, has not. That is why it must be silent, only we have the fortitude to deal with the Creature as it should be dealt with. It must let us work now.
The Creature stirs. Something, the look that the Child has just given it must have had something in it that the Creature is responding to. It reaches out, a single, sinewey hand stretches forth toward us. The Child holds its place, unsure of what to do. The creatures broken fingernails grasp at the air. Blood and grit cover it's skin, caked in a thick layer. Still the Child hesitates, still it remains held by fear, by compassion, by weakness. We are not so fettered.
The Creature's head moves within range, and we strike. Not an elegant blow, physical combat was never a skill we posessed, but the effect is achieved all the same. The Creature's only cry is a muffled groan as it falls back, lacking the strenght to even cover its face as it writhes in pain.
The Child cries out and forces us to step forward. We hear our own voice echo off the walls as a strangled wail. We move forward again, despite our will. Fear has been replaced by blind panic now, the Child is gaining control. We struggle, we pull and tug, but the Child has control. The Creature draws away as the Child kneels beside it and reaches out to provide comfort. The Creature recoils from us still, but the Child perseveres, leaning forward to cradle its head.
The image before us shatters our heart. The Child holds it still, caressing its features, calming its fear. We feel its lips as our fingers are brushed across them. They are dry and chapped for lack of water. The glass is nearby, easily reachable, but the Child ignores us when we try to reach for it. We are trapped, held by fear. All we can do is watch as over and over our hands soothe the thing in our arms.
"Shhh," we tell it, 'It's ok…Everything will be ok."
The words come out, but they have no meaning to us, or to the Child. Do they mean something to the Creature? We see no reaction, it is perhaps beyond such things. He was too, we recall, at the end. We realise the memory too late to stop it. The image in our mind is inescapable. There it lays, just as he did, a person, not a thing, wounded and suffering, because of us. Our father…we see clearly now, broken and nearing his end, unable to see, unable to hear our pleading and our apologies. He didn't even know we were there. We held him at the end, wiping the sweat from his brow, repeatedly telling him that we were there, but he never heard us, never knew us. He died, never knowing how we felt, how much we hurt for him, how much we longed to have been with him at the end. We could have helped. No enemy is so strong that it cannot be defeated. We could have saved him, we should have saved him, but we didn't. We werent there to protect him, and he fell. Now he dies, and we help. Suffering shouldn't be drawn out. Death should be quick for the innocent.
Our finger, the one we just injured has broken before. Only now does the irony of it, it broke on that day, it was the first bone we'd ever broken. We can remember the pain, but it doesn't fit the image in our head of his final moments. Was it broken before we found him, or after? We don't remember. All we do remember is that we helped him, it was all we could do. We helped him, though he didn't know it. We helped him, though not as we should. We should have saved him. Just as we should have saved the others. They were our friends, they depended on us, they needed us, and we failed them. We betrayed them.
Though it lies still, the Creature is by no means calm. Its heart beats at such a rate that the flesh of its throat seems to vibrate. Our fingers trace the line of the vein and then follow the contour of the throat round to frame its neck in our hands. The finger that broke on that day throbs now as our grip tightens. The Creature's eyes flash with panic. It contines to ignore the Child's pleas for it to be calm. Holding the grip is painful, but we ignore it. It is irrelevant, pain purifies us.
The Child is crying now, we envy that. Tears release the pain, through them we bleed it out and are free of it. We don't cry anymore, we cannot. Pain is all we are, it is all we have. If we cry, if we let it out, what will we have left?
The creature makes a sound, a groaning croak in its throat. Its fingers are prying against ours at its throat now as its breath catches in a cackling gasp. Our fingers tighten, its pulse throbs beneath our grasp, the beast we must conquer to free the Creature from its suffering. Its eyes find ours, pleading with us, and again we are lost. The memory continues, we see our father's final moments.
Defeated and alone, even then he didn't give up. He struggled then, just as the Creature does now. He didn't want to face the truth, didn't want to accept his end. We tried, oh how we tried to tell him, but he couldn't hear us. We tried again, and again with the same result, but, in the end, he died. Then, as now, he died.
Our arm buckles as the Creature's feeble blow connects with our elbow. It is determined and desperate not to face the truth, but we know better, it is going to die, then, just as now. The blows continue to pummel us, our arms our legs, even our face, but it isn't enough. Once, perhaps, it could have overpowered us, but that was before we tried to teach it. We failed, doesn't it know this? We failed to teach it, we failed to save it. It's already dead, why cant't it accept it? Why couldn't he? Why did he fight to the last with such force? Why?
With each beat of its heart, the creature draws closer to the innevitable. We stare into its eyes to see it realise it. The certainty of death washes into its gaze. Its struggling stops and it's fear fades. A tranquility beyond rational comprehension comes over it. Its gaze becomes more than a look, it sees us now, as we are, as who and what we have become. It knows, there can be no way for it to, but it knows. Tears well up in our eyes once more. Is it the the Child crying now, or is it us? A deep, mournful sorrow fills the Creature's eyes, a sadness so profound that it transcends words, transcends even emotion itself. It is sorry, not sorry for its death or the manner of its passing, but a deeper sorrow. It is sorry for us, sorry for what we have become.
Our grip tightens as its mouth opens. It wants to speak. It cannot speak! It must not speak.
"…I…" the word escapes against our will. We squeeze harder, making it gag visciously. Every fiber of muscle in its throat moves against our fingers as we press harder. "I…" somehow, innexplicably, it speaks again, "…l…lov…"
"No," we roar at the top of our voice. Our fingers start to cramp up with the effort. The Creature's final breath passes by unnoticed as blissful and total darkness takes us.
We awaken cold. A cold form lies beside us. The Child sees it, but it doesn't weep now, we don't let it. It is gone, we tell it, it is free. No more will it suffer, no more will it have to face pain. We take the Child by the hand and lead the way out, telling it all the while how sorry we are that we failed. We were supposed to protect it, we were supposed to protect our father, but we failed. The Child is silent, contemplative as we walk the passageway, climbing ever closer to the top, and to the world above. That which is behind, we will deal with later. Now, the Child needs rest. Distance takes time, and distance is required before it will be able to deal with what must be done down there.
At a touch, the wall slides back and light, devil light pours in. Blinking and blundering, we step forward, allowing memory to guide us into the bathroom. We stand a moment, catching our breath and our bearings, taking in the cold marble, the gold fittings, the wealth, and the sterility. Behind us, the wall closes to again silently. We turn to face the washbasin and scowl at our own reflection. So many terrible things look back at us that we can scarcly stand to hold our own gaze in disgust. Looking down, we see that our hands are dirty. Not as dirty as the Creature's were, but filthy all the same.
Without so much as a look in the mirror, we step forward and start to wash. First our hands, and then our face and neck, slowly, deliberatly and carefully. We must be clean to face the world and resist the filth of it all.
A knock at the door shatters our concentration. We flail blindly and bump against the sink, sending a crystal rinsing glass tumbling to the floor.
"Damn," we swear, but are cut short as we catch sight of ourselves in the mirror once again. Closeup, the sight nauseats us. How dare we exist? What right have we to live as we are?
The knock on the door is repeated, joined this time by a voice calling to us.
"Hermione"
I recognise Harry's voice, odd, he shouldn't know the password to get in here. He calls again, "Hermione," he sounds mildly worried, "Is that you in there?"
"Yes, Harry," I reply, staring at my reflection in confusion, "it's me."
"Are you alright?" he asks, "I heard something smash…"
'Oh Harry,' I think to myself, 'always the worrier.'
"I'm fine, it was nothing. Just clumsy old me," I force a laugh to reassure him.
"Oh," he says, sounding uncertain, "Well…OK."
"I'll be out in a minute," I call out. Harry just grunts, and I smile. He knows better than to pry too much about what a girl does in the bathroom. What does a girl do in the bathroom? I frown at my reflection. What was I just doing?
My face is dirty. My cheeks are streaked with tears. Was I just crying? I stare into my own eyes and wonder. Was I upset? Should I be upset? I shrug and take up the washcloth. I wipe and wash my face as I wait for whatever had upset me to return, but it doesn't. My robes are a mess, what was I doing?
I turn to leave, but stop in place. I can't let Harry see me like this. My wand, where is my wand? A moment of hurried rummaging later, and I find it, precisely where I always keep it. Setting my robes and face straight again is childsplay to me.
"Childsplay…" the word rolls about inside my head. Without thinking, I turn to face the rear wall, and I remember. The spotless marble tiles set with gold inlay of the Malfoy family crest. What a horribly gaudy image it is, I remember begging Draco to remove it, but he refused. He was always such a stickler for tradition.
Draco! How long has he been gone now? A month? More? My heart thuds aginst my chest when I think about him. I wonder where he is, I hope and I pray that he is alright. I hear Harry moving about out in the hall. He's waiting for me. What? Is it his turn to keep an eye on me or something? His turn to look after the big Child?
No, that's not right, I shouldn't be mad at him, not for this. He is just looking out for one of his best friends after all. His BEST friend, I find myself correcting my own thought. I am that now though, Harry's best friend, even though I'll always be second best. I'll never replace Ron to him, never, and I don't want to. It occurs to me that I don't think about him as much as I used to, and that saddens me further. I miss him. Ron, the gentle giant, always ready to jump in and stick up for his family, his friends, or, when it got down to it, anyone who needed him.
That was his greatest gift, his capacity for self sacrifice. He was the loyal hound that would give its life to save its master. I pause, which is precisely what he did. Stabbed in the back in an alleyway, alone at the end. His greatest gift was his fatal flaw, ironic that!
A shiver runs through me, 'No,' I tell myself, 'you have enough to worry about now, without dredging up the past.'
Worry about now? Now I'm alone, I'm all alone. My only company is a boy who'd rather be somewhere dark and dingy at the bottom of a bottle right now. Hell, Harry is probably drunk now, wobbling on his feet just on the other side of the door. He's not here for me, he's here because he's convinced himself that it's his duty to be here. That it's his turn to hug me and tell me that everything will be alright, that Draco will calm down and come back to me.
They don't know of course that he won't, he can't. They don't know that, Harry, Ginny or Lavender, they don't know him like I do. Nobody knows my Draco like I do. How could they? They haven't ever seen him the way I do, the way only I could. They weren't with him at the lowest of times; he didn't carry them through their private hells after the war. They haven't the first idea who my Draco really is.
I tried to tell them, over and over. I've tried to explain it, to tell them that he won't come back to me, ever. How could he? After what we said to each other, after how we both meant what we said…
"You can really be so childish sometimes, Granger, do you know that?"
The words hit me like a bomb. He'd called me childish. Childish, like a child…CHILDISH? Weak, helpless, vulnerable, pathetic, CHILDISH. The anger I'd felt at that moment was so…I don't even know the words for it. And it wasn't the words, they were bad enough, what hit me was his tone. It was the coldest he'd ever been with me. He'd insulted me before, jokingly and in total seriousness, but it had never sounded like that. He meant that insult, "Don't you dare call me childish you prick.' Hell, I roared it at him, "Don't you ever call me that, you biggoted, arrogant bastard."
That was what tore it. After that, there was no stopping us, we were in full flow, a Draco and Hermione special with all the trimmings. Words flying, followed by the innevitable nicknacks that clutter this old house. If only, IF ONLY I hadn't pushed him so far. I know where the line is, we've had enough rows for heaven's sake, I know not to press him on certain things. But even so…
"You won't ever change will you?" I remember the telltale waver in my voice which always spells trouble when I'm upset, I was on a roll, a one way ticket to hell, "You're nothing but a beast, a low life scum, worthless, just like your FATHER!"
That was too far. I knew it was. Nothing, no row we had ever had before had ever touched on that subject, ever. There was a constant, a truth to Draco Malfoy, say what you like about him, insult him in anyway you could think of, but DON'T compare him to Lucius. There were things Draco could take, things he would take in the name of something that mattered to him, but not that, never that.
The look on his face at that moment is seared into my memory, and I feel that it always will be. In that moment, the boy I knew, the man I loved vanished, never to return. I pause, recalling that I remember his look of utter collapse, and I remember him being gone…the thing is, I don't remember him leaving. That's odd, but it doesn't matter now, he's gone, he's just fucking gone!
Feeling hollow inside, I turn and sit on the sink and bury my face in my hands. I'm not about to cry. I've done enough of that lately. My life is a mess; a total disaster right now and I have nobody to blame but myself.
Another, quieter knock sounds at the door. I guess I've been quiet for a while now, Harry's getting worried. He's here to look after me after all, isn't he? Look after the child that can't look after herself? My eyes level at the door and I can see him standing on the far side, a look of deep concern half buried behind a wan smile. I know what will happen if I go out there. I can see it now. Harry will smile, make jokes and then make a beeline for the sidebar. He'll put his arm around me, reeking of whiskey…Draco's whiskey…and try to comfort me. Then he'll start to tell me all the things that he thinks I want to hear. He'll coddle me, console me, wrap me up in his bullshit and treat me like I'm a little girl, like I'm a goddam Child.
I am not a Child, and I shouldn't have to be treated like one. Draco did it, my parents did it, McGonagall did it, they all do it. I don't like being treated like a child…I don't want to be treated like a child. Why do they do that? Why is it that they cannot just treat me like a normal person? Is it me? Is it something I do or say that screams immaturity. Or is it them? Are they the ones that are wrong? What is it about them that makes them treat me like that? Is it their nature? Is it instinct?
Harry knocks again, and calls out, "You nearly ready, Mione?"
A nickname? Just like a child! My fist clenches hard, and then harder until my fingernails draw blood. Swallowing hard, I take a deep breath and answer, "Coming, Harry," and I step toward the door.