Do not own Harry Potter and co. - everything belongs to J.K. Rowling. Tentatively Draco/Hermione, AU.

Flitterfuss, Blunderbuss

It is night, now, and the flickering points of wand-light prick the darkness between us like earthbound stars. And I on my side and you on yours, watching No Man's Land while our thoughts drift to you and me. The lights waver and dance in the darkness, belying the intent behind their innocent little pinpricks of illumination – for these are the patrols, and we are at war.

The wind creeps along the ground and rustles my robes, my hair; a chill that creeps right into me. But it isn't only the wind that makes the night all the more colder.

I am waiting, as I always have, for the lights to dim and extinguish, just as the night sky turns imperceptibly into the darkest shade of blue. Remember the story I told you, about Aether and the primordial gods? We've often wondered how they spoke, those beings of air and hell and love. Eros was counted among them, but we've forgotten him for his cherubic counterpart – Cupid of the bow and arrow and senseless sentimentality.

Messages across the ether, you said, tracing the words on my palm. And this is how they spoke to each other.

I meet you, as I always have, as soon as I glimpse the first faint sign of blue on the horizon. The others have slunk away to the rest, bringing their reports back to the leaders. They will strike here next, or there – I do not know. Once I cared what happened next – I was even the instigator of some – but what happens after this doesn't matter now.

And here we are in No Man's Land, both in our black cloaks. How can they tell that we belong to us or them? Are we rightly ours or theirs?

You hold up your hands, palms up: I've missed you.

I reply the same, the familiar gesture of our unspoken, unknowable language: I've missed you too.

Your hands move through the air – through the ether, you said – gracefully, gently; you have always had that grace about you, despite the ugly side I know of you. Your fingers flutter and curve between us, tracing out the silent words one by one: They'll strike west.

Here is my answer; my fingers moving in counterpoint to yours, but always there is the space between us: Ours will head north.

You smile at me, briefly, and for a moment I think that your grey eyes tell me that you're being honest. I hold up my hand, cupped, and place the other above it: I trust you.

Your hands are still between us, unmoving, as though all the gestures we have learnt and taught each other are inadequate to express yourself. Your hands begin to fall, hesitantly, and you bow your head.

But you shouldn't. I catch the movement of your hands before they fall at your sides.

I know. Here is my hand, held out as a peace offering between you and me. Take it. It's the best we can do.

You raise your head and meet my eyes. Yes, it's the best we can have.

Flitterfuss; blunderbuss.

Here are your hands, flitting through the chill air of dawn – soft white doves, pale moths – making patterns in the ether for me to decipher. And here is my answer – reluctant, slow, over thoughtful – as I blunder through the gestures and patterns in reply to yours.

You have always been able to say what you mean when there are no words to be spoken. Like now, here in No Man's Land. And I, with my clever words and ideas, am unable to say what I have always wanted to.

Goodbye. One last curve of your hand, an elegant motion in the brightening air.

My hand moves the same, a reflection of yours – a simple wave: Goodbye.

A last word, before you turn to leave – I'll miss you. Your hands flitter through the air as the first rays of the sun fall on No Man's Land.

And mine curves through the space between us in answer, blundering through the motions – I'll miss you too.

Flitterfuss; blunderbuss.