A/N: Hello everyone! It's been AGES since I have written anything, I know. Busy year, what can I say? Good news is, this little oneshot reminded me of what I have been missing and have since scribbled down a few more thoughts on a story that was devised by myself and a FABULOUS friend of mine a year ago. I am hoping to bring a few of you that followed November Rain back into my life, I enjoyed your company VERY much.
I will include "character death" as a warning, though the character is already dead. Also, be prepared for slash undertones (that's male/male lovin' for any newbies out there). Well, you didn't expect me to write het did you?
There are gone away people
And there are left behind people
But their secrets
Their secrets
Are the same
Begrudgingly, I admit that the muggle perspective on the subject of ghosts fascinates me. They classify ghosts as supernatural or paranormal, when in truth the phenomenon holds no more mystery then a thunderstorm or the rising of the sun. It's nature.
Theories ranging from ectoplasmic residue to energy trapped in a single space are under constant debate. Some blame the environment, claiming that electromagnetic waves filter through our brain, bringing the line between conscience and subconscious together, transforming ghostly encounters into nothing more then a waking dream. Yet things that truly defy nature, like industry, are embraced because science insisted that humanity needs it in order to progress.
It's amusing.
Too much science is factored in for the truth to ever be discovered. A person's need to know why will never allow their mind to be open enough to understand that moment when reality and shadow fuse together.
Naturally, I know that ghosts exist.
Yet, I scour book after book for clues to what haunts me.
Ghosts are nothing new to my world, I schooled with them for 6 years and met many more after that. But this is different. None of them ever scared me.
I have experienced all of the tell tale signs of a classic haunting. Cold shivers up my spine, the hair on the back of my neck standing on edge, the terrible sense that I am being watched.
So far, explanation remains undiscovered.
I find that I sympathize with Muggles as I read fearful dictations of events that shook their foundation of belief. I search everyday for answers to the fear that grips me.
But everyday, all I do is fail.
I exist only as much as I need to. Ignoring friends, shunning responsibilities, convincing myself that the only thing I need is an answer. Sheltered in paper seclusion, I feel protected as if my quest keeps my ghost at bay. It never occurs to me that as my desperation increases, the further away from resolution I am.
Creaking as begun, sounds in the night reminiscent of pacing from I would wait for him to get home. His departure always left a void which I filled with ceaseless movement.
Staring at the ceiling in the unforgiving dark, my heart pounds like it did on those nights when no promise could be made as the door closed behind him.
I am gasping for breath; the air is stale and stagnant; filled with the pungent odor of uncertainness.
I refuse to remember.
The next day I completely revert to type and investigate a practical reason for my nightly invasion. Was the house settling further into its foundation? Was it windy last night? I explore and justify ever explanation, shamelessly sinking deeper into the safety of denial. No other explanation is acceptable and ignoring it only makes it worse.
My nights have been robbed of sleep; instead I sit with my knees against my chest, refusing to give into the child devised method of hiding under the covers. Comfort was initially supplied by creating a mental checklist of what the noises could be. Eventually I started to whisper to myself, desperate to hear something that I could determine the source of. Night after night, the louder I became, pleading with the noise to stop.
Then I started screaming.
Whispers now, a voice that doesn't follow the rules and seeps into the daylight, soft conspiracies that refuse to enunciate so I can be in on the plan.
Yet, it is familiar.
It catches me off guard, and I turn half expecting someone to be there. It has violated my research with distraction and it has breached the reverent spaces that belong to us…belonged to us.
Increasing in intensity like the creaking, I have to wonder if it is trying to tell me something. Hours I sit in complete stillness, doubting whether I want to hear what it has to say. I even bought a muggle recording device to capture what they call Electronic Voice Phenomenon, but the voice never falls for the trick.
More days pass, the incessant murmurs deny me focus from discovering what…or who. I know that if they would just stop, I could figure it out. Instead, I sit with my hands clasped to my ears while hesitant memories push their way to my ratiocination.
And I remember.
I remember the whispers.
Words spoken tenderly from swollen ravished lips while skin sheathed in sweat did not want to stop touching.
The time of day had never mattered, we could spend the entire day tangled in sheets, using the moments between orgasmic release to whisper…only whisper.
With muted conversation we discussed love and passion, loyalty and righteousness, past and future. Considering how we could never get enough of each other physically, these discussions saw many interesting and spontaneous locations.
I smile.
Then my mind recalls the other whispers. Times of watching the clock and comforting myself with hushed affirmation that he will return soon; whispers of please, of hope, of faith. Veiled promises spoken only in agony of the need to bring him home.
Then.
Then that night when the news came and the pain crushed me…all I could do was whisper.
It is becoming stronger, no longer confined to ethereal action. It has begun to physically affect my home by moving objects and repeatedly opening and slamming doors.
This unnerves me.
This thing is touching my stuff.
Objects left in sacred positions, all pretending that he will come home. Our bedroom, long vacated, left untouched all this time is now vandalized by this presence. Furious, I curse its audacity to enter this room while I correct the overturned photographs and repair ripped clothing.
Then I see them.
His glasses.
They are lying on the bed, the same way they would find themselves after he discarded them from his face to rub his eyes. Our last nights together were spent sharing our bed with reports and strategies and other information. While I slept fitfully at his side, long into the night he would toil, reading and re-reading every scrap of paper, and every morning I would wake to find him asleep, his glasses casually at his side.
This is not where I left them.
That night, they were placed in my hand, the crack in the right lens serving as the only evidence that they had been in harm's way. I had taken them to our room and placed them on the nightstand as I so often did on those mornings when he had fallen asleep. It was always the first place he would reach for them.
Snapping back from more memories, my eyes feverishly search the room for any more discrepancies. There really wasn't much left. After that night I was compelled to rid myself of as many of his things as I could. He was so important to so many people and they all wanted a memento, something to hold onto that image of their hero. I gave into their need, shamefully selling his possessions and profiteering from his fame. Some things, like his owl, were given freely to his dear friends. His two best friends never cared for what he could do for them, they just cared about him. I kept some things for myself, the things that were precious.
This has gone too far.
Fuming, I place his glasses in their proper place and storm out of the room, and stop.
Realization hits that I am angry at myself. I am the one that hoped. I am the one that dreamed. I am the one that surrendered.
I am the one who lied.
But I never…
I never…
No.
People have stopped trying to contact me, and I can't find the strength to care. My lack of sleep and inability to eat a decent meal has morphed my appearance into something hardly human. My skin, forever pale, has turned sallow and almost translucent. My hair, dank and limp and unkempt, was likely to be streaked with grey rather then the soft white-silver he defined it as. I had already purged my home of any kind of reflective surface, horrified by my own image and scared of the faint darkness that would appear next to me.
I know that people think I am crazy, but it is all worth it.
I know that I am dealing with now.
Laughing manically, I incinerate all the books because they failed to help me. They never had the answer.
But I do.
I do.
It's unfinished business.
The noises, the whispers, the movements are all quick reminders of things left undone. The demons we have failed to confront are the shadows that drift across a dark room.
My abused mind is allowed no time to celebrate this epiphany for suddenly all the supernatural activity appears with a vengeance.
Screams echo down the hallway, furniture thumps and bangs against the walls and floors, objects whirl around the room, walls creak and groan all around me.
The cacophony is deafening and I am so far gone that I don't realize that tears are rolling down my face.
I can feel it breaking.
Agony pushes me to my knees as my demons force me to a confrontation.
They were never really accepted, how could they be? Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were not supposed to find solace in each other, but no one could argue that they made a formidable pair.
One with brains, the other with brawn, the tactical maneuvers that pulled them through battle after battle, each using their respective talents just to return home to each other.
He knew it would not last, but time lingered on without caution.
Inevitability left unspoken, he used the words for empty promises.
He was starting to get nervous, no end was in sight. What would happen if things progress as they are? What will he have to face?
And then that night.
Of course he was devastated! Indescribable pain coursed through his body as his shattered heart rudely kept beating.
Then a thought.
A single thought.
'I won't have to—'
"I'M SORRY!" I scream above the din.
It stops, all of it.
And there he is.
Just the slightest hint, faint outlines of human features, but it's him.
Scrambling to my feet, I run to him desperate to rid my soul of this guilt and redeem myself for the flicker of relief I felt that night.
He looks at me; his eyes are spectral but fierce as they were in life. I find myself captivated by them and unable to move.
"I'm sorry too".
He doesn't actually speak these words, but I hear them clear and unfiltered in my mind.
I'm confused, is he apologizing for his death?
Those eyes, I cannot look away. I am drawn in until I feel that nothing else exists, just him and I. The environment fades around me as I am brought into his memories.
I understand.
He was always true in his heroics; unconditional bravery of knowing what he had been placed on this earth to do was enough incentive to face every adversity with sheer courage.
But towards the end, he began to forgo caution. He knew and had felt the same fear that I had about our future.
This was his way of finding an end to what would inevitably end.
Ironically, I felt more connected to him knowing that we had shared this trepidation. Sadly, there was no more him to connect with. Feeling the embrace of his arms, I finally forgave myself.
A brief disturbance in the air announces his departure. He had accomplished what he had set out to do and could now leave to find the peace he had sought his entire life. Sunshine peeks through the shattered windows, casting the first rays of warmth that this house, and I, has felt in too long a while.
Phantoms of memories
Remnants of touch
Specters of once upon a time
A/N: There it is kids! As always, I would really appreciate a review. Thank you!