Author's Note: Another one of my sad stories involving damaged romance and almost certain death- this one is sort of strange. I know, I know- it's sort of confusing and stuff, but if you would please just try to read and understand instead of complaining in review you didn't, I'd be very obliged. Thank you for all the kind reviews in past- enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter' or any of it's related 's. I do, however, own this fic and it's original theme.
Warnings: Hints at possible romance; minority swearing [maybe]; and a very small amount of blood. Also deals with death and angst.
* The [*] Code: One of my trademarks as an author is Hermione's blonde hair. It's my way of breaking out from your insane but the books have it this way!' ranting, and not at least fully copying J.K. Rowling. Okay? *
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[Inspired By The Song He Loves You Not' By Dream.]
The woman paused, stopping in front of the place; she was alone again. This small place only seemed to remind her- to reach for the broken memories still stored in a healing heart, only to pull them out and let them bleed again. And yet, at the same time she needed the memories- to feel emotion all over again, things she had forgotten.
In that sense the lonely place was beautiful- the sullen sunlight through the heavy trees, the thick smell in the air. It was set back, hallowed almost, from the rest of the open area- buried alone.
Her thick hair was dripping onto her already wet shoulders- she had walked, and it had rained up until that moment. Water ran down her face like gentle tears- stripping into her clothes, making them cling indecently to her shapely body. It was easy to see she was no longer a child and fully grown- both physically and intellectually.
A weak smile faded onto her face, and she sat down on the damp ground, turning backwards so she didn't face it. She sat, pulling her knees up to her chest with her back leaned against the wet stone, and rested her head back against it. The dim sunlight played shadows across her face- and slowly the memories came for her.
He loved you.
She reached down, into the mused bag she had been carrying with her- it too soaking wet- and pulled out a thick book. It was worn, rather faded from both age and constant reading- the leather held a few drops of water easily, the droplets sliding down as she picked it up- and the corners of the pages were slightly dampened, but not anything horribly damaged. She drew it into her lap, propping it up on her knees, and opened it.
It took her a few minutes to thumb through the pages- running them freely down, from the front to the back in a matter of seconds until she found the right one. She paused, opening the book fully at that spot, that page.
In it was a pressed flower- it was fresh, she having picked it on her way here- and thin, already dying.
She smiled slightly, picking it up carefully in her fingers and letting the book fall down at her side. Holding it by the stem, she twirled it by rolling her thumb and finger together, admiring it for a moment. Then, lowering it to her lap, she reached out with her opposite hand and plucked off a single petal, dropping it down onto the ground after pausing with it for a moment.
He loved you not.
He hadn't given her flowers- or gifts of any kind for that matter. At least, not the kind of things she had hoped for- only the sort of things you gave to a friend. Even if that friend was a women.
In fact, even though she had cared for him deeply- though immaturely- for almost all of their years shared at school, he had never shown anything else but almost brotherly affection. He rarely hugged her- never kissed her, although she did, on his cheek- and certainly never showed anything to her that would of proved he liked her more then he did his own best friend, a boy.
The woman sighed, lowering her eyebrows down to the flower, now one petalless, and spun it carelessly around again. Her shoulders sunk lightly, her lips curving downward into something much like a child's pout as she plucked off the second petal, leaving an even larger blank space around the yellow circle.
He loved you.
Still, it was her mistake- hers- for that. She never did anything else- nothing to prove that she liked him anymore then she was sure he liked her. The kisses, maybe- enough to get a soft blush out of him, maybe, but nothing more. And they were on his cheeks, not his lips.
She had had plenty of chances. After all, he only had a few crushes' in those seven long years- she couldn't really remember their names now, but she remembered loathing them. Both for the fact that they had become the object of his affection and that they had ended up breaking his innocent heart.
He had always been there for her- sobbing into his arms, the warmth of his shoulder comforting against her body- wiping away her tears. She had to say that she didn't do that even with her other friends- he was always the one she turned too. And sometimes, even, he turned to her.
The third petal fell slowly, landing on the discarded book on the ground, littering it's open page.
He loved you not.
The seven years she spent with him had slipped away far too fast- most of them worthless to her, now. They were almost all the same to her- studying and classes, the daily conversations she couldn't remember now, all those small things.
There were, of course, the other things- the tournaments and rich adventures' they shared, combined with the wonderful stress of upcoming school exams. But in the end- after everything, all the years set between them and reality- it was the small things that mattered to her, that she remembered the most. They existed to remind her of the fact that she was once, in fact, a child, maturing and learning the truth about life each day; having so many hopes, bondless friendships, joy and excitement- just thinking about it almost made it all come flooding back to her.
The woman smiled. It had all slipped away so quickly for her.
In a single moment with her thin fingers, the fourth petal was plucked off, drifting downward as she set it free toward the open volume, the same page she had let it open too.
He loved you.
The seven years had slipped by so fast for her- too fast, in fact, that graduation was almost non-exist for her; she wasn't prepared, wasn't ready for it. She didn't want to hug him, to kiss his cheek for old time's sake' and wish him a happy life- she didn't want to leave it all, including him, behind.
What she wanted to do was run up to him, throw her arms around him and hold him there until she had the courage to tell him she loved him; that she didn't want him to go, that she didn't want him to leave her behind alone- to stay with her and spend the rest of his life in her arms.
Of course, it didn't happen that way. The hug, the kiss on the cheek, the hopes and wishes for happiness- saying goodbye, just saying the word itself, none of them there knowing at all what kind of world they were leaving behind and what kind they were walking straight into. None of them knew they couldn't go back.
The woman's hands were shaking as she reached for the fifth petal; she was crying, softly, her knees up to her chest and her back up against the stone, tears running slowly down her face. This petal fell harder then the others, falling onto the page slowly with the others.
He loved you not.
She didn't see him much after that- didn't know much about his life. It was difficult at first, but- with college, her job, her life- to deal with, she slowly began to pull herself away from the memories of regret she knew she was struggling not to feel- her feelings becoming vague and faded, ceasing slowly- and it became clearer to her each day that they had been nothing more then childish- a simple crush' in her late schoolgirl years.
The woman's shoulders slumped, back against the damp stone, and she looked down at her hands, thinking.
Of course, she couldn't force herself to not remember him- in each yearbook, the animated pictures of tournaments and championships, even his old face looking back up at her- they all reminded her, brought them back. Her feelings for him hadn't changed.
She had loved him. Even growing up couldn't changed that.
The sixth petal fell, down, onto the page, slower then the tears running silently down her face.
He loved you.
The last time she saw him again- their reunion, the friendly embrace and the warm feeling of his arms back around her- even then, she didn't say a word. It was too soon.
It was a few days together- a reunion as old friends. He had his own life- no wife or children, as far as she knew- but a life all the same. And he was happy, she thought, so happy to see her and so casual in talking to her again that she had changed her mind, silent once again.
Then they parted again, promising to keep in touch. Maybe it was then- getting the snowy owl letter suddenly that one day, sometime in the morning, that she had been so excited in opening it. That she had torn open the thin paper, the seal; and pulled out the letter inside.
He was dying.
There had been a battle of some sort- she didn't care. She flew all the way, rushing out of her home to get there- to see him that one last time. Rushing there, time stopped from the moment she walked in the door, saw him, ran to his side.
There was blood running down his face, staining his pale cheeks like the heavy tears that fell down the woman's own face the moment she remembered it. He had sent the letter himself, with his own owl- and no one else was there. It was a curse, something, that was killing him- she couldn't stop it. Neither of them could.
And she stood there- taking his hand, already weak, begging him to go to a doctor, to anyone. He just smiled- shook his head, said there was no way, no reverse- that he wanted her here. And she went on pleading, wiping off the blood on his forehead- dripping from his scar- crying down over him.
When she finally gave up there was silence; she raised the cloth and saw him staring at her, a smile on his face. That same face, the same smile of youth on his face- she smiled back. He started to say something just as his eyes slid closed a final time, his hand limp in hers- but the smile lasted.
She kissed him, gently, his lips still warm.
The woman breathed in, the same tears of that day on her face- it was years ago, now. But she still remembered it, buried deep within her soul, scarred into her heart like the scar on his forehead- her memory of him.
She plucked the final petal off the stem- seventh- and held it under her fingertips as she shifted, pulling her body up on her knees and turning so she faced the stone she had been leaning on. She kissed the petal gently before she reached out and pressed it on stone's surface, reading the words carved into it and pausing in silence before standing again, letting the petal fall down with the others.
She smiled, wrapping her arms around her damp shoulders and turning back, walking away from it all- the memories of him and their youthful happiness- leaving both them and the open book behind her.
Seven petals; and seven years spent together in innocence.
As she walked back to her own life, it gently began to rain again- droplets falling down on the pages she had left in memory of him, the petals and the flower with only a dying stem. They blotted out the words, ink running down into the ground, the petals slowly staining into the delicate paper.
[This Edition of Hogwarts: A History is Dedicated to the Memory of Harry Potter;
an Honorable Student of Hogwarts Academy.]
She left them on his grave along with her own tears; burying his memory deep beneath her soul along with her love for him, and the question still left unanswered after his death.
He loves you.
Ending Notes: Review here.