Title: Starvation
Author: FireBringer
Summary: Of ice and dark magic. Of grief and pawns. And of surviving and living. A Dark Hermione/George one-shot.
Hermione turned, eyes faded slightly, watched as he was brought closer to her, to the hole, to darkness and soil and eternity. She wondered how hard it could be to cry, how easy it was for everyone else, how simple to give in to grief. But she couldn't. It was too hard, too cruel, too savage. And there were still things to do.
She wasn't allowed to give in. Not just yet.
Expression blank, she spun on her heel and strode away, mind already smoothing away the creases and the breaks and settling for something calmer and softer and so much easier to deal with. She screwed up the old designs and let new plans take over, cutting passed the emotion and the humanity and letting the ice that she had become known for overwhelm her. It was the only way she could deal. The only way to deal with the War, with the loss of another, more important individual to the Resistance, though you couldn't call any of them important anymore because they were all cold and emotional and simply pawns in a brutal world fate dictated and light wasn't an option anymore.
They called themselves the good side but they weren't of the light of the pure of the beautiful. They were ugly and monstrous and just as pitiless as the rest.
Hermione clutched at her wand, several Dark Spells spinning in her mind and offering themselves for the next couple of missions, and she dissected them and felt them, the dark rushing through her body until it tingled and it was like being caught in a wave in icy sea, but she was a strong swimmer and could get to the top but she couldn't get back to that white sand and to that heat to dry off. She could breathe and keep her head above the water but she was still inside it.
She shook her head, dismissing a few of the Spells and leaving some of the more subtle ones, the ones that could tear a heart without even a word. These were the Spells the Resistance would need now, to complete what they had to do, and she would teach it to them, because she was the only one that knew how, the only one who had seen that the only way to defeat them was to be them. To take the Dark Magic and use it against them because she knew that they couldn't afford to scream and wail about what was right and good and moral because the other side wouldn't give them that time. The Resistance had to survive and if the only way to do that was to be as bad as them then Hermione was going to make sure the Resistance learnt the Dark.
Even if the Resistance didn't trust her anymore. Even if they doubted her and kept her under Spells they knew she could destroy in an instant but put on her anyway, because they were scared and they needed her and that terrified them even more.
"Hermione!"
He'd been following for a while, such an angry man, but Hermione hadn't the strength to deal with him anymore. No more. But she stopped anyway and waited, face turned away, cold and blank mask in place that made so many uneasy of her, even him, the last of them all.
"Look at me!" he hissed, and shook her shoulder with such force that she stumbled, automatically finding her centre of balance and hand shooting up to grip his wrist and squeeze until it hurt to the point he had to release her, ice shooting through her blood and burning him. He yelped and pulled away and Hermione stared at him, shocked, hand trembling as it tried to regain warmth. His blue eyes glared and she bit her lip.
"Why are you walking away again?" he demanded. "Why do you always walk away?"
She shook her hand, dropped it to her side, looked at him sadly when he tensed, as if she would attack. Attack him. Her last link.
"Why do you always follow?" she asked, and despite herself she was curious. He frowned.
"Because I have to." He replied. "Because no one else will. Because I don't understand what happened. Because no matter what you're still Hermione. Because I know you're sill in that shell somewhere. Because of so many reasons and yet you never give me any!"
He was furious, betrayed, a single half of a lost pair and she hated that this was what had become of him, become of all of them. She hated that tears wouldn't come and life couldn't be lived and death was so easy to come by, like laughter used to be.
She knew he used to understand Before but now that it was After he could only rage and rage and rage at her as if it would make a difference, and it couldn't because he'd tried it before and it couldn't bring any of them back and despite what they wanted and wished and begged for, life couldn't just stop with their deaths. There were so many others to save and to fight. So many other lives to die before After was up.
She lowered her eyes and turned away, just like she always did, but he wouldn't let her go this time because he'd lost one of the Last and now it was just them, the Original Gang and he wasn't going to let her leave him, she knew that, but still she felt that same surprise and fear and irritation when he grasped her arm and flung her back to face him.
"You are not leaving." He said, almost desperate, and coldly she shook his hand away. He went for her again and again she left him and he kept coming and coming and he wouldn't leave and soon her mask was dropping and there was a fevered, hungry emotion on his face that scared her and she wanted nothing more but to disappear into her work and Spells and send another group of the young to their deaths and insanity but he wouldn't let her go –
"Don't make me do this," she begged, hands clutching his upper arms as if she would fall, shaking him slightly, eyes wide and faded and the world spun sluggishly, deciding to pause at this moment and not allow her to breath and so she gasped for it, but it wasn't there. He held her.
"Hermione…"
"Please." She whispered, pleading. "Don't…don't shatter me yet…I can't…I can't…"
The blue eyes were wretched, but she knew hers were more crushed because she had never allowed herself to crack, never allowed herself to fall and scream at the world like the others, because she had to get everyone through this and keep them alive, or keep them dead, either way, she had to be the one because it was always her who was cleaning up the pieces, always. But one look at him and she knew, knew instantly that he couldn't, couldn't let her stay above them all. Because he was damaged too and he was not going to let her stay so veiled, silk glove shielding the deconstructing form underneath.
"I'm sorry." He said quietly. "I'm so sorry."
And she glared at him, hating him at that moment, because he wasn't. Not in the slightest.
"You're not!" she screamed, hoarse, rigid, easily snapped. "You say you are but you want me in the dirt beside you! You keep coming at me, expecting me to break and, damn it, don't you see that I can't? I can't let myself because then we'll loose we'll be gone we'll fall we'll succumb we'll die –"
"We're dead anyway." He snapped fiercely. "Just because a wand hasn't emitted the green light and lips haven't said Avada Kedavra doesn't mean we aren't dead."
She shook her head, took a step away, and found that she was shaking. Shaking so hard that she felt she would crumble and shatter and fade away and she wished the world wasn't so loud now because it was always so muted and sluggish and faded and dull and she liked it that way because it meant she was faded too. And being faded meant she could be strong. Faded meant survival.
"We're alive –" she began, but again he cut over her and he held her again in that grip of his that hurt so much, because it burned her all the way to the bone.
"But we're not living." He hissed, and punctuated the words with four hard jerks and she hated him hated him hated him and opened her mouth and screamed. Hermione didn't care about the funeral, not so far away, just as the funeral would not care about the scream. Screams were so common nowadays that the sound curled around them and was a constant, and so no one could hear them anymore.
They stared at each other as the sound left reluctantly, clinging to the air. She made a move to touch him, then let her arm fall. He touched her cheek instead.
"Where did it all go so wrong?" she asked, tone close to silent, simply different breaths. He tilted his head to the side, eyes dark, and shrugged hesitantly.
"When we lost our meaning." He replied. "Everywhere."
She sighed, eyes lowered. "Its not going to get better is it?"
"No." he said bluntly, shaking his head. "Probably not."
Hermione reached up and pressed his hand to her cheek, feeling the warmth and wondering if he felt so cold inside too. She swallowed.
"When did you lose your laughter?" she murmured, but it was not a question she wanted answering. "When did Ron lose his anger? When did Harry lose his courage? When did Ginny lose her passion? When did Dumbledor lose his guile? When did Molly lose her love? When did Remus lose his understanding? When did…when did…"
She was shocked to find that she was crying.
He rested his forehead against hers, eyes following the tears that fell, but he made no move to stop them. This is what he had wanted, and she knew he was relishing in his victory, even if it did cause her pain, and so was his own pain.
"Everything is so wrong." She said. "Everything, and I don't know how to fix it. Because we don't even know which side is right anymore. Because their faces are like ours, and their hearts and they have ideals and families and passions and courage and understanding and love and guile and anger and laughter too. I don't…I don't know what to do anymore…"
And then he was kissing her, so softly and sweetly that she cried and cried and then he moved back and looked at her with that old smile, so lopsided and fake but so comforting that she clung to it and he kissed her again, only this time not so softly and sweetly. And this was always the way it ended and the way it began and again she realised that she was starving starving starving for him and they tried to get enough of each other but it wasn't working and the more they tried to stop being hungry the more starving they got.
It felt like she was being consumed from within and needed more more more of him and him her and the wildness about it felt like they were alive again, like it always did, and eventually they were raw and exhausted but they were still humming with something they had no strength to do anything about. It felt like they were living somewhere black and white and in that meshing of bodies and need everything came into colour and they knew it was cliché and they knew that nothing good could come of it in the end, but for now it was good and whole and pure and it was theirs and it made them live that little bit longer, made the humming sated for a little while and they knew there was nothing they could do about it.
It was ok to be selfish; there was no one there to tell them it was wrong.
"Neville was the Last." She murmured eventually, sore and hollow but still humming and starving for him. She pressed her still clothed body against his, not caring that her skirt was bunched around her waist and her knickers were feet away, just like he didn't care that his flies were open and his hands were still inside her blouse. "He lasted a long time."
"You coddled him." he replied, something scathing in his voice. "You were always there to deflect what he could deal with himself."
Before, she would have been angry and shouted and hexed him with the nastiest curse she could think of, but she simply sagged at his side.
"I know." She whispered. "But he…after Harry and Ron…" And she fell silent. One hand found hers and gripped tightly. It burned her to the bone, as always, but she didn't care. She would later and the circle would start again but for now she let herself burn and hum and starve and tried to sink into him.
He didn't talk, and she found herself remembering the times Before, of laughter and jokes and need to lighten dark times, even as Voldemort bore down on them. He didn't laugh anymore; neither did he seek to cause laughter. He was hollow like everyone else. But stronger than she had thought, after the loss of his Half, stronger than most that had broken down at the losses.
She brushed his hair away from his forehead and kissed his temple and tried to hold down that burning inside.
"Its never going to be ok, is it?" she asked, defeated. He smiled, but it was empty.
"No."
"But…" she hesitated for a moment, and then hid her face in his shoulder. "We'll survive, right?"
He paused, and silence curved around them with all intent to kill but then he curled himself around her and held her close and murmured into her hair: "We'll do better than survive. We'll live."
And the burning returned and the humming and she was starving starving starving for George, but at that moment it was the feeling she loved most in the world.
Ok, so it was sorta inspired by Meg Rosoff's How I Live Now. I stole a few lines, like the whole 'starvingstarvingstarving' thing, but whatever. I liked them and so used them. Its odd and the characters are quite strange, but i like it. It has a sadness to it, a darkness that i like.
So, anyway, tell me what you think. Constructive criticismis, as always, very much welcome. :grins:
Keep dreaming, guys!