The Liberation.
Author/Artist: xladyhopex
Type of Valentine: Ficcy.
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the lovely Harry Potter, not I- sadly.
Rating: R
Warnings: language, sexual activity, sensitive topics/issues.
Notes: written for nuisantoiles in the dmhgficexchange, past round of valentine's exchange.
Summary: They are seeking redemption through unnecessary means, attempting to free themselves of the past. In the end, liberation is the only Savior for their sins.
I.
The stars are lingering in the dark sky, and she wishes that they would just dissolve. Its bright, radiant hope shimmers and she cannot help but stare; so pretty, so pure, so immortal- far above the likes of herself. Quiet, serene peace surrounds her as she tucks a leg beneath her and sits at this site of mystery and romance. The lake was always so full of life, so peculiar and dark at the same time; now it sits, complete with time and alone in its vulnerability. This is stupid, she thinks, because she's always alone this time of the year, always. Lovers (used to) take their wishes to this setting and here she sits, with not a romantic bone in her soul, but a yearning desire settled inside her heart. She doesn't know whether to cry in her despair or wallow in her bitterness; the weary task of waiting has become her habit and she chooses to instead follow this option. She remembers a time when the lake was still stirring and cool, with students flocked here and there, living. The castle is just yonder down the grounds and its magnificence is still visible; she warmly looks towards the ruins of a war, seeing only an impressive school for those like her. She is too caught in her illusion of the past to recognize the dead trees all around her and the rubble of explosions, dust and dirt everywhere with not a sign of life anywhere. She sighs gently, the faint resonance of screams and dying proclamations filtering through her ears; spells of torture and curses of pain flash into her memory and she shakes slightly. It isn't snowing, because it never snows here (not now, anyways), and she wants little snowflakes to fall with its soft sweetness of innocence and angelic-like perfection. It has been several years since they first met, and she wishes she had never laid eyes on him. Neutral air passes through her fingertips, and she doesn't feel anything- cold, nor warmth differing her the feel of her skin.
[we aren't perfect, but we can try to be
She whispers to no one and smiles warmly as the moon (you are something familiar, my friend) comes into view with a silhouette shadowing its gaze. It is a round circle, the fullness masking its depth as evening's moments poison its brilliance. Poetry had never really crossed her mind until now, its simplicity confusing and over-conscious of its actual meaning. Sometimes she likes to think that she's a poet, and even though she doesn't believe, (theoretical, subjective religion) it's essential for her to become a Saint. God created the world, and the universe, and God had created her- was there really anything else? God has the power to create or deny life with a simple breath from His lips. Mankind suffers such pains because of their unfaithfulness to God's bosom. Did the wizards of power deserve such punishment too? She scoffs at her own thoughts and nervously glances to her side, watching from her memories as another pair of students leave in silent content. They look so happy (so happy, so dreamy and so forgotten) and she wishes them well as they leave without any notice. And then reality hits, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as she wipes away the tears she has scarcely noticed. Where are Ron and Harry? Her boys of promise and lazy anticipation? She chokes softly and stifles a cry as another thought floats to mind: Ron is dead, buried beneath the skeletons of others and consecrated by her mere existence. He isn't there to spoil her with friendly teases; he's there to haunt her. It has been four years since the campaign for power and she has not yet begun to recover; she has survived, but her life has been broken into fragments of the past. She is stuck in the days of her youth, trapped within the never-ending moments of magic and adventure.
[ … nine, ten, eleven, twelve …
It's almost midnight, she notes, the ticking of her tiny wristwatch beating against her wrist, almost burning the skin beneath. He's late and promised he would be there. But we cannot all be on time, can we? We all make mistakes, full of regret and humiliation but we still acknowledge them, right? Her smile turns bitter now as she clenches her teeth, her pale face turning white with apathy. Perhaps it's the alabaster turn of her flesh that makes her forget, or the goose-bumps freckling her skin that makes her linger; either way, its arrogant of her to be here and she just wants to remain blissfully ignorant. The water of the lake is purified to nothing but silver-blue now, the navy turn of its vigor gone. With only the moon guiding her eyes as light, she hums herself a little tune and sits against the trunk of the old oak tree, fading away with the glimmers in the water. He is now two hours late, and she awkwardly tries not to be uncomfortable or cross. They started this companionship two years before, didn't they? They acknowledged all the rules and the components in order to successfully come through it. And it is drawing to an end with their close intimacy disturbing, almost. He was the one to propose the concept, and as lucid as it did not seem, she accepted. His first promise was that he would return to this spot, at this time every year, so their forlorn hearts are not misconceived to be eager in repairing old relationships. She wonders where he is and glances at her wristwatch once more, this time counting four minutes passed. It's the thought that counts, right? Maybe time just deceives us with its fractured minutes, sparing only seconds to divulge secrets. Her secrets are never revealed though, and she shivers at the thought. It isn't cold and the heat of the night takes her beyond the horizon- she's waiting and he cannot meet her there.
[it'll be like this forever
He arrives with the scent of indiscretion as he stands near her, the overwhelming presence of his character a relief. She does not indicate her acquaintance of his company and sits in her own little world of desolate time. He mutters briefly about her lack of color and the stiffness in her attitude, not even bothering to take in the appearance of his former school. The brutal melancholy of a Malfoy heart is suppressed beneath his cloak as he pockets his wand and shuffles his feet in her direction. He leans against the trunk of the tree as well, his posture slackened and his eyes dark; the lake holds no meaning for him, no real poetic inspiration for their meeting to take place in such a scenery. It pleases her, though, and he keeps that in mind as he delicately unravels the layers of her character. It has taken him nearly two years to get this close to her and still be satisfied in their affiliation. What did he want of this? A resolution. Absent-mindedly his fingers slip into the folds of his cloak and robes before they slip back out with a slim-lined cigarette in hand. He snaps his fingers and lights the cigarette before producing another one and handing it to her; he knows she hates smoking and cannot stand the putrid odor of burning, so he watches as she tosses the white object into the lake and continues to stare. He smirks at her habit and lightly inhales the addictive nicotine, exhaling slightly and watching the swirls of smoke spindle into the air. Four years of misgivings and whining and complaining, with memorials and services and tributes: he is tired of the war, and does not wish for it to live on. He has told her time and time again that living in the past would only re-open the wounds of the obscured recollections of their history. Does she listen? No. The proud, courageous Gryffindor trait dying within her vanishes slowly as he devastates her with his devious ways. He is not trying to conquer her, nor is he trying to seduce her; he is trying to like her, to form a bond with her. She will be his salvation, he thinks, because she is stuck in the same boat he is in. No use in trying to label themselves with their rivalries, right? He is a sinner because he is a deathEater and she is a sinner because she is a killerPhoenix. They cannot be innocent anymore, he finally judges, because they are finished. This war has turned children into monsters, he feels, and he is right.
You are late.
So?
I cannot wait any longer.
Yeah, neither can I.
They talk without feeling or lyrical sensitivity. He smokes while she stares and they wait. Too engulfed in their own sorrows, drowning far too down the well of their problems; freedom is tucked away from them.
II.
He is cruel, foul and rude.
The revolution changed you, didn't it?
Who has been left without its afflictions?
…do not dismiss me, Malfoy.
… then do not attempt to berate me as if I were a child, Granger.
His language is full of short, precise sentences and noble English, his tongue curling around all the familiar vowels and dipping into his heavy accent. His perfect, white teeth (gods, so damn white) tuck beneath his lips and she finds herself defying him in all fundamentals, muttering underneath her breath and staring blindly. He doesn't deserve many things, appreciating none of his possessions, and taking things for oh-so granted; he doesn't need her. But she keeps to herself and nods, swallowing the hot words of retorted jealousy and hurt that burrow inside of her. It stings to even try and think about not letting herself avenge him, but she remembers the moments where he (the despicable man) has upturned her and stops herself just in time. He doesn't need these memories to be released, nor does he need the opportunity to succeed her; too clever, too cautious and oh-too cunning, he is just a serpent who is coiling himself around her heart. Silly her, this heart of ice is melting because of her blasphemy and her shame. Hadn't she promised Ron of her undying love for him, and her faithfulness to only him? She bites her tongue and tastes the bitterness of her copper weakness, a true sign that she is alive and breathing. Does he notice her insecurity or her troubles? She expects that he does not care because he is a beast full of contempt. That infamous smirk of his, the one with the smug intent of deception, finally makes its entrance and she smiles to herself ; they are two enemies, two survivors of an entire generation so divided in loyalties. And yet, their voices are the only ones that matter now since the remaining folk have silenced themselves. She wonders if he is going to speak, if he is going to silence himself as well and remain in that criminal corner of his; no, she confirms, he is too far gone in his sin to become human again.
You'll be late.
Are you attending?
… I have no reason in raising the dead, I am not foolish.
I am not disturbing the peaces.
You are.
No.
Stubborn, my dear, you are too stubborn in your crusade for recognition.
What?
They are remembering the dead- not you, Granger.
Do not use your words to perverse my intentions, Malfoy.
Then do not martyr yourself because you crave deliverance.
He glares at her and waits for her reply, slowly drawing his hands close until he grabs her roughly. She feels the skin beneath her cloak bruise, the magenta and purple coloring forming already. What more does he want of her? For her to say? He grips her tightly, gritting his teeth as she winces slightly and accepts this one defeat. Those cold, startling eyes of his burn into hers as she glances away from his gaze; so haunting, so much more invasive. These are not the days of old, where her constitution consisted of strength and independence; oh, how the mighty have fallen! Examining his features, she tears her body away from his close attentions and looks away with her head bowed down low and her fists clenched. She hears him sneer in reply, the echo of his footsteps heavy and loud. Massaging her arm, she turns her head and looks for his position; he's waiting at the end of the hall, and bows in turn. He is such an arse, such a profoundly calculated tyrant. She scowls softly, picking up her posture and turning away. It's the sound of her footsteps against the ground, clicking with the little toed heels she had put on and scuffing against the marbles she graces her steps with. The dress follows the curves of her body and clings to her form with its silk material, cloak adorned. She holds her head down and passes by the other witches and wizards, smiling politely as her mouth itches to scream. He is incompetent, inexorable, and irrational. She is calm, forgiving, and shrewd. They are slipping, forgetting themselves in this rivalry for acceptance and normality, for ordinary. Gods, what are they demanding of one another? An answer, an explanation for their torments and ordeals? She contemplates this as her steps grow heavy and her mind clears a slate blank- she's ready. It's almost seven o'clock, and the doors are closing but she slips in before its gates shut and gasps: so many people, packed inside this one little room with lights flashing (oh, how bright they were!) and murmured chatter (is it true, is it true?) and whispering dying in its silence to an announcement ( all photography must hold, please welcome … ).
I am Hermione Granger, and I am one who has fought in the rebellion- I survived.
Her mouth is dry, her lips moving fast and strong, her speech successful. The words flow off her tongue and satisfy her audience like preserved wine; she entertains them with her stories and tales of adventure, of reckless games, and of nightmare episodes from the war. Her frame, proud and solid, is still with a stiff formality as she tries to relax her mind and her heart. This is too tempting, too hard for her to speak as she pours her mind's intelligence into every word and becomes impersonal with the facts. Her heart is personal, to be kept for only those who have survived too, so she skips over the laments for the dead and honors these fallen soldiers with poetry and beauty. The time-turner hidden beneath her dress smolders her skin as she beings to sweat with alarm; she could save Ron, could save hundreds. Why doesn't she? Faltering in her speech, she apologizes and clears her throat, a forced smile entering her facial expressions. The lights above her are too bright and are hard to bear as she tries to focus on the highlights of the war instead of the casualties.
III.
It's beginning to get to her.
This is a private party, this is a celebration. This is our tribute to life.
The loud and deafening screams of music echo in her ears and she moves with the audience, throwing herself into a place unseen and undreamt of. With white, gossamer wings guiding her to these euphoric clouds of white and silver, she's almost certain that she's died and gone to heaven; silly her, heaven doesn't exist and neither does God. (otherwise, he would've saved them all- right? ) She opens her eyes and exhales, letting go of herself as she drifts away to the forbidden secrets that this music proposes. It's almost too sudden that she's here and she thanks her boys for giving her time to breathe, relax and live. Her best mates (wait a minute, Ron is gone- isn't he?), however, are also suffering great pains, so she wishes them their luck and hopes that kind Prosperity will bless them. (only Harry now, only my lad of promise) The rock tunes are blaring everywhere and the hypnotic voice singing (he looks down on me, so I will love him until I die) mesmerizes her attention and promises to purge her of the sins she has committed. The beauty of the people attending and the lyrics soothing (he deceives me, no actually- I deceive him) are almost too tragic, suffocating the graceful and eloquent meaning behind redemption. She laughs with her own thoughts and drinks that new beverage they're serving (is it alcoholic) downing the fruity, icy blend several times more.Soon the band dismembers and the roaring mass become restless, stirring their affected hearts (and her bleeding ears) and dancing amongst themselves. It's not long before she becomes apart of this throng, yielding to her ideals and rules and fucking dreams (bloody fucking dreams, useless and dull) and loses herself. He doesn't cross her mind until she spots him, the corner of darkness appropriate for his character as he watches her quietly. His teeth sink in, and then she wakes up.
We are the only ones left, darling. Take a breather, and open your eyes.
She feels a hotness growing in her bones, and feels the arousing touch of someone caressing her. Is it him, is it him? She doesn't know, doesn't care as she melts away with his whispered words and raw touches; end it, end it with him and drink from the tree of Knowledge, surrender Eden. It's all these thoughts spinning in her head that poisons her grasp on reality, veiling her truth from society as she falls beneath his touch. He's tender and soft, and oh-so considerate with a warm mouth on her skin and roaming hands beneath her shirt. Is this right, is this right? (Oh gods, it's too much..) This, this enigma is bursting with life and she opens her closed eyes to a new perspective unseen before. Shouldn't they be shouting and screaming and fighting each other, absorbed in their own hatred and bigotry to defeat one another? Shouldn't he be calling her names and she snapping, and the both of them hot and vexed? Shouldn't they remain enemies and stay children, forever caught in their web of youth and shame? They aren't though, and that's the problem. What day is it? She mentally enters the date, the time, the event, the place, and calculates how long it has been since they have had an argument of the most extreme measures. Her head aches considerably afterwards, and she gives up this form of retaliation, rebellion and follows his particular movements. He is an expert in such things, so she trails his guide and bites her lip when she realizes that he is winning. He has so much control over her, so much more than before and he is executing his decisions wisely. It is wanton of her to succumb to such desires as she throws away the very struggle she has prepared for her entire life. Never let a man take advantage of you, never acquiesce to a person of dark theory and charlatan ways. If you do, you let go of yourself (of them).
You're filthy and weak, you're bleeding of sin.
The light is too much to bear, isn't it?
I cannot resist.
Why are we doing this?
He thinks about this as his lips plant little kisses all over her neck and his hands grope at her body frame with little delay. The fire whiskey he has consumed masks his reasoning as he pushes her away from the crowd of frauds and false people. Just as soon as she stumbles back does she throw herself at him with her arms curved around his neck and her leg nestling around his hips. They stare at each other as he lowers his head and inhales deeply, his gaze focused into that look of terrible need (of release) she gives him. She is inches away from his mouth and he cannot refuse the pink moisture of her lips; he can devour her without regret, so why isn't he? Prompt, he needs a prompt. Too much hard work to throw away with naïve actions and imperfect desires. We need this. In a second his lips capture hers and he tastes the sweetness of her copper blood. The crowd behind them continues their edgy dancing as none take notice of the couple huddled in the corner of the back entrance. He catches the edge of her skirt and pushes it up while she fumbles with his own clothing. It ends ten minutes later with their heavy breathing and sweating bodies; they won't look at one another as they press against each other for support, mulling over their recent choice. They do not know, though, an audience is awaiting her return. Harry sees them, his eyes shady with his emotions clouded. He adjusts his glasses with the thumb of his hand and his mouth is trembling to open, the rage belonging to a lion building up in his throat, ready to scream. He stops dancing with Cho (where are you going?) and moves silently through the growing mob, dodging any of the remaining survivors and taking a seat at the bar. His eyes watch as his best (girl) mate enters a dangerous rendezvous with Malfoy, their moans and whimpers lost in the noise of festivity. He is disgusted and tosses a look behind him to where his date is, wrapped up in some other guy as she doesn't notice her loss. His attention then turns back to Hermione as she grips anything within reach and shudders as if Malfoy were really pleasing her. He bites his lower lip and turns away, inhaling in deeply as he makes his return to his clueless girl. If she was going to dishonor Ron, then so be it. He had lost almost all of his family, so losing her wasn't going to be any real pain at all; Harry loses himself and buries what is left of him with Cho. The gravity of her actions shall not be pinned to him, he swears, because he is already so far down with his own atonements. He has been excused already and does not need to be forsaken; he wishes the best for her as she seeks her redemption.
[i'm sorry mate, i couldn't keep her for you
IV.
She hates him, she must hate him.
[we are opposites, we are rivals; we are different
Oh, she complains and cries and whines before subjecting herself to tears spilt on sheets and screams smothered by pillows (the pink, velvet-lined ones) and then sniffing with her eyes spent of tears and sorrow. Her nose is pink and red, the ugly shape of it now becoming as she dries her sticky face and pets her eyes down- the lashes loose and annoying as she tries to blink. It has been fourteen days, eleven months, and two years since the moment (betrayal, betrayal my darling); she spends her evenings like this, her door locked from the outside world and her poor, suffering heart locked inside her mind. She is another year older and another step closer to forgiveness. Harry knocks on the wooden door with a firm force, shakes his head and then leaves: this is their new routine. She currently lives with Harry in the flat left to her and Ron; no more chances, no more odds to overcome. Sniffing lightly, she tosses in her bedcovers until all she can see is the crème of her sheets. It has been several years since their demise and she continues to see him, their shagging and fucking all that's left to do. Valentine's Day is nearly here, and she remembers the gifts Ron would get her and would leave her, filled with secret meanings for her to decode. She is twenty-seven this year, and no closer to settling back into life without either of them. Harry has found Cho, has married her, and has already closed his heart. She hasn't. And while she has found consolation in Malfoy, she cannot help but feel resentment towards him. He promised her penance, he promised her release! And she is still stuck in her woeful depression. Does she love him? She closes her eyes and waits for the tapping sound of a bird against her desk, then the fluttering of wings and the smell of fresh ink. When her owl does return, she opens her eyes and slides out from her covers to reach the piece of parchment lying on her desk. She sits up in bed and adorns her reading glasses, wiping her face and unfolding the letter. It is small and his writing is neat, short as he hurries to relieve her of one last promise.
[we are animals
Meet me. You know where.
It's time for liberation.
She screams, laughing and laughing until her insides hurt and the room becomes fuzzy, the dizziness inside exploding with humor and regret and sudden anticipation. He's lying again, (lying lying lying) and obviously wanting something from her. All he ever wants is wanting, (wanting, needing, craving) demanding things for himself when he doesn't even begin to think about what she wants, what she needs. No, it doesn't concern her that his petty little ways never grew out, and she thinks they never will; he's still a boy, not yet a man and still youthful in his tirade of being a male. She smirks indignantly and slips into her bed, lying with a resolution to never awake and bury herself alive in the warmth of her blanket. She breathes in and out, (what will I do- should I go?) and thinks to herself as she draws little doodles in her pillow, her finger the quill as she allows herself the time to be childish. He isn't Ron and he isn't Prince Charming, will he do? It has been five years since their relationship had started (more than fifteen, if you count to school days) and she still has not concluded an answer from him, or herself. She is earnest in meeting him every time, but respect for their competition has denied her access to his heart. Does she love him? Does he love her? Oh, she does not know anything anymore as she crumples the parchment -still in her hand- and keeps it in her fist. They have promised one another to each other through ways unnoticed and she realizes that something strong than her momentum for Ron has occurred. Perhaps she has recovered. No, she ponders, either wise she would have gone back and saved Ron. He will be the death of her and she is becoming insane, mute to all recognition of reason and understanding; she sighs gently and closes her eyes, flicking the room into darkness. (oh draco, my darling foe- look at what you have done to me).
Her dreams consist of lace and strawberries, with intricate veils and webs of devotion.We'll be together, right?
Always, my love.
…we're finished now, we're done.
Is this enough?
It's enough, it's enough.
V.
Never enough, no it's never enough.
She basks in this attention because for once, for once, he's being considerate and thoughtful with silence as his rule. It is interesting, really, the fact that she's not even registering what he's saying, but merely paying attention to the scene itself. It is dusk and the sun is slowly setting with its quiet rays of gold and orange peeking out from the horizon meeting the water; she thinks the waters are filled with oil, their black depths now sparkling last-minute with silver, shiny reflections and glimmers of paradise. She nods vigorously, allowing herself to speak and offer advice; after all, if it wasn't her, some girl would find her solace in him and be content, right? The dock is quiet, and no other memories of lovers (we aren't lovers, are we?) come to mind, so they are alone and it is perfect and like before. She almost wants to announce the fact that no romance is in her body, and yet she can describe the moment with elegant words of mere quixotic affection being desired. Would he laugh with her or simply shrug in his ease? The magic of the night is erased and she falls back to reality (without a safety cushion) with her eyes wide open and her hands flailing. He's perched atop her, his head nestled in her lap as he leans against her for comfort whilst staring ahead- beyond the waters of the dock and the burning, dying embers of the sky. He doesn't much take for description or for the appearance of ideal situations, but he surely appreciated this: the violet and navy sky turning for the night as they lay there, lazy and settled with their hearts open and eyes closed. She doesn't get pulled back into the moment, however, and the landscape pales in comparison, really. It's the perception of one's self to be able to recognize defeat; she couldn't possibly comprehend this concept, now could she? Why submit yourself to freedom, when you can live your life always waiting for that dream to come true? Because suffering and pain would follow after, she ruminates, and the excruciating hurt is intolerable and agonizing. Her heart had never really recovered, so there was nothing left to be cut or broken as they lay there in silence- tuned into the waves of the waters, and the blistering heat of their own guilt.
Are we forgiven?
Yes.
[ - - -
Final Notes:
REQUEST
Would you prefer an art or fic valentine? Fic
Describe your ideal valentine in as few words as possible: Features D/Hr Post-Hogwarts (may or may not already be together) on opposite sides of the war; suspense/mystery in an actual plot; a resolution at the end. The ending does not have to be happy, but it can be.
Dealbreakers (absolute no-no's): slash, incest, non-human!Draco and/or Hermione, obvious OOC and cliches
Happy Valentine's Day!!!