Inspired by Divine Intervention, Taking Back Sunday. But not a songfic. Bad ending, I think, but I didn't know how else to do it.
xxxxx
"Despondent, distracted. You're vicious and romantic. These are a few of my favorite things. All of those flavors and this is what you choose? Past the blues, past the blues, and on to something new –something real."
xxxxx
She tried to read the library book in front of her. She tried to focus on the words, the illustrations –even just the letters- but nothing worked. Everything swam before her, in a haze of distraction. Because that's what she was. Distracted.
Noise hung around her, almost tangible. Noise from inside the room, from outside, from the very depths of her mind –it was inescapable. There was nowhere she could go where whispers did not follow, because even inside her head things whispered, why, why, why. She wanted to pluck them from her mind, tear them to shreds, Scourgify the molecules of her brain so she wouldn't have to endure the incessant muttering. She wanted to scream, scream and make everyone go away, so she'd have silence. Even the looks, the gestures, the smiles were all so loud, so loud. A drum beating, out of time with her heart, out of rhythm with her breath. A voice, shrill, a cacophony of nails on chalkboards, grating into her ears. She couldn't shrug it off, couldn't tune it out, because it got inside her and came from inside her.
Why, why, why.
xxxxx
All she had was a photograph. It stood there, one corner ripped off, already yellowing. A Muggle photograph –it didn't move. A Polaroid. She hated picking it up –there was always the fear that it would crumble, would die in her hands, turn into powder and that would be all she had and how could you cherish powder? Powder was something you put on your face, not held to your heart.
A smile, a guitar, a flower. A dark gray shirt, a laugh, a soft song. A photographer, a candid shot –"you two look like young lovers." More laughter. A scuffle for the handful of dollars it would cost them ("you know how to count the money, I taught you!") and another over who would get to keep it. The corner had ripped off and he stopped wanting it. Ruined, he had called it. But she had loved the brokenness. Imperfections mean more.
So do I mean less, because I'm perfect?
You're the only one who ever says that, she laughs.
It had been his idea, surprisingly. A summer trip to France. A Muggle place. A hotel, with a view of the Seine. Strolling down the Champs-Élysées. Visiting the artists' village. The beach, in Southern France. A bikini had been so novel to him. Everything had been. But he wanted her to teach him, and she did. She took him to the Louvre and showed him paintings, sculptures, all done without magic. The geniuses of the Muggle world, their magicians, peddling the wizardry of art and beauty. She read books to him –Vonnegut, Garcia Marquez, Atwood. She took him to cafes and speakeasies, bars and viewdecks. He was amused by the Muggle camera ("they never move? Ever? Well that's boring.") and used up all their film.
He had learned to play the guitar for her, singing softly in her ear. She was surprised he could sing at all. It seemed too tender a gesture for him.
You're vicious and romantic, she sang with him.
Am I? he asked, pausing the music.
Incredibly.
Vicious? Like a lion? Perhaps a wolf? He set down the guitar and pretended to pounce. A lone wolf. He shook his hair. Strong and fierce, needing no one.
Why are you alone? You have me. She ran her fingers through his hair.
Ah, mon cherie. You won't have me forever. Exaggerated French accent. He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. What is it Muggles say? Tied with apron strings?
I don't own an apron.
It wouldn't suit you anyway.
xxxxx
He had been right. She didn't have him forever.
It had been a telegram. Not even an owl. The telegram struck her –it was so Muggle in nature. It meant that an owl could be intercepted. It meant that the other side still didn't know of their romance. A telegram, sitting on the doormat of her house. Her parents had given it to her, wondering. They knew the school used owls.
She didn't remember reading it. She did remember the after, though, when she stared at the letter opener she had used and wondered if it were sharp enough to cut through skin. Hoped it wasn't. Blunt would mean more pain and pain would be welcome. Anything would be welcome. She felt so numb, so empty. It was as if opening the telegram had closed her heart.
It was just like in Muggle movies, with the war notices, sent to the wives and sweethearts of soldiers killed in action. She looked at the ring, still nestled in its box. She hadn't been wearing it. She was a sweetheart. A sweetheart of a soldier killed in action. Suddenly she thought, I should have worn a vintage dress today and laughed. She laughed and laughed, because it was something she knew how to do and it gave her something to do.
xxxxx
She tried not to think of him. Or was she trying to, but he wasn't letting her? He had for so long been to her the elusive scent of violets, coming and intoxicating her and going away before she could completely grasp the sense of him and then coming back, strong and full once again. Like the scent of strawberries or the essence of pines she could never quite capture the flavor of him. She could hear his laugh but couldn't remember the crinkle in his eyes. She could feel his lips on her ears but couldn't hear his voice saying words –but she remembered the words. You are a few of my favorite things.
Why a few? I'm only just one me.
You are never "just." There is so much of you, so much "you"ness, that counting you as one favorite thing isn't enough.
Why do you compliment me so much? On her bed. She had rolled on her stomach to frown at him.
You're just so real. And even if she was the cleverest witch of their age, she had never understood.
xxxxx
There wasn't even a grave. She couldn't visit anything, couldn't charm flowers out of the air to lay on something. His tomb was the photograph, his epitaph the telegram, and she had buried him in her heart.
She spent a month in her room, refusing to go out. Her parents brought her food and she ate enough to keep herself alive. The letter opener sat on her desk, next to the telegram, where she had laid both down a month ago, the letter opener so blunt and the edge of the paper so sharp. It was these she looked at, mostly. They reminded her of pain. The photograph reminded her of happiness and reminders of happiness cut deeper.
And then she had packed up and gone back to school.
And here she was now. In the noise. He had been her quiet, her peace, once, but now there was no one to drive away the voices.
Why, why, why.
Why did you have to die, Draco? Why?