A/N: Hey, everyone. This is an Oliver/Hermione drabble I've had stuck in my head for a while. Just a short thing. Inspiration song is "A Boy and a Girl" by Eric Whitacre.
Hope you enjoy.
"Giving silence for silence."
Oliver Wood had never given much thought to how it was to die. While joking around with his mates at Puddlemere, many of who were lying dead near the lake, death was a great Quidditch pitch in the sky. They were young, strong, free, and only cared about the game.
He wondered how free it was for them now.
How light was death?
As light as a boy carried in Oliver's arms.
Heavy as wet sand.
Oliver had never doubted his devotion to Quidditch until now. What good had it done to be professionally renowned in the sport? What good had it done to be the best at flying, catching, throwing, blocking? It hadn't mattered when the troll had swung a goal post at them. Most of the team were knocked down in one blow, the team that had followed Oliver's lead and come back to Hogwarts for the Final Battle. Brooms and bones had shattered and they scattered near the lake. Oliver and a few others had evaded the swing, but landed quickly and tried to revive their teammates.
Heavy as wet sand.
He wondered how heavy he was now, on the ground, dark red blood blossoming from his chest and onto his Puddlemere jacket.
He looked up at the sky, blanketed with smoke. It reflected the curses, like dull, neon fireworks behind the fog of his burning home.
He wished he'd died while flying. The ground never held much appeal to him. He could pretend in the air. He could pretend that his pureblood parents supported his flying career, that his grades had been better in school, that Quidditch hadn't been the only thing in his life, that the woman he'd loved for the last six years hadn't slipped through his fingers.
There was nothing beautiful about the dirt he laid on; no clouds to cover his perceptions. It was unforgiving, hard.
A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his lips.
There was a shift to his left, and Oliver lifted his head. What little breath he had left caught in his throat.
It was her.
She was on her back, trying to roll onto the side closest to him. When she finally did, he saw two huge puncture wounds in the side of her neck. She was bleeding profusely.
When her eyes met him, as bright amber as he remembered, a small smile crossed her face.
Oliver swallowed, tasting blood.
His hand crossed the distance between them, leather riding gloves seeking out her wrist. She was too weak to move, but the sad smile stayed on her face.
He curled his fingers between hers and held as tight as he could.
Oliver was flying again. The clouds surrounded him, the wind blowing through his hair. She pushed herself up and dragged her failing body to his side, finally resting her forehead against his. He held his breath as her eyes met his once more.
Their lips met, and when she pulled back to roll her head to his shoulder, he laced the fingers of his free hand into her matted chestnut curls.
When she had stopped moving
Oliver breathed out.