Tale as Old as Time
It truly is a story older than time itself.
Boy meets Girl. Boy and Girl hate one another at first sight. Boy and Girl spend years fighting one another. Boy and Girl meet after many years apart. Boy and Girl fall in love.
It is almost like one of those romance novels: the kind full of dramatic confessions, perfect moments, and happy endings.
But this is the real world, not some trashy romance. There may be plenty of dramatic confessions, but there are no perfect moments.
And there are no happy endings.
At least not for these two.
They know that it won't last. It can't last. They are too different, too contrasting. They were never meant to be together, and they know it. There is too much history between them, both their own and that of the people around them, for this to go on. Sooner or later it will catch up with them.
Perhaps that is why they keep their distance from one another. There are no whispered sweet nothings, no "sweetheart" or "love," and most certainly no "I love you."
Instead they murmur words of abuse. He calls her Mudblood, and bitch, and whore. She calls him beastly, and foul, and a monster. They never use first names, not even once – they refer to one another by surnames only, in as scornful a tone as they can muster. They never share smiles, only glares, icy looks, and cruel smirks.
And no matter where they are, what they are doing, they never look each other straight in the eye.
They only ever meet by night, and in secret. She says that this is to protect herself from being called a traitor for consorting with a Death Eater. He says that it is so that no one he knows sees him degrading himself with a piece of Mudblood filth.
So they come together in secret, in diverse places all over the country – a dingy suburban bar, a stylish high-rise apartment, a camping ground up in the mountains. Places they have never been before and will never go again, memorable only in the absence of anyone either of them knows.
To anyone watching their encounters, they might seem cold or unpleasant. But no one watching would ever notice the way she clings to his arms, or the way he holds her as if afraid she might crumble under his touch. Even they barely notice these things, and if they do, convince themselves it is simply a moment of weakness.
They feel guilty about what they are doing, about what it means they must do to other people. He has betrayed his heritage and gone against every word that his father – and his Lord – have ever spoken to him. She is lying to her friends, to everyone she has ever held dear, and is a risk to the entire Order.
But then sometimes he wishes he could throw it into his father's face just to spite him, to finally break free of the incessant control his own father has had him under for his entire life. And he remembers that the Dark Lord himself was also born to a Muggle father.
Whilst she wishes that her allies, her friends, would remember that she isn't just a walking dictionary, but a real person, as prone to uncontrollable emotions as any other individual. And she nearly laughs at the hypocrisy of them, trying to defend the world from those who judge people by their lineage, yet at the same time assuming that if someone's family is Dark, then they too must be.
They never say these things though. They keep up the façade of disgust and horror, forever unaware of what the other is thinking or feeling. But they don't worry about it either – they know the time they have is brief, so they embrace each moment as it comes. They never worry about small talk or gossip – not that there is much idle gossip in the middle of the war. And they are very careful never to reveal anything about what their sides are planning.
Occasionally, during a meeting or gathering, they might hear the other's name mentioned. They just sit there quietly and listen. They don't offer any information or show any surprise at the news, no matter how horrible. And they never pass it on when they meet again, even if it might spare their life. This is a war, and they are enemies, and they will never do anything to sabotage their own side's efforts.
They wonder about what will happen when the other dies. They have seen too much bloodshed to think that both will escape this war with their lives. It is only a question of who and when. They know they won't cry, won't be destroyed by it. But they wonder if they will mourn, if they will be mourned, and how they will go on with life afterwards.
Sometimes, in one of the rare lighter moods, they refer to themselves as Romeo and Juliet. After all, they aren't the first couple to be caught on the opposite sides of a battle. They aren't the first doomed romance on this earth.
And doomed they are. They are enemies, and they know it. They might never actually come face-to-face in the war, but the possibility is always there. And every moment they are together, they know that one may end up killing the other.
From the outside, it might seem more like hate, or at best indifference. But hate, like love, is full of passion; burning, searing, scorching, and, above all devouring. They are consumed by it, and whether the fire is fuelled by love or hate doesn't matter.
Because from their point of view, there is no difference. The two are irresistibly drawn together, and it is too late now to escape.
And so they kiss and argue and screw and never regret anything, not for a moment. They live like there is no tomorrow, because for them there mightn't be.
They don't have the time for romance, for flirting and dinner and laughter. Their love is doomed and they know it – they've read all the stories too.
Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, Lancelot and Guinevere, Helen and Paris. Tragic romance is no new thing to the world. For every happily ever after, there is at least one Romeo and Juliet, and dozens lying somewhere in between.
But these two... They never were content with second best. If they are going to fall in love, they might as well make it into something worthy of a story. Their love is blinding and painful and brilliant, and they know it won't last long, so they make the most of what they have.
The story is so old, no one can remember exactly how it started. But these two, they have decided to write another chapter.
The next tragic romance - Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.
Tale as old as time
True as it can be
Barely even friends
Then somebody bends
Unexpectedly
Just a little change
Small to say the least
Both a little scared
Neither one prepared
Beauty and the Beast