AN: Call it a character study of sorts. There's no story, just snapshots in an strange order.
They had stood in the hall, trembling, bloodstained but together. He had brushed his fingers so faintly across her cheek, traced the lines about her mouth, smoothing away the tenseness of fear and pain. She had lowered her eyes, fingers tightening on the dark stained fabric of his shirt, swallowing tightly.
His breathing was heavy and hers hiccupped with every intake of air, the only thing keeping them from swaying on their feet was the other standing close. He shook his head and buried his face in her hair, hands fisting in her damp cloak.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. But she didn't respond, at least not in words, curling herself around him and pressing herself to his chest. She sighed.
They had stood there like that for an age or minute or second, then he squeezed her hand and stepped away, eyes bright with something. They had nodded then and she had smiled with eyes like old age and memories, out of place in her young face.
"We'll get through this," he told her, moving in to brush his lips against hers. She nodded but bit her lip as he turned from her.
"Be careful." It was the first, last and only thing she said to him that night, as he turned the door handle and left her home in favour of the night.
She shuddered and wrapped her arms about her, wanting him here more than anything, but a crack of apparation sounded through the plaster and brick of the walls and she knew he was gone.
Only then did she allow herself to cry.
-
War was a strange thing. It made things raw. It made you live faster, with more passion.
It occurred to her then how strange it was for her to realise this with him of all people.
There were deaths and funerals and speeches and ceremonies, rallying the troops and mourning the dead (there was little distinction any more). They were uncertain where it had begun but they knew for sure when it would end (when things were normal – those were the words – when they no longer needed each other).
She'd cry to him sometimes. (Because she felt she couldn't inflict the burden of her pain of Harry or Ron.) (Because it wouldn't hurt her to hurt him.) She'd tell him what she felt at the names she was called, the curses she'd fired and received, the things she'd seen and done and experienced by wand light in a field fuelled by hate and desperation. She'd tell him and cry and he would not respond because with every word she was reminding him and bringing to surface that gaping abyss that spanned between them. With every word she brought forth the subject of the duty he was failing by lying beside her, the oaths and promises he broke with every minute in her company.
Maybe it was intentional on her part, sharp jibes at the pain he (had?) caused, or maybe they were simply never meant together for anything other than hate.
She rarely thought about it (beyond unspeakable – they were unthinkable) but when she did she let it pass. There was no such thing as fate.
-
It was dark and cold but she was warm and light and everything he craved as he watched her.
The corridor was wide enough for him to linger in the shadows; unnoticed. He felt shame and fear and bitterness battling for his attention and with eyes cold he turned away, heading for a different flight of stairs, feet automatically taking him down, away from her and her kind.
She laughed and he scowled, wanting what she had and wanting her.
And hating her for it.
-
There was fire and noise. Lots of noise.
(He wasn't a brave person.)
He choked on the smoke, running after a vague slither of a thought, following an instinct into the woods.
There were screams.
The darkness was thick and the smoke even thicker as wet leaves and grass and bodies struggled to burn while people were too busy clawing at life and hope in an attempt to get away. No respect for the dead when that very same fate looms near. He stumbled on a tree root and the screams sharpened until he began to think it might all be in his head.
And then he saw her.
Surrounded and beaten and sobbing. Her wand was thrown to the side and she was on her knees, unable to apparate though wards that hung almost tangibly in the air. She screamed again and he felt it in his bones. There might even have been words but the noise was animal and he didn't (want to) understand.
He turned away and carried on running.
(He wasn't a good person either.)
-
It was so wrong. So utterly unsafe and incomprehensible.
But that never stopped them.
It was strange how for a few hours every month (or week or day) they were one thing, but forever else they were something different (something cold).
She knew he would never fight for her, and she told herself she was the same for him.
It wasn't true though.
Never intentional but all the same it happened. It was inevitable. She was not the sort of person who could share so much and not feel anything.
But no. He felt. He just wouldn't ever act on or admit it.
And why should he? All she longed for when they were apart was to sever the link that had forced itself upon her, that drive to protect and care for.
He couldn't help the person he was and she couldn't change her character. She'd see him dueling and call for Harry's help, a distraction that saved him more than once. She'd see blood through his shirt and she'd spend painstaking time dressing the wound before he even commented on her black eye or bandaged leg.
It was a strange relationship, almost one-sided to an outsider, but she knew him better than he was willing to admit and even as he lay with his back to her, clinging to her hand but pride unwilling to look her in the face, he thought the same thing she did.
(I don't want this (war) to end.)
-
She wanted more than he could give her.
She knew that.
She knew it but she still did not let go. Even as he hurt her and broke her and bled her dry with words alone.
She wanted a hero. No like Harry, because Harry was Harry and she loved him on another level that …meant something different. She wanted someone to fight her battles with her, not for her. She wanted a friendly smile and a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on and someone who welcomed her aid and compassion.
He was the opposite of everything she'd ever dreamed of and sometimes (most of the time) she wondered what it was she saw in him at all.
He was a coward, mean and bitchy with a bitter sense of pride that went so much further than it had the right to. He didn't like tears and he didn't (ever) ask for or lend help.
She had no reason to love him.
(And yet she did.)
-
The library.
Dusky and warm with a thin haze of filtered light making dust sparkle in the air.
It looked as magical as it felt.
Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her head rested on them with a sigh, turning the page with an idle flick of the wrist. The book was about magical buildings but her thoughts were on a person. A boy to be specific. A boy she wanted to help because she thought she could.
He didn't want it though.
This time in a dungeon with dark, damp walls and a rank smell of mould (it tasted of tears down here).
He snarled and kicked a stool, shouting at her until she cried.
He looked lost then, uncertain whether to be satisfied or guilty, hovering warily between the two.
She decided then she would not give him anything until he begged and pleaded on his knees. She wouldn't spare him a glance until he admitted something was broken and that he needed help to fix it.
She wasn't going to budge an inch for him for all the guilt and pity in the world.
And maybe it was then that she became something more than she had been before. Something older, more mature and sceptical. Because she realised then that she was fighting a losing battle, trying to free those who had no knowledge of their enslavement, no knowledge and no interest. He claimed to be happy where he was and though she didn't believe it she was beginning to realise that he did. And she accepted it was not her place to challenge that.
The house elves went without hats that month (and the month after and the month after).
It sounded clichéd, but she gave up her dreams for him.
And years on she might look at him and wonder on that fact.
AN: Drabble drabble drabble. I actually rather liked bits of this. Which is unusual.
If you've read it, please review it.