The Day You Said Goodnight
A/N: There are simply not enough Snarry fics out there, don't you agree? Here's another of my humble contributions. Fear not, this one is complete. It has three parts but I will be posting one at a time. I am very much open to comments and suggestions for a continuation or a back story –C.
DISCLAIMER: You are delusional if you think I own Harry Potter… Oh, that would be me. You would just be plain oblivious.
WARNING: Established Slash. Nothing too graphic. ANGST. EWE/ AU (if you want it to be. The song briefly included in part 3 is by Hale.
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PART I: Changes
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Bodies. Sweat-soaked, bare-naked, twisted amongst silken sheets. Hands intertwined, fingers interlaced, pulses beating to the rhythm of approaching war drums. Lips kissing, sucking, tasting, desperate for any point of contact. Tongues twirling, mashing –invading any weak spot for its plundering. Eyes locked, never wavering –emerald seeking comfort in obsidian. Obsidian finding redemption in emerald.
For what seemed like an eternity, in the heavily fortified cocoon that was the depths of the dungeons, nothing but moans, pants and grunts could be heard; bodies slapping, skins rubbing, hips grinding in a desperate need for release –for fulfillment.
It was always like this.
It starts with a simple greeting, then a smile, and then, a brief look. Then a touch, a light one, then it lingers –it stays longer… until it becomes embedded in the consciousness –a part of who they were.
There was no telling of how it would go about after that –it was never the same every time; sometimes it was so stiff, it was almost clinical; sometimes, he could not stop giggling.
But no matter what transpires, one thing was constant.
How it ends…
"Goodnight," a deep baritone whispers in his ears. No matter what time of the day, it was always dark in the dungeons.
"Goodnight," a soft, but decidedly masculine voice gasps back.
Then, sleep steals his consciousness.
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But lately, it happens on the opposite.
"Goodnight," The velvety voice bids him. And before he could even respond, daylight creeps right through his shut eyes.
'Rise and shine, love!" A cheerful female voice quips right next to his ear. "Time to go to work!"
"Go 'way, Ginny…"
"Harry love, you don't want to be late for your first day –"
Harry squints with his eyes still closed. He almost dreaded opening them. But there was no other way. Sunlight assaults his bright green eyes. When did it become so bright in the dungeons?
The, he remembers.
The dungeons were long gone to him.
Nowadays, he slept in a breezy, light-filled room –with white walls, pine furniture, gauze curtains and linen sheets. The smell was floral, airy and sweet.
Harry lets out a barely audible sigh.
"I'm up." And like he has done so many times in the past, he reaches out by his bedside table for his glasses. He puts them on, and his vision clears. When it does, he almost wishes he could've just gone blind completely.
He stares at the pleasant face in front of him.
Brilliant auburn, keen browns light tan and candy pink –at one point he did imagine waking up every morning next to this.
Now he just missed waking up to darkness.
Darkness… Black. Silk. Wool. Velvet. Mahogany. Mint. Sandalwood. Musk. Coffee. Cinnamon –
Spicy. Bittersweet. Dark.
Oh, he could go on and on.
Striking ebony, fathomless onyx, luminescent cream and pale old rose –he slept at night with those in his reveries.
Only in his reveries now.
Like a scripted scene, he goes about the motions of getting ready. He had been doing it for a while now and rarely does anything change; he showers, shaves, brushes his teeth, puts on his navy robes and sits to a table of assorted breakfast items and Earl Grey. He hated Earl Grey. If anyone would ask him, he'd much prefer coffee –an inch of cream, two sugars and a light dusting of cinnamon.
Cinnamon. Not lemon and honey.
But did anyone care to ask?
No. They just assume.
He hated everything, but he went through with it anyway. Not that he had much of a choice.
Choice? Hah! He never knew that luxury.
So, like a good actor, he follows the cues; he smiles in front of the camera –and yet tears up inside when he's alone; he fist bumps with his best mate and kisses his girl; he comforts the broken, when in fact, he is more torn than them he plays the 'hero' act so well –because if not, what else is there to do? He hopes to just let it run through him. And maybe, just maybe, when the director yells 'cut!' for the nth time, he'll get his wish –and fade into anonymity.
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Change can either be good or bad.
It started one day, when he could no longer stand the sunlight.
He charmed the gauze draperies to thick, dark green velvet curtains. She scoffed at the color but did not say anything when he had reasoned out his strained eyes. She bargained. The velvet stayed, but it was now royal blue.
Then, at breakfast.
She put out his usual cup of Earl Grey with a squeeze of lemon and a dollop of honey. He glared at the cup and then sighed.
That night he came home with a French Press, coarsely ground Arabica beans and finely powdered cinnamon in a tin can.
But the biggest change was that one night –he got promoted for a raid gone well and the boys went out to party.
He stepped out of the Floo, woozy, barely holding himself up. A bottle of Firewhiskey has seen to that. He landed I the grate of the reconstructed Potter Manor –into the sight of a glaring young witch. And he thought, that just for that fleeting moment, he was seeing his dead mother –what, with that fiery hair and the hands on those hips.
He felt like a recalcitrant child caught after curfew.
"HARRY JAMES POTTER!"
Merlin, she even sounded like his mother –or what he imagined his mother would sound like, had she lived to see him in this state.
"HOW DARE YOU –"
'Why, I am a daring, bold and noble Gryffindor, madam,'
"HOW COULD YOU FORGET –"
'Forget? How do I forget –when everywhere I go I am constantly reminded of my destiny? My obligations? My LOSS?'
"OUR THIRD ANNIVERSARY –"
'Three years? Have I been living this lie for three years?'
"AND YOU CHOSE TO BE DRUNK? DO YOU EVEN CARE –"
'Do you?'
" –ABOUT ME?"
'It's you, of course. It's always about you… when did it ever become about me?"
"HARRY! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" He screams, his brilliant eyes ablaze. Lackluster browns widen in response.
"Harry –"
"I said shut up." Forceful, still, but a little quieter now. He rubs his forehead out of habit and makes his way to the kitchen without another sound. He reaches for a cup –but she beats him to it. He peers at the pallid amber liquid she thrusts into him. He moves toward the sink and drains it all up.
"I never wanted this, Ginny."
He could hear her breath hitching, as if making sense of the off-handed statement. He felt no need to correct her. Instead, he grabs a mug and makes his way to the French Press. He charms the water hot –not boiling, just hot –and presses the plunger-like lever down. An inch of cream, two sugars and a dusting of cinnamon –he takes a sip. He sets the porcelain down on the stained oak countertop. His emeralds bore holes into her chocolate orbs.
"I never wanted this."
A blur of auburn and a smack on his face were the only indicators of that particular change.
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A/N: I had to write Ginny in -it was necessary, but no more appearance for her in the other two chapters. Tenses are deliberate. Other than that, feel free to nit-pick. Thanks for reading and reviewing –Chesca.
