Burning Time
Disclaimer: All J.K.'s Never mine.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I was supposed to be the clever one, the responsible one; the one that could be depended upon and trusted. But that's all in the past now. I had loved you. And that had destroyed me. (Draco and Hermione)
------Note------
Yup, Draco & Hermione again. You know my style. Needed a break from my short story, so I started this one shot. I always wanted to try something in first person. It's my usual angsty romance with some passion. Think I was in a rather morbid mood when I started this. Anyways, please review.
For every dead relationship.
For every girl who has fallen for the wrong man.
Burning Time
I knew you didn't love me. I knew you hated me for my blood; for my kind. I knew you were selfish, stubborn, cruel, and perhaps impossible to love. Yet, love you I did, and torturous it was.
It's difficult to say how I had not predicted what was to come. I was supposed to be the clever one, the responsible one; the one that could be depended upon and trusted. But that's all in the past now. I had loved you. And that had destroyed me.
In recalling the encounters of our youth, I realize how thoughtless I had been. You had taunted me at every opportunity. You had called me cruel names and enraged my friends. You had openly shown your disgust of me. Yet, I was not angered or sorrowed. Because despite your harsh treatment, I believed it possible that there was something else underneath; something good, someone I could love.
I was wrong.
You couldn't love. You didn't understand such emotion. And I realize that now, when it hardly matters any longer.
I relive the past sometimes. At night, when I'm alone and unable to sleep, I think of you; your pale face, your sharp features, your beautiful eyes. I remember the day in the library when you spoke to me, and no one else was around. I hear your voice in my head. I see your gaze resting on me; intense, unblinking. You had looked at me, through me, into me, and broken through my upheld façade. And, for a moment, I felt certain you knew, and that terrified me.
But it had all been imagined, because when you spoke, all you said was: "Always with your nose buried in a book, Granger." I won't pretend that hadn't hurt.
You possessed me in our 7th year. You had become mature, intelligent, perfect. You were untouchable and worshipped; a glorious god in our midst. And, you showed no hesitation in using your gifts. There was a new girl every week. It killed me.
But then you surprised me. You spoke to me. You complimented me on my dedication and ambition. "Slytherin Qualities," you had called them. It was a small gesture, but I relished it, and it gave me hope. I hoped for your attention, your love. I prayed that you would realize those girls were worthless. They were rich, to be sure. They were beautiful. They had the blood. But they would not content you. They would not recognize your brilliance or your ambition. Not like I did anyway. Not even close.
You called me by my name for the first time that last year. Things were simpler before that. There had been no complications when I had just been "Granger." I wondered if you had just let it slip, or if it was intended. I was too afraid to ask, so I pretended I didn't hear.
You kissed me for the first time that year. We were partnered for a History of Magic project. Both of us made certain to pout and complain. Our friends were satisfied. They sympathized.
But when we were alone in the library, the petty arguments ceased, and I saw your intelligence, your cunning. And, in the middle of our research on ancient Egyptian magic, you paused and caught my attention.
I don't know why you kissed me. I never discovered your reason, because I never bothered to ask. I was afraid of the answer. I was afraid you would say it had been a mistake. Perhaps I was the one who had made a mistake.
I remember the night in the corridor, when we lost ourselves to lust, and you were holding me, kissing me, causing unbearable heat to burn my skin. Fire had consumed me and it was a beautiful burn. Enflamed, I accidentally uttered that I loved you. And you had only looked at me hard, before you turned away.
The tears didn't come until your footsteps faded away, and I realized I was alone. The fire had died. All that remained were the ashes.
I had expected so much from you, too much. I should have known that the man who I loved didn't exist in you. He had been imagined. He wasn't real. It's my fault. I had mistaken you for someone else.
And here we are now, staring at each other from across the room. Neither of us willing to initiate the first move, and neither of us willing to look away.
I don't understand why you came. I hoped you would be here, yet I had prayed that you would not. Because as I stand here, with my arm entwined with my fiancée's, I see the past being resurrected before my eyes, and that frightens me.
I should have no doubts, because he is everything you are not. He is sweet. He is gentle. And, I know he loves me, he always has. He is the man that I thought was within you.
Why did you have to come?
You haven't changed. Your appearance is youthful. No one would have guessed that it has been nearly five years since graduation. But time has passed. I feel it. I see it in the way you stand, the way you hold your drink, the way you chat lightly with those around you. Though you aren't avoiding me, you aren't speaking to me either. And, I find myself too terrified to seek you out.
I used to be brave. I used to know what was important; my friends, their love. But that has ended. No longer are my priorities in order. No longer do I always make the right choices. It makes me wonder; are you my ruin, or my savior?
But I'm determined to make the right choice now, with him, because he loves me, and that's enough. Or at least it should be.
You keep glancing at me, and I stare right back. We shouldn't be so obvious. Not here, not at my engagement party. It's wrong, and the guilt eats me.
My fiancée doesn't notice. He's occupied with entertaining our guests, making sure everything is perfect. Bless him. He is the right choice. That's what I keep telling myself anyway.
I detangle myself from Ron and offer a simple excuse. Causally, I wander toward the kitchen, stopping briefly to say hello to my guests. I know you're watching me. I feel your eyes burn my flesh. It makes me lightheaded. Or, perhaps that's just the champagne.
The kitchen is empty. I see the prepared platters of food sitting on the counter. It's almost time to serve it.
I hear the door swing open behind me, and I know it's you. I know your scent, your footsteps, the swish of your cloak. You come up close, and I can feel your breathe against my skin. I begin to burn again.
"Congratulations," you offer. It's been a long time. I've missed your voice.
"Thank you," I manage. My smile is fake. I think you notice.
"How have you been?" you ask uncertainly. Discomfort hangs in the air. I can't breath. The flames are choking me.
I could give you the expected answer, that I'm content, but that would that accomplish? But it would be so easy to lie. It would keep things simple, as they should be.
A sigh escapes me, though I didn't intend it. And I realize you must see the emptiness of my eyes. What happened to my flawless façade? It had sheltered me always, except from you, never from you. Because that's what fire does, destroys walls.
I look away, embarrassed. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I had told myself that I would treat you with complete disregard. It was an empty promise. I knew you would break me.
"Hermione…" you begin as your hand grasps mine. I flinch at the touch. It's wrong, we shouldn't even be talking.
"Don't," I say, pulling away. Why now? Why did you have to come now?
"Will you be happy with him, Hermione?"
I want to say yes. I want to tell you that he is everything you are not. I want to tell you that he will care for me like you never will.
But nothing comes out of my mouth. And all I can do is stare.
Your eyes change color. I've never noticed that before.
"Will you be happy, Hermione?" You ask again. Why must you be so cruel? Why must you haunt me?
"Yes…" I whimper. I know it doesn't sound convincing. I know you're not fooled.
You shake your head and laugh. You always did find my weaknesses amusing.
"Tell me you love him," you say, mocking me. You're so cold. I've forgotten that.
"I love him," I say automatically. It comes easy. But the thing you don't realize is, there's all kinds of love. There's the love between lovers, and there's the love between friends. You've never understood that. You don't understand anything to do with that emotion. It seems that you are flawed after all.
You gaze hard at me again; your laughter dying away. Your eyes darken as you suddenly pull me into you. Instant heat blossoms in my chest.
Your lips are on mine, your tongue pushing for entrance. My mind's deserted me. That's my excuse. The burn, that's all I can feel.
I don't know what I'm doing anymore. You have defeated me. I'm tortured by your flames. I've forgotten the heat of your touch.
Your hands become tangled in my hair. My attempts to smooth it are ruined. We stumble backwards into the counter. The cool tile sizzles from our heat.
You've consumed me. I have no freewill. I'm aflame, burning and radiant.
Your arms wrap around me and you clutch me tightly. It's exactly the same as before, when we were children. Nothing has changed, yet everything has changed. I forget that I'm older, therefore, supposedly wiser. I forget that I'm engaged, and supposedly in love.
Your lips burn my cheeks, my neck. My skin desires you, despite the protests of my mind.
"I've missed you," you murmur simply as you make me burn. I want to believe you. But there can be no trust between us. You won't ruin me again. I can't let you.
The door swings open suddenly and I stiffen. You pause and glance up, surprised and annoyed.
He stands frozen in the doorway, my sweet, caring fiancée. His eyes are wide and I can see the color rising in his cheeks. It's all my fault.
This is what you do to me; make me feel like a whore.
Ron's jaw is clenched and I see blind rage behind his eyes. He never could control his temper.
You push me to the side as Ron comes flying at you. The two of you fight, hand to hand. It's primitive, and I can't stand to watch. But like a car crash, I just can't look away.
There's blood running down your cheek. It's bright crimson against your pale skin. There's blood coming from Ron's nose too. I can't take the blood. It makes me sick.
Blood and pain, that's what remains after a fire, when the burning time has ended. I should have realized.
I pull my wand from my robes and apparate from the room. I go to the one place on earth where I feel comfortable. I go to the place where it all began.
The library is empty when I arrive. It's summer holidays, and the school is closed. I wander the shelves aimlessly, touching the spines of books as I pass. I select a thick, musky volume and find a chair by the window.
I'm running from my problems. I've leaving responsibility to someone else. And, for once, I don't care. It seems my priorities really are lost.
I thought I had escaped you. I should have known better. You always did know me too well. You still do.
You apparate before me; only a few feet away. Nothing's ever over until you say it is.
I ignore you, and browse through my book. I pretend that the study of ancient Egyptian magic interests me, even though I already know it all. You do too. And, I'm sure you recognize the book.
You approach me when I refuse to acknowledge your presence. You sit down beside me, and take the volume from my hands.
You never could stand to be ignored.
I can't hide behind my books any longer. I cannot hide behind my friends. Because I have betrayed them, and I am certain they are disgusted with me.
You put your arm around me, in a weak attempt to comfort. You're horrible at consolation. I never had the heart to tell you. Another flaw I overlooked.
"I'm sorry, Hermione," you mumble.
Apologies were always difficult for you. But this one's too late. It's several years too late.
I'm left with nothing now. I don't have Ron. I don't have you. I never had you. It had all been imagined.
Yet, here you are, beside me. Why did you come? Perhaps I am imagining this too.
"Please speak to me, Hermione."
You never plead. You're too proud for that. What has changed?
"We still have a chance, Hermione. It will be different this time," you persist when I don't respond. "What do you say?"
I say, goodbye.
End.
Continue to the Sequel: Ashes from the Flame (Story # 2106190)
------Note------
Edit (10/23/04): Thank you all for the lovely reviews. Because of them, I did decide to do a sequel. Many of you did remark on how morbid this piece was. I suppose inspiration mostly comes when I'm feeling rather down. So, that would be why most of my stories are angst driven. Anyways, I do hope you enjoy the sequel. I tried my best to make sure it measured up to the original.
-Captive