Series: Harry Potter, 1-6 non spoiler-ific
Genre: Drama/Mystery
Author: Aethyrial Flame
Summary: He watches, and he waits, because there is nothing else he can do, nor is there anything else anything... that he wants to, either. Yes. Nothing...
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, sadly enough… though I'd run off with Draco if J.K Rowling would let me!
Short little piece I wrote up because I had had no sleep all day and didn't want to go to bed. Cookies to anyone who can guess the implied pairing. I tried to contrast it to be ambiguous, and so, I'd be mighty grateful for any responses, to see how my work turned out.
Set across all six books so far, though it doesn't mention anything concrete, so no spoilers. Hopefully this will keep you guessing, simply because the twists of it turn and bend to make themselves what you want to see.
Enjoy,
(( EDIT as of 7/2/06 : have spent all day on my lazy ass fixing my grammar/spelling mistakes in all of my one-shots. Hopefully I'll re-upload them so that they're better now…))
Beauty from Afar
There is a beauty in her break down.
Fascinated, he watches, as she walks through the days, a pale shell of her former self. They do not notice, and she says nothing, and so he watches.
In her gaze, there is something sad, something dark, something lonely, wounded and abandoned. She hides it well, desperately trying to provide others with the comfort that she feels that they need.
No one sees beyond, sees to what she truly needs.
It is killing her, this darkness; like a living, breathing thing, it coils outwards from his form, cloying taste thick and musky in the back of her throat, the sharp tang of unspent tears high up and stinging in her nose.
The acidic, metallic odour of furious anger, blind and without direction.
She waits for him, as she always does.
It is in her nature –indeed, that of all of her kind- to heal. And she tries to, so desperately, so inexpertly, to bathe his wounds and soothe his hurts.
But he is angry, so very, very angry, and that anger burns his wounds open anew.
From the sidelines, where he is forever consigned, helpless, he watches. There is, he knows, simply nothing that he can do.
Sometimes, when her heartbreak becomes so achingly clear, when the brittleness of the boy-hero becomes too evident, and the bitter pill of second-best is swallowed last, he wishes to do more. He wishes that, in some way, he can ease this burden, shoulder some of her load.
The scenarios, they have played themselves over in his head, countless times. Silent, he watches in memory each angle of attack and defence, each reaction and counter, and knows that there is nothing he can do.
So he watches, and he waits.
Desperately, perhaps, or merely a little anxious for something solid, she dives into what she knows best. She reads, and she reads, and she reads, frizzy head bent between thick, yellowed pages, slim ivory and card.
Drowning, screaming, begging and calling, she reaches and reaches, hoping that this once, this fading spar of knowledge will prove to be her saviour.
Hoping that just one more will make it better, that just a little further and a bit better can make her happy again.
Hoping that it will all turn out okay.
He knows that it can't, won't, shan't and never will. In the little ways, the future is predictable like that.
It is visible, so achingly pure and clear, and he can see it in their eyes. Victory comes with a heavy cost, and it is one he has never been willing to bear.
So why them? Why these children with their soft, round faces, hurt and lonely and searching and hoping little souls, that call out to him so desperately? Why does he want to smooth the path, remove the obstacles, stop them from making the mistakes that he did, so long ago?
… and why does he care?
A few more dead. The brightest stars of their generation wasted in petty squabbles and mindless hatred.
Nothing to it, really.
So he watches and he wonders, pondering upon this girl child, and the woman that she might become.
Watching and waiting, he sees that marks that time has made, knows the scars that time has left, and feels the wisdom that time has gained.
It is impossible, this wanting, this knowledge and this hurt, to know that he cannot help her.
To know that even if he could, she, fiery bright independence so worn and dull beneath the sorrowing burdens of others, would not accept his hand given in friendship.
The thought doesn't surprise him, but nor has it ever done.
After all, who has, in this lifetime, accepted his gifts to others freely and without thought to them, accept for a scattered, paltry few?
But he watches, and waits, and knows that the wheel will turn, and no matter what he must do to make it happen, he will… he will…
He will spare her this curse, his legacy, the burden of his affections.
Because for her, he will do anything.