A/N - Right then, here's another one! I do seem to have done a lot of oneshots recently...ah well :) This is a semi-companion fic to 'Quiet Perfection', but you don't need to read that to understand this:) It's also a semi-songfic for 'The Dance', by Mindy McCready, but more via inspiration than anything else. I hope you like it, please don't neglect to review!
The sun is blazingly hot, red and golden rays beating down on the baked fields and slowly crisping over all the plants. She sits on the dry ground, surrounded by sharp stubs of corn plants jutting up proudly from the cracked earth. Her shoulders are burning, the pale skin beginning to tinge shining gold and painful red. Her white dress is stained by the dust, and her hair hangs limp around her face, not stirring in the pitiful breeze that attempts to alleviate the heat. And as she grows warmer and warmer, to the point that she is uncomfortable, she remembers the dance.
The hall is full of people, laughter, whispers, chatting. But for her it is silent, and for her there is only one person in the bustling crowd. He approaches her, walking elegant and proud through the people who suddenly seem so insignificant. His blonde hair glints like a halo, and he holds out a pale hand to her, almost seeming to plead. He speaks one word, and all the noise falls away, and there is only him.
"Daphne". It rolls off his tongue like a far more melodious name, as if it is beautiful. She takes his hand as if in a dream, and all of a sudden they are dancing and she feels electric. His hand seems terrifyingly hot on the small of her back, and his clear grey eyes bore into her with something like desperation for a moment, before he looks away, over her head. They whirl and whirl, all around the other couples as people slowly fall away from them, and then they are the only two left on the floor in a matter of moments. A hush seems to fall on the crowd as they watch them, the two almost angelic figures dancing in the truest sense of the word. They move as one, her silver dress flaring out and reflecting light as they sparkle for a moment, just a moment. And they are perfect, and he is perfect, and she feels so painfully perfect that she knows it can't last.
But then the music stops, he steps away, pressing something into her hands, and mingles with the crowd, and she is left standing alone, a burn on her back, a crumpled note in her hand and her mind in a reel of confusion that echoes the stately path of the dance.
And the clock chimes.
She loved him, she realises. That heady emotion which plagued her all year, the dizziness, forgetfulness, crazy giddy feeling whenever he touched her was love in the only way she knows. Did he love her? She hopes not, or today would be even more of a mockery. That year was magical, real magic rather than just the mundane sort, and yet at the same time it was one of the most painful times of her life.
She is glad it's over – except that 'glad' isn't really the word. No, 'resigned' is better. It had to end, that terrible interlude that caused sparks and flames and heartbreak…but she never thought it would come to this.
Her sister.
Astoria.
She wonders if he caresses her name as he did Daphne's. If he looks at her intensely, as if the fate of everything hangs on that glance, and then looks away at once. She wonders of her little sister shivers when he brushes past her, if joy bubbles up in her throat when he speaks to her.
No.
Astoria was never that type. And now, nor is Draco. The war changed him, changed them both into pale imitations of their former selves. Now he is subdued, quiet, low-key. He avoids everything that could be more than normal, everything that has potential to be stunning, beautiful, magnificent.
And she hates him for it, hates him for giving up, not realising that they could be perfect, that they were perfect. She hates him for loving her sister and not her, hates him for not telling her himself, hates him for being happier with Astoria than they ever were.
She hates that she can't live with the memory of the dance anymore.
So she lifts her wand with a steady hand to her temple, closing her dark eyes. The silvery tip if her wand mingles with her blonde hair, and she takes a long, shuddering breath, clutching here other hand around something.
"Obliviate"
Rushingsilverpasthereyes, , astiflingcrush, tooloudlaughter, andthenblindingblindinglight
She falls back, her body crumpling as if all her bones had disappeared. The corn stubs tear her white dress and tangle her pretty hair, and her hand falls open. An old, yellowed piece of parchment falls to the burnt soil and unravels, the elegant script becoming clear.
It will always be you. I swear. Always you, Daphne.
She will never be Daphne again.