A/N: Hello, and welcome to Han's very first one-go Darkfic! This
just sort of appeared out of nowhere, and I decided to post it.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, blah blah.
Spoilers: Is direct quoting considered spoiling? Well then, there's spoilers for books 1 and 4.
Warnings: This has mild slash and violence, and, per usual where my slash fics are concerned, plently of angst and distressed inner monologues. Muahaa.
Feedback: PLEASE. I'm on a review-only diet. ^_~
This fic is set either during or after 7th year, during The War. Oh, and by the way, this is sort of like "Blinders" and "Nameless" sense that you kind of know whose point of view it is, but it could be somebody else, but in the end it turns out that you were right in the first place. Um, did that make sense? No? Well, it sounded okay in my head...
Sometimes I wonder, when I'm watching you, what really went on that day. Not that I don't remember-- far from it. I can recall exactly where I stood, the scent of the shop, the sounds of the seamstresses chattering quietly, all as if it happened yesterday. There was just something about that first conversation, something that goes beyond the mere words. Something deeper, something...
"Hello, Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes,"
At the time, I didn't know you. Who you were, what kind of life you lead, what kind of person you would become... All unknowns to me as I stood there on the tailoring stool, watching you closely, taking you in. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had just looked more closely then.
"Have you got your own broom?"
"No,"
It seems as if a millennia has passed since that day we met, so long ago, on the last day of July. I've never really liked summer, as a rule; I hated the long days, the many hours spent cooped up, with no one to talk to besides my "family". Even now, I find it hard to think of them as anything close to that.
"Play Quidditch at all?"
"No,"
The conversation was far from going well. I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, and I so wanted to. Good first impressions are always difficult for me to manage. If anything, I come across as a misfit, I think, anyway. Not that my opinions mattered then. Not to you, or anyone else.
"...Know what House you'll be in yet?"
"No,"
But they matter now. Oh, how much they matter. Every day, people's lives are saved or lost because of my decisions. Life and death hinge upon a single movement, a slight of hand, a nod, or a glance. How I despise this power. Some used to, and some still believe that I was just power-hungry, not realizing that after all I've been through, you simply cannot be, if you want to survive. Yes, you could take the road of ruling and overpowering, but it's rather hard to control millions of people when you struggle with controlling yourself. I know you know this, and can sympathize. Perhaps, yes, even empathize.
"...Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"
"Mmm,"
The War is slowly weakening me, weakening us both. I can see it in your eyes when you look up at me: dull, flat, weak and lifeless. We now hold the same pain in our hearts, and yet, we refuse to admit it to each other. Refuse to give in.
But I would not mind giving in now, really. I actually embrace the idea, and would go along wholeheartedly. But you do not, and would not-- or if you do, I can't see it in your tired eyes.
"You've picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you!"
These words haunt me, echoing in the reccesses or my mind. I wonder if these words are really true. In this War, it is nearly impossible to tell who has the upper hand, and who will conquer in the end. Some deep part of me pleads and prays that these words are wrong. And I am not the type to pray.
I wonder now if those words were meant to frighten, to hurt, to sincerely warn, or to help in some way. It is impossible to tell.
I have always had my doubts about you, for obvious reasons that I won't take time to elaborate upon, but there's something about you that draws my attention, keeps me on my toes.
Ever since that very first day.
"How could you? How could you?!" No answer springs to mind that could explain. I wonder if you know of one, and you're just not telling me. Another cat-and-mouse game, I daresay. I rather enjoy them. But not this time.
"It's over," I cannot tell which of us said this, as if it was a joint effort, our voices blending silently then breaking forth into the air against our wills. Either way, it was said, and it was truth. It is over. But at the same time, it is not. The battle contiunes, just not this facet of it. You've given in.
Now, most would say, we could put aside our past differences and work together. Well, it doesn't exactly work that way, now does it?
"Hey! What are you standing there staring for?! Kill him!"
"Just finish him off an come on! They're attacking the south ranks!"
"Two words, just two words! You can do that!"
Members of our respective sides shout orders at us over our shoulders, but I shut it out, and so do you. Clutching our wands tightly, we face off, staring into each other's eyes, and all else fades to darkness. The charred grass, the acidic smoke, the coppery smell of blood-- the blood of our teachers, old friends, dear aquaintences, loved ones, it all swirls away as our eyes meet.
"No," I say.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"No!... No, you can't just--"
"I'm surrendering, you prat. So take advantage of that. Haul me off and torture me, for all I care. I quit."
"I can't let you do that."
"And why not?"
"Because..."
The sound of a massive explosion behind you drowns out the rest of your words. But I can read lips.
Screams rip through the air like flaming acid darts, hitting the heart with the force of a speeding train, but something else was on my heart now. A knowledge, a hope, a shield.
People are running past, some heavily wounded, some carrying others, some dropping to the ground with exhaustion, too weary to carry on, to flee. Billowing clouds of inky black smoke curl through the air, carrying and compounding the sickening smells of battle and death.
I try and muster up the strength to say something profound, but all that comes to mind is a short reply.
"Me too."
You look over your shoulder, and gasp, nearly dropping your wand. "I have to go-- be safe, all right?"
"You too," I rasp, the dark, acrid smoke burning my throat. And you run. You run away from me, towards the thick wall of smoke, then you turn back for a moment, hesitating, then you dive into the frey.
I wonder if I'll ever see your face again. I wonder if you'll let me.
The sounds of pounding feet are behind me, and I turn. Four witches and wizards stand before me, and I know them all. Ron Weasley, with a bandaged wand arm and a cut above his left eye; Hermione Granger, barely recognizable through the smudges of dirt and blood on her face, with a wounded shoulder; Neville Longbottom, favoring his right leg and looking rather insane, clutching his wand in a death grip; and Ginny Weasley, badly hurt, with a long gash across her chest and the signs of a blow to the head, her fiery hair limp and streaked with blood.
"Where is he?" Neville asked calmly, though he shook wildly as he said this.
"He... he..." I cannot bring myself to speak anymore, so I just point in the direction of the approaching wall of black smoke.
"You mean-- you didn't--"
"I would never hurt him." I say.
"This is one for the books," Ron snorted, beckoning for the other three to follow him.
"Wait," I said, almost catching him by the arm, but stopping myself. "If... when you find him, tell him... tell him I'm sorry."
"For what?" asked Ginny, weakly, swaying a bit where she stood.
"Everything. Just... everything. Now go," I urged, waving them off, and readying myself to return to the front lines. "Be careful. And be the heros he knows you are."
As the four of them ran into the darkness, I felt a pang of regret deep in my heart. I should be helping them. But I can't. I just... can't.
The War is young, and so are we, and we must fight for our respective sides. But that doesn't mean we have to like it. That doesn't mean we have to agree with the rest. That doesn't mean that everything has to change. That doesn't mean that I... that you... that we can't still... right?
~The End~
So, what do you think? Like it? Love it? Have an unnaturally passionate hate for it? Whatever the case, let me know. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, blah blah.
Spoilers: Is direct quoting considered spoiling? Well then, there's spoilers for books 1 and 4.
Warnings: This has mild slash and violence, and, per usual where my slash fics are concerned, plently of angst and distressed inner monologues. Muahaa.
Feedback: PLEASE. I'm on a review-only diet. ^_~
This fic is set either during or after 7th year, during The War. Oh, and by the way, this is sort of like "Blinders" and "Nameless" sense that you kind of know whose point of view it is, but it could be somebody else, but in the end it turns out that you were right in the first place. Um, did that make sense? No? Well, it sounded okay in my head...
Sometimes I wonder, when I'm watching you, what really went on that day. Not that I don't remember-- far from it. I can recall exactly where I stood, the scent of the shop, the sounds of the seamstresses chattering quietly, all as if it happened yesterday. There was just something about that first conversation, something that goes beyond the mere words. Something deeper, something...
"Hello, Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes,"
At the time, I didn't know you. Who you were, what kind of life you lead, what kind of person you would become... All unknowns to me as I stood there on the tailoring stool, watching you closely, taking you in. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had just looked more closely then.
"Have you got your own broom?"
"No,"
It seems as if a millennia has passed since that day we met, so long ago, on the last day of July. I've never really liked summer, as a rule; I hated the long days, the many hours spent cooped up, with no one to talk to besides my "family". Even now, I find it hard to think of them as anything close to that.
"Play Quidditch at all?"
"No,"
The conversation was far from going well. I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, and I so wanted to. Good first impressions are always difficult for me to manage. If anything, I come across as a misfit, I think, anyway. Not that my opinions mattered then. Not to you, or anyone else.
"...Know what House you'll be in yet?"
"No,"
But they matter now. Oh, how much they matter. Every day, people's lives are saved or lost because of my decisions. Life and death hinge upon a single movement, a slight of hand, a nod, or a glance. How I despise this power. Some used to, and some still believe that I was just power-hungry, not realizing that after all I've been through, you simply cannot be, if you want to survive. Yes, you could take the road of ruling and overpowering, but it's rather hard to control millions of people when you struggle with controlling yourself. I know you know this, and can sympathize. Perhaps, yes, even empathize.
"...Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"
"Mmm,"
The War is slowly weakening me, weakening us both. I can see it in your eyes when you look up at me: dull, flat, weak and lifeless. We now hold the same pain in our hearts, and yet, we refuse to admit it to each other. Refuse to give in.
But I would not mind giving in now, really. I actually embrace the idea, and would go along wholeheartedly. But you do not, and would not-- or if you do, I can't see it in your tired eyes.
"You've picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you!"
These words haunt me, echoing in the reccesses or my mind. I wonder if these words are really true. In this War, it is nearly impossible to tell who has the upper hand, and who will conquer in the end. Some deep part of me pleads and prays that these words are wrong. And I am not the type to pray.
I wonder now if those words were meant to frighten, to hurt, to sincerely warn, or to help in some way. It is impossible to tell.
I have always had my doubts about you, for obvious reasons that I won't take time to elaborate upon, but there's something about you that draws my attention, keeps me on my toes.
Ever since that very first day.
"How could you? How could you?!" No answer springs to mind that could explain. I wonder if you know of one, and you're just not telling me. Another cat-and-mouse game, I daresay. I rather enjoy them. But not this time.
"It's over," I cannot tell which of us said this, as if it was a joint effort, our voices blending silently then breaking forth into the air against our wills. Either way, it was said, and it was truth. It is over. But at the same time, it is not. The battle contiunes, just not this facet of it. You've given in.
Now, most would say, we could put aside our past differences and work together. Well, it doesn't exactly work that way, now does it?
"Hey! What are you standing there staring for?! Kill him!"
"Just finish him off an come on! They're attacking the south ranks!"
"Two words, just two words! You can do that!"
Members of our respective sides shout orders at us over our shoulders, but I shut it out, and so do you. Clutching our wands tightly, we face off, staring into each other's eyes, and all else fades to darkness. The charred grass, the acidic smoke, the coppery smell of blood-- the blood of our teachers, old friends, dear aquaintences, loved ones, it all swirls away as our eyes meet.
"No," I say.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"No!... No, you can't just--"
"I'm surrendering, you prat. So take advantage of that. Haul me off and torture me, for all I care. I quit."
"I can't let you do that."
"And why not?"
"Because..."
The sound of a massive explosion behind you drowns out the rest of your words. But I can read lips.
Screams rip through the air like flaming acid darts, hitting the heart with the force of a speeding train, but something else was on my heart now. A knowledge, a hope, a shield.
People are running past, some heavily wounded, some carrying others, some dropping to the ground with exhaustion, too weary to carry on, to flee. Billowing clouds of inky black smoke curl through the air, carrying and compounding the sickening smells of battle and death.
I try and muster up the strength to say something profound, but all that comes to mind is a short reply.
"Me too."
You look over your shoulder, and gasp, nearly dropping your wand. "I have to go-- be safe, all right?"
"You too," I rasp, the dark, acrid smoke burning my throat. And you run. You run away from me, towards the thick wall of smoke, then you turn back for a moment, hesitating, then you dive into the frey.
I wonder if I'll ever see your face again. I wonder if you'll let me.
The sounds of pounding feet are behind me, and I turn. Four witches and wizards stand before me, and I know them all. Ron Weasley, with a bandaged wand arm and a cut above his left eye; Hermione Granger, barely recognizable through the smudges of dirt and blood on her face, with a wounded shoulder; Neville Longbottom, favoring his right leg and looking rather insane, clutching his wand in a death grip; and Ginny Weasley, badly hurt, with a long gash across her chest and the signs of a blow to the head, her fiery hair limp and streaked with blood.
"Where is he?" Neville asked calmly, though he shook wildly as he said this.
"He... he..." I cannot bring myself to speak anymore, so I just point in the direction of the approaching wall of black smoke.
"You mean-- you didn't--"
"I would never hurt him." I say.
"This is one for the books," Ron snorted, beckoning for the other three to follow him.
"Wait," I said, almost catching him by the arm, but stopping myself. "If... when you find him, tell him... tell him I'm sorry."
"For what?" asked Ginny, weakly, swaying a bit where she stood.
"Everything. Just... everything. Now go," I urged, waving them off, and readying myself to return to the front lines. "Be careful. And be the heros he knows you are."
As the four of them ran into the darkness, I felt a pang of regret deep in my heart. I should be helping them. But I can't. I just... can't.
The War is young, and so are we, and we must fight for our respective sides. But that doesn't mean we have to like it. That doesn't mean we have to agree with the rest. That doesn't mean that everything has to change. That doesn't mean that I... that you... that we can't still... right?
~The End~
So, what do you think? Like it? Love it? Have an unnaturally passionate hate for it? Whatever the case, let me know. :)