Wise and wicked

Daphne was running in the sand. She ran two kilometres. Then she stopped, sniffed the air, glanced around her with a suspicious look, and ran off in a new direction.

Daphne had made up her mind. Or perhaps her mind had made itself up, quite independently, while the rest of her was too much occupied with mirages and mushrooms. But the decision had been reached, and she was determined to see it through – Daphne Greengrass was returning from the desert, armed with wisdom, and hopefully the ability to raise the dead.

It was not easy. She didn't think it would be. But it was possible, that she believed. She listened and she ran, she sniffed and she ran, she looked and felt and thought and ran. The desert loved her. It loved her enough to let her go, to even help her leave it.

It was not easy to leave. She had been, if not happy, then at least better here. She could vaguely remember life in the later; and clearly recall every little thing from the before, the after, and the now. But the later was a hazy blur, something like the park she had ran through when she had died. There were bits and pieces: she remembered wine, and the Fridge, and Hermione, keeping a sharp eye on her, the one that she nevertheless managed to dodge.

He had shuddered at the mere thought of the after. She, however, had quite enjoyed it. There was a certain simplicity about the life in the after. There were certain things they had to do to survive, certain boundaries of willingness to be shifted, certain lines to be drawn at different places. But once that was done, there was little else to worry about. Little else to do but run, and stop, and sit on a box and stare at a wall. And of course it was hard to keep doing it, keep her eyes at the wall and her fingers against it, when she wanted to turn away from it and find consolation, and give consolation – and more, so much more – to another.

He had thought they'd have plenty of time. He'd never spoken a word of his maybe liking her in the before. He'd kept himself from saying anything in the after. And of course she had known him, but they'd both been good at keeping feelings under cover. He had never said a word, and she had never suspected that those were the words he might speak. She had vowed never to speak the words herself. Had she been too lazy or too afraid to change things? Or too happy that she was able to spend all her evenings at his side.

Daphne stopped, held her breath, and listened. The desert spoke to her. A storm was coming, but she did not care. She knew how to handle storms.

She did not know how to handle reality. Reality, a place where he did not walk at her side, but lay down in a bed, dead to the world around him. Maybe. Might. The Healers had offered such nice words of hope to her. And she had thought she could do better. Wisdom, knowledge, power – what did she care for such things? Nothing, as long as she was running through the sand, her mirages urging her forward.

"You have to leave the desert, Daphne," her illusion spoke, "that's the whole point of going to a desert, that you return from it, full of wisdom."

"At least you won't bother me once I'm out of here," she grumbled in reply, and then stopped breathing, because she had suddenly realized the truth of her words.

"I will always be with you, Daphne," the mirage of him promised, the pledge as constant as the image itself, fading away into nothingness as she stared at it.

"I must take some mushrooms with me," she thought. There was one problem with her going back, independent of the whole reality issue. Should it turn out that she did not have, in fact, the ability to raise the dead, she didn't think she would manage to slip away under the watchful gaze of Hermione for a second time. And was she willing to leave the desert, knowing full well that returning to it would be a lot more difficult that leaving it?

Was she willing to desert the desert and remain in reality, even with the additional help of wisdom and mushrooms she might take back with her?

This question plagued Daphne as she kept running, but she kept running, because he hadn't made her stop, and nothing but him could make her stop. Nothing but the real him, and even the fake one was only urging her forward.

I will always be there for you, Daphne, Ghost of the Desert, the storm sang.

The desert kept its word. Daphne left it, returning to the reality with wisdom and mushrooms. She used her power to raise the dead to bring back Draco, and they finally lived the future they had both been wishing for. And all this time, the desert never left Daphne.

And Daphne never left the desert. It loved her too much to let her go.