Disclaimer: The regular disclaimer still stays in place, I owe nothing but the AU and OC. The rest belongs to JKR. (pl)


Chapter 15

In his shaky voice, he murmurs back, "Can you love me?"

Hermione can no longer recognize the reality from the illusion. The past is getting shattered in a space of a few hours. Those fingers that rest on her hip are honest. The breath tickling her crown is serene and sincere. And the sculpture standing a breath away is alive. And then the other finger of the other hand. Long, bony, sure and shy. It dances over her free hand. Tiptoeing over her fingers. Turning white into creamy pink. Like winter must truly leave forever. And the promise of spring whistles in the warm air. It ghosts over her knuckles. And then travels up. Further. A lone monk, hermit, walking on a lone path through the heart of a cold desert. It creeps up her throbbing vein. Coming at the juncture, where her palm ends and her wrist begins…

Then it stops. Right over her pulse. Feeling it. Like a person feels emotions. Feeling it like a prayer whispered in the darkest of the hour. Feeling it like the first shower of monsoon in the tropics. Deciding that it has rested enough, it starts its ascent. Over new ridges. The brand she has received for being a witch but of another kind. But this single tip of this finger, with its barely-there, pressure is not reminding her of her exclusive torture. It is instead, defining her. Tracing her entity like a letter of praise. She shudders once again. Her eyes keep looking into his. His eyelids don't flutter like that of butterflies. And even if they have fluttered once or twice, she can hardly catch those movements. His lips move. And his words wash over her. Like the rays of the sun right after it rises. "Scars define us."

She has to know now. Desperately. Urgently. Whether it is a fallen angel standing in front of her. Whether it is a ghost. Whether it is one of those fragments of dreams she has been having since the moment she has seen him bleed and nearly die. She snatches her hands away from his touch. His eyes burn once but withdraw their heat, the moment she places her palms flat on his chest. Skin to skin. There right under her small palm. His heartbeats. A rhythm as ancient as life itself.

It dawns in her mind. His magical prowess is exemplary. His mental strength unsurpassed. But does the world realize how precious his heart is? She can see its ebb and flow through the swaying flames behind his eyes. The keyholes to his soul. She can no longer deny that she never truly hated him. She can no longer deny that her heart flutters at his presence. She can no longer call her desire to garner his praise, his attention as a school girl's need to excel in the eyes of her teacher.

And her eyes well up. For his pain, his desolation, his plea, his desperation, and his request to feel like a human again is real. And she cannot deny him. she heaves and shudders. Leaving Ron behind. Leaving innocence behind. It is a hefty task. And leans forward. Resting her head on his chest. The sparse hair, mixed with the tang of sweat and musk brush against her nose. She cries in earnest. For him. for her.

Two strong and stable arms come up from behind and engulf her in a strong embrace. One palm rest on the back of her neck. The other rests over the small of her back. His chin rests over her head. Their touch radiates newer promises. I will hold you just like this for the rest of our lives, I will guard you as I must, I will stand by you through storm, and rain, and behind you in your hour of victory…only if you would let me.

Comfort. Is he giving her comfort? Hasn't he been the Prometheus of the Magical world? Tied to the rock of an oath made to a dead woman, has that stale reminder of love in the shape of a scavenger feed on him, then leave him to regenerate himself again. Every day he would rise from the dead, and every night his essence would become the Oath's fodder. Yes Prometheus, the supreme trickster, the master craftsman. And this life force, with magic vibrating within its sinews, this sculpture of a survivor is letting her lean on and gather her strength.

Or like the Atlas, who held the magical world on his back, sacrificing his aspirations, his chance to live. And he had soaked in hated. Torture of mind soul and body. Still, he went on and on. Back to gravel at the feet of a monster. Become the toy of utter madness. And still, come back to teach and train students. The dichotomy is not lost to her. She recalls how those long black strands of hair help him in drawing the curtains over his emotions at times. He is human after all. But not now. Now they are resting on the sides of his bare face. Open and exposed for her eyes to read his story. And help him write a new one. He has handed over that proverbial quill to her.

She cries on. For what the world has become. For lives lost…

"And years that we need to live from this point…"

His voice above her head echoes. He has never left her mind. Startled she looks up. A smile ghosts over his thin lips. He is not a handsome man by general standards. But she reckons it is his imperfection that makes him unique. And here is this man, who has led a hopeless life. Trying to give her hope. This is his strength. This is the newfound energy that he has gathered. And she will not trample over that. She gives him a tentative smile. Tears glistening over her cheek. And then untangles her from his embrace.

She takes shy steps backward. Her eyes never leave his. Her teeth biting hard on her lips. When the bed touches the back of her knees, she lowers herself on it. Then had stretched a hand up towards him. Palm outstretched.

A mute gesture of a warm welcome.