There Was Passion Here, Once by passionlily
Note: this piece was written pre-OotP. So, think of the last point of reference as GoF, but this would take place in fifth year.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was passion here, once.
Yes, on this very, tomato-red train. In the velvet-covered seats, in the halls, in the cab filled with coal that fueled a fire equal to that in the boy's heart.
There was once, upon a time, a boy of no more than thirteen. He was young, vibrant, and happily detached.
Until he saw the girl. The girl, who was beautiful and vibrant too. The girl who matched his youth with joyous pleasure. She felt sorrow only under duress. She felt happiness always, for her life was perfect in every way (the boy might even have said, then, that her life was as perfect as her radiant face, but he was foolish then). The girl never felt shame, for she had no need to yet. She was innocent; he was almost pure in his own way.
Then the boy turned fourteen, over a long and dragging summer of restricted food and rations (courtesy of the war between society and an overweight son). There was hope, and longing; but sadness and pain mingled within.
And the boy went back to school, and the girl was there, and his life was almost as perfect as her face seemed to him.
Oh, certainly there were obstacles. A demon-breathed dragon, a dive beneath murky waters, and a maze to mention a few - but all these were less important to him than one thing.
The girl was now... unobtainable. She was, unlike he, attached, and she was in her own sort of world. Now, she felt shame, slightly rising and giving her a sting on the cheeks, but she had learned to deal with this, and her happiness overcame her shame tenfold.
So the boy went on a quest, of sorts, to defeat the dragon, overcome the waters, and make his way through the maze to get the prize, in hopes that he could win the girl along his way.
But the boy did something on his quest - he killed his opponent, the one the girl loved. Not directly, of course, never that, but in his own way he did, and in his own way he felt the shame that the girl had, only in a worse way. To see her crying - to almost feel the acid burn of her tears on his skin - was almost too much to bear.
And the year ended, and the boy returned house, for the place would never be home.
And the summer passed, as it always did, in a mediocre mix of pain and pleasure. And still when he closed his eyes, the boy saw the heartbroken girl, and felt her pain.
But then, on the same fruit-colored train that had taken him away from her, she sat down next to him.
Nuzzled her dark-haired head against his shoulder.
Told him he was forgiven.
And slowly drifted off to sleep, lulled by the soft hum of the trains' wheels against the metal track.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was passion here, once.
It seems those in love have no regard for the personal hygiene of others, for so much wrong has been committed on the long linen-clothed tables that line the stone floor. Love has been made here; kisses stolen and given; acts of seduction performed.
But the deeds of the past are done, while the deeds of the girl and the boy are nowhere near.
It was an awkward situation, when the girl woke up still dozing on his arms. She apologized, and he (almost devilishly) refused to accept her apology. They both returned to their own friends in their own cabins, and though no questions were asked of them, many rumors were started that day, through pure misconception of the truth. Naturally, this is what starts all rumors, so it was no surprise to anyone when both denied it. They just shook their heads and laughed silently.
Nothing more came of it until the winter break, when both the girl and the boy stayed home for the season. Home is the school, for it has already been determined what it not home for the boy. But they both stayed and let the snow fall, oblivious both to their surroundings.
A peak came, the day of the Yule Ball. The girl, radiant as always, entered at the same time as the boy, and with a few well-placed words from the headmaster a single leaf of mistletoe had been placed above that same doorway mere seconds before. Both flushed, but touched lips anyhow.
And they danced together for the rest of the night. The boy could see what the days reflection in the Mirror of Erised would have brought, and it stood in a storm of beauty before him.
When the night was over and the rest of the school students had left, the boy and the girl made their way to the door of the common rooms with a bird's emblem on the door, and he kissed her lightly on the cheek and said goodnight.
And from that moment on they were united as one. The next morn, he rushed not to the window to see the beauty of the snow, but to the doors of her common room to wait for her even-brighter pulchritude to shine on his face. For three days, three glorious days of winter they were together. They kissed, and they hugged and held hands, but not a word was spoken, nor was their 'marriage-bed' violated.
And then, school began again. And hell blew a fiery breath out to consume the snow, the boy, and the girl.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was passion here, once.
The boy was in love here, the one he loved saw him first here. It was not love at first, second, or even hundredth sight, far from it. It took them five years to ever have the nerve to confront any feelings they had.
All was unraveled after merely three days.
Why? it is asked, by the saints and the poets. Why? it is asked by the schoolboys and schoolgirls, by the mothers and fathers.
Why not? it is asked by the boy, who had been hurt by fate before and should have seen it coming.
It was all of their faults, truly, all of them. But one in particular can be blamed, a sinful teacher who taught in the depths of the school called home by the boy. It was he who noticed the boy's anxious stare; he who had the boy wait after class and clean the alembics that held some of the most toxic chemicals ever seen this side of the sun.
And he who caused the boy to miss lunch as the nurse tried desperately to keep his hands from being forever scarred.
Of course, he denied it all; blamed it on the boy instead. His word was accepted, and the boy had nothing to do except wait until classed had finished.
But then he had practice that ran over, and then too much homework to ignore. So he decided to smooth it over with the girl in the morning.
But he overslept, so it would have to wait until lunch. And at lunch, the girl was not in her seat. Unbeknownst to the boy, the girl was in the library studding for a large exam scheduled the next day.
And that night the boy had practice, and overslept again the next morning.
And the girls test ran over, so she had to stay during lunch.
And by the time they finally managed to attend a breakfast together, each thought the other was angry with them, and kept to him and herself.
And now they sit on opposite sides of a granite rooms, months after Christmas break. Both of them are confused, and broken, and terrified, and angry.
For there was passion here, once. But where, by Dumbledore's beard where had the passion Cho and Harry once felt gone?
They will never know.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Heh, heh. And you thought this might be happy. Heh. ^-^;;
Disclaimer: Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling and Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Press, October 1998.
Note: this piece was written pre-OotP. So, think of the last point of reference as GoF, but this would take place in fifth year.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was passion here, once.
Yes, on this very, tomato-red train. In the velvet-covered seats, in the halls, in the cab filled with coal that fueled a fire equal to that in the boy's heart.
There was once, upon a time, a boy of no more than thirteen. He was young, vibrant, and happily detached.
Until he saw the girl. The girl, who was beautiful and vibrant too. The girl who matched his youth with joyous pleasure. She felt sorrow only under duress. She felt happiness always, for her life was perfect in every way (the boy might even have said, then, that her life was as perfect as her radiant face, but he was foolish then). The girl never felt shame, for she had no need to yet. She was innocent; he was almost pure in his own way.
Then the boy turned fourteen, over a long and dragging summer of restricted food and rations (courtesy of the war between society and an overweight son). There was hope, and longing; but sadness and pain mingled within.
And the boy went back to school, and the girl was there, and his life was almost as perfect as her face seemed to him.
Oh, certainly there were obstacles. A demon-breathed dragon, a dive beneath murky waters, and a maze to mention a few - but all these were less important to him than one thing.
The girl was now... unobtainable. She was, unlike he, attached, and she was in her own sort of world. Now, she felt shame, slightly rising and giving her a sting on the cheeks, but she had learned to deal with this, and her happiness overcame her shame tenfold.
So the boy went on a quest, of sorts, to defeat the dragon, overcome the waters, and make his way through the maze to get the prize, in hopes that he could win the girl along his way.
But the boy did something on his quest - he killed his opponent, the one the girl loved. Not directly, of course, never that, but in his own way he did, and in his own way he felt the shame that the girl had, only in a worse way. To see her crying - to almost feel the acid burn of her tears on his skin - was almost too much to bear.
And the year ended, and the boy returned house, for the place would never be home.
And the summer passed, as it always did, in a mediocre mix of pain and pleasure. And still when he closed his eyes, the boy saw the heartbroken girl, and felt her pain.
But then, on the same fruit-colored train that had taken him away from her, she sat down next to him.
Nuzzled her dark-haired head against his shoulder.
Told him he was forgiven.
And slowly drifted off to sleep, lulled by the soft hum of the trains' wheels against the metal track.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was passion here, once.
It seems those in love have no regard for the personal hygiene of others, for so much wrong has been committed on the long linen-clothed tables that line the stone floor. Love has been made here; kisses stolen and given; acts of seduction performed.
But the deeds of the past are done, while the deeds of the girl and the boy are nowhere near.
It was an awkward situation, when the girl woke up still dozing on his arms. She apologized, and he (almost devilishly) refused to accept her apology. They both returned to their own friends in their own cabins, and though no questions were asked of them, many rumors were started that day, through pure misconception of the truth. Naturally, this is what starts all rumors, so it was no surprise to anyone when both denied it. They just shook their heads and laughed silently.
Nothing more came of it until the winter break, when both the girl and the boy stayed home for the season. Home is the school, for it has already been determined what it not home for the boy. But they both stayed and let the snow fall, oblivious both to their surroundings.
A peak came, the day of the Yule Ball. The girl, radiant as always, entered at the same time as the boy, and with a few well-placed words from the headmaster a single leaf of mistletoe had been placed above that same doorway mere seconds before. Both flushed, but touched lips anyhow.
And they danced together for the rest of the night. The boy could see what the days reflection in the Mirror of Erised would have brought, and it stood in a storm of beauty before him.
When the night was over and the rest of the school students had left, the boy and the girl made their way to the door of the common rooms with a bird's emblem on the door, and he kissed her lightly on the cheek and said goodnight.
And from that moment on they were united as one. The next morn, he rushed not to the window to see the beauty of the snow, but to the doors of her common room to wait for her even-brighter pulchritude to shine on his face. For three days, three glorious days of winter they were together. They kissed, and they hugged and held hands, but not a word was spoken, nor was their 'marriage-bed' violated.
And then, school began again. And hell blew a fiery breath out to consume the snow, the boy, and the girl.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was passion here, once.
The boy was in love here, the one he loved saw him first here. It was not love at first, second, or even hundredth sight, far from it. It took them five years to ever have the nerve to confront any feelings they had.
All was unraveled after merely three days.
Why? it is asked, by the saints and the poets. Why? it is asked by the schoolboys and schoolgirls, by the mothers and fathers.
Why not? it is asked by the boy, who had been hurt by fate before and should have seen it coming.
It was all of their faults, truly, all of them. But one in particular can be blamed, a sinful teacher who taught in the depths of the school called home by the boy. It was he who noticed the boy's anxious stare; he who had the boy wait after class and clean the alembics that held some of the most toxic chemicals ever seen this side of the sun.
And he who caused the boy to miss lunch as the nurse tried desperately to keep his hands from being forever scarred.
Of course, he denied it all; blamed it on the boy instead. His word was accepted, and the boy had nothing to do except wait until classed had finished.
But then he had practice that ran over, and then too much homework to ignore. So he decided to smooth it over with the girl in the morning.
But he overslept, so it would have to wait until lunch. And at lunch, the girl was not in her seat. Unbeknownst to the boy, the girl was in the library studding for a large exam scheduled the next day.
And that night the boy had practice, and overslept again the next morning.
And the girls test ran over, so she had to stay during lunch.
And by the time they finally managed to attend a breakfast together, each thought the other was angry with them, and kept to him and herself.
And now they sit on opposite sides of a granite rooms, months after Christmas break. Both of them are confused, and broken, and terrified, and angry.
For there was passion here, once. But where, by Dumbledore's beard where had the passion Cho and Harry once felt gone?
They will never know.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Heh, heh. And you thought this might be happy. Heh. ^-^;;
Disclaimer: Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling and Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Press, October 1998.