Snow Glass
paradoxical




The night was dark and damp. The soft glow of the waning moon filtered through the foliage and upon a vast clearing. In the centre was a lake, its colour like onyx under the faint light. A light mist settled over the calm lake, dappled with golden flecks of the ends of pyreflies, as they danced in winding circles and dizzy spirals above the water. One flew astray and suddenly, a hand shot out and caught it in the middle of its palm. The hand opened, the pyrefly only a memory, and in its place was a butterfly, its wings stained black and silver. Its wings twitched as it readied for flight. Then, the hand that held it clenched into a fist and descended underneath the water's surface. It went up again, unclenching its fist to an open palm. The butterfly no longer twitched. The wings were outstretched and drenched and it sparkled brightly. Still, no matter how full of life it appeared, it was dead.

And yet I continue to bring death without the barest hint of sympathy. The owner of the hand said, dead. It was masculine, a musical, baritone voice that echoed softly in the still forest.

You can bring life too. That is, if you choose to. It was a feminine voice this time that disturbed the air around them. The figure, of which the voice belonged to, appeared out of the mist and slowly walked into the lake. She waded towards him and picked the lifeless butterfly out of his hands. She leaned her lips towards it and blew softly.

It was the wings that moved first before it propped itself on its small legs. Without hesitation, it fluttered its wings and flew off into the night.

Breath of life. She murmured softly, then looking into the silver eyes of the young man before her. We're not getting out of here, are we?

We're still trapped in between.

He spoke of the clashing of dreams and reality. Why they were the only ones who had the misfortune to be trapped in such a curious situation went far beyond their understanding. For how long they were stuck there, they didn't know. Instead, they had learned to accept what had happened to them and watched life and death pass them by. In the process, they had forgotten all things and called each other by the names their dream characters called each other.

Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.

It worked as such: when they went to sleep in this time, they awoke in a much clearer place known as Hogwarts. They dreamt they were students there, it seemed, who disliked each other very much so. And they tried - tried so hard to alter their dream-like states into changing their thoughts about one another because when they awoke here - in this place of bent clocks, falling birds, mirrors with no reflecting characteristics, and other conceptual oddments - they needed each other. They were the bearers of life and death, of all things quaint and wonderful.

And so it went like that every night. Every night they would sleep under the same tree and lose themselves to their dreams. And each time they would wake up.

Hopeless.



Behind closed lids, cinnamon glass envisioned a black pool of diamonds that enveloped her in its cold embrace. It gently faded into an evanescent veil of silver and powder blue that drowned her in this wistful, transient dream. An antique mirror stood centre of this never-ending room, as it always had in her prior reveries, cracked and chipped. And each time it was the same. She, reluctantly, approached the mirror and stared back at her still reflection. Then, like clockwork, the glass would ripple and stream down on the groundless floor like a cascading waterfall and would form a floating, chrome puddle to which her reflection had already become a distorted image. She would see the peaceful face of a rivaling familiar, his skin as pale as rain, his dew-dappled lashes winking at her and his hair glittering a sun-streaked silver.

She would never understand why his face haunted her in her dreams nor would she understand why every single time she felt compelled to touch his skin or brush strands of hair away from his brow. And she did. She reached into the puddle, the cool, metallic liquid weaving through her fingers, and as soon as she was close enough to touch him, she would fall. Fall, fall, fall - and wake up in her bed, greeted by the pale glow of moonlight. And every time after she awoke, her heart ached and hummed loudly in her ears. She would fall back against the pillow to find it curiously wet. Wet from her tears, she supposed, because she could feel the dry trails on her cheeks. But she could never recall anything in her dream that would cause such release of emotion. In her dreams, she just existed but there was no point to that existence. She just was.

And every night after her dream, she would quietly slip out of bed, careful not to wake the slumbering portraits, and would pad her way slowly out of the tower to sort out her thoughts. Clad in her night gown underneath her black robe and barefoot, she would walk the candlelit corridors, following the moonlit trail the moon left for her, as slivers of light seeped through the ancient glass windows. Then, by some unknown magnetic force, she would walk aimlessly for a few minutes and she would find herself, mysteriously, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where many students feared to tread. She would always shake out of her daze, confused and cold, and mutter to herself, wondering why she always came to the same place. Then, she would shake her head and retreat back to the castle, back to the tower, back into the safety of her warm bed.

Like clockwork, she would fall into an even deeper slumber, dreaming of she and her rival traipsing about in the middle of the forest, killing and giving life. What it signified, she didn't know.




Draco struggled upright, unusually hot despite the chilling temperature, due to the near approach of winter. The green, satin coverlets pooled around his bare waist, revealing exquisite, sharp hipbones. His milk-white skin contrasted with his dark covers, his torso glistening with a cold sheen of sweat. He glanced down in the spot beside him, the spot eagerly taken by a comfortably naked Pansy Parkinson. Last night had been mind-numbing. Mind-numbing as it was, it wasn't nearly as rapturous as his dream.

It had started a week earlier, the same week he showed less and less dislike towards Hogwarts' Head Girl, Hermione Granger. He didn't understand what was happening; he thought he had been sick, but that was quickly disspelled when he was able to conjure an insult in her direction. That, too, however, was just as quickly dismissed after a night's worth of dreaming.

All he remembered was a whimpering and writhing Hermione beneath him as he pushed himself closer and closer to the edge of transcending bliss. It seemed real enough; he would wake up, and he could still feel her fingers raking across his back and over his shoulders, clawing up against him as she prodded him further and further to climax. He could still taste her lips, her skin of peaches and rain - could feel the warmth emanating from her body.

What confused him about this odd scenario was that he had never - not once - had a personal encounter of Hermione Granger. In the past seven years, he never smelt her womanly fragrance, never touched her skin for fear of dirtying himself (when he was, more or less, paranoid), never even considered her an object of desire. His dreams, however, were beginning to disprove that - made it seem all the more real. Every night, after he awoke, he was always left with the illusion that it wasn't Pansy next to him but the mudblood witch herself.

He groaned and fell back against his pillows. His dreams were almost embarrassing.

Without much more thought, he closed his eyes, hoping to whatever higher power out there that she wouldn't haunt him in his dreams any longer.

However, when sleep claimed him, he fell victim to another round of indescribable euphoria.




They had connected once more, drawing themselves to each other closer and closer to the brink. He moved his hips, harder and faster, reveling in their perfect fit, the way his silk skin rubbed against slick velvet with agonizing pleasure. With one, final thrust, she had cried out, clinging to his wet body as she caught her breath. The dead foliage around them, then, had grown green with life. Roses and Parma violets suddenly bloomed from little seedlings beneath the ground.

Every night was like this, and he had no qualms about it either.

They would join together until she responded, cried out, and then there would be the birth of all things beautiful.

He kissed her, then, pressing his lips to her temple, cheeks, and lips, savoring her flavour. So sweet and tangy - he couldn't get enough of her.

That soon came to an end, however, when she pulled him down next to her and snuggled closer towards his naked body.

The stars never looked more ethereal.






. . . . . . . afterword . . . . . . .

What the hell was that? Yes, I continue to ask myself that question. Still, I'll be explaining things, so I apologise in advance if this afterword (and many others to come) is longer than necessary.

The and in the clearing are a living personification of life and death. This is why they talk about being trapped in between; they know more than the Draco and Hermione at the school - it still doesn't say who's real and who's not. Because they are the embodiment of life and death, and that their only purpose is to provide life and death, this explains why they have no recollection of the students they, supposedly, play in their dreams and all they know is that what they touch brings life or death. In actuality, life and death is simply a state of being. They're not supposed to have memories or thoughts. They just exist.

Now ...

1. The first scene of Life and Death (I'll be referring to and as Life and Death, respectively, and be referring to the students at school as Hermione and Draco) is merely just that. That scene demonstrates life and death and how things aren't necessarily what they seem.They are trapped in between dreams and reality (they are because their purpose is to provide life and death for both worlds). This explains the reference to bent clocks, falling birds, mirrors with no reflecting characteristics, and other conceptual oddments...' That was just to explain that the world they live in is sort of upside down. Also, the bent clocks was actually taken from the painting by Dali, which was actually a painting done to express dreams.

2. The mirror motif (as it will become when I talk about mirrors more often) signifies a portal between the dream and reality (which really hasn't been identified yet. All that is known is one's a dream and one's reality).

3. When Hermione's lost in the black pool of stars and the silver and blue veil of nothingness - that would be the realm between dream and reality, but it isn't really said. That sort of thing is to be expected.

4. Hermione's loss of reflection signifies her attempt (as well as Life's attempt) to rationalize who she is and whatnot.

5. Hermione's desire to comfort Draco is actually the essence of Life and Death and their need to work together.

6. Hermione's inability to touch Draco is also the essence of Life and Death, except it contradicts the above statement. As well as needing to work together, life and death isn't exactly something you'd see side-by-side. You're either dead or you're alive.

7. Draco's dream about sex is also a connection between Life and Death.

8. The joining of Life and Death brings the renewal of nature around them. When nature dies in their realm, they connect - literally - in order for things to grow back so things may die again. It's a never-ending cycle.

So, was that confusing? I hope that was a fairly decent explanation. Ah, I almost had a brain freeze trying to get all that down.