4 – Sway
LostProphetsI pretend his words don't hurt me, but they do. They cut through my soul and I'm afraid I made a mistake in believing that the dragon won't breathe fire. George hugs me and I know he can tell something happened. I wrap my arms around his torso and breathe in his scent of George. I close my eyes because I don't want to see anymore.
"Why do I do what I do, George?" I ask. He sighs and I feel it rumble through his chest. It lulls me into a sleepy state. "I kill for a living. I have the blood of so many people on my hands." I'm about to cry. I can feel it.
"I wouldn't call killing vampires murder, sweetheart." He rubs my back and kisses my forehead.
"Yes it is. They may be dead already, but it's still murder. I want to stop. I can't stand it anymore. Every time I push something into a heart, a part of me dies. I'm going to die, George." The tears flow and I forget about Draco and his harsh words. He doesn't know his lover is a murder and I'm surprised he can't see the hardness in my eyes or feel the callousness of my soul. I guess he's too screwed up to notice. We're just two tainted souls.
"So quit, Hermione. No one's telling you to do this. I'm sure people won't be surprised if you decide you don't want to do it. Vampire hunting is a nasty business, it is," George says. His chest vibrates with his words and I push my face into it more. He always knows what to say.
"I love you, George," I say. I pull away. "Please remember that." I pull the hood of my robe over my head to cover my face. I know all he sees now is a black cloak and a black void.
"And I love you, Hermy." He leans over and kisses my head again before I point my wand towards my self. "Good-bye." I disappear.
---
I walk silently towards the feast. Silhouettes dance across the ancient walls. I have learned long ago not to fear the savage grunts and screams that are always coming from the fires of a feast. I slip through the shadows cast from towering blocks that were destroyed in the Great War. I see my prey lounging against a pillar, watching his kin feast. I am disgusted.
I raise my wand and mutter a charm. Kreuz. A steel cross shoots out of my wand and straight into his heart. He sputters in shock and looks up. The cross consumes him before words can be spilled, but his kin have seen. Vicious snarls erupt and the feast is forgotten to hunt the hunter. Their searches are futile. I have already left.
---
Tendrils of smoke flow from Harry's hand as he sets his crystal gaze on me. He purses his lips and breathes out two rings of smoke. Precise, just like him. There are shadows under his eyes and I wonder if he has slept since I left him in Australia. His shallow cheeks and thin frame tells me he hasn't. I want to cry, but I have shed enough tears already.
"Why do you continue, Hermione?" He stuffs the cigarette into an ash trey. His eyes are on me still. "George told me you want to stop, so why are you here? You're killing yourself." I try to smile, but the feeling is foreign.
"And what else am I supposed to do, Harry? I have nothing anymore." I can't tear my eyes away from the haunted jade of his eyes.
"You have the Muggle world, love. Move to America, get a job. Make a life for yourself and leave this wretched place behind," he makes a feeble attempt to reason with me. I laugh bitterly and shake my head.
"As if America doesn't have enough problems without another screwed up child of war," I reply. I could never leave Harry or George or even Draco. Mostly Draco. Harry looks at me and nods. He lights another cigarette and I'm afraid he'll burn himself to death. The ash trey is already full. He hands me parchment and leans back against the couch.
"Kennedy Rail is his current alias. He changes them with the season, I suppose. He currently works for Malfoy Corporation as a foreign correspondent to America – conveniently his home country. He's become a nuisance – entirely too arrogant of himself. He's becoming messy," Harry tells me. This one will be easy, I can tell.
"Will you be joining me?" I ask. Harry long since ended his career of murdering. His whole existence is tainted by his past – something he never wanted in the first place.
"Only if it's your last, love," he comments offhandedly. I peer into his eyes again. He is completely serious. I want to cry for him, but I have shed enough tears for him to fill the Red Sea. The blood I've shed could fill the Atlantic alone. I feel disgusting.
"I don't know, Harry." I lower my eyes. I can't stand looking at him anymore. It's a wonder how far we've gone in so little time. I still remember the days where I worried about NEWTS obsessively. If only I knew then that my scores would mean little to what I do. I miss those days.
"Hermione." His voice holds a warning I know I cannot ignore. Harry Potter may be a broken man, but he is a broken man with far more wisdom than I. I wish it wasn't so, but books and cleverness can only get one so far.
"Fine. But who will take my place?" I ask. I wonder who's place I took in this cycle of life.
"That is not for us to worry, love. One will come." Harry takes my chin in his hand and lifts my eyes. "Hermione, you'll kill yourself this way. Put the past behind you." I can't look away anymore. Harry always had a charm to him. A certain charisma that made people cherish him.
"Can I tell you the same?" I counter. I'm always up for a good argument.
"I'm not stopping you from telling me, but it's rather useless, don't you think? My whole past is one thing. One ultimate goal. Once it's passed, there's nothing else for me." His voice isn't bitter. In fact, his voice is little of anything anymore.
"There's Quidditch." Harry snorts.
"Quidditch won't do me any good anymore, love. This body has been beaten and broken too many times." His voice is sardonic.
"That's your excuse isn't it, Harry Potter?" I'm suddenly angry – at him, at myself, I don't know. "It's funny how even when Voldemort is dead, he's still your excuse to everything. You're telling me that I need to let go of the past when you can't even let go of yourself." I stand up angrily and impatiently brush away his arm. "We're grown up, Harry. Voldemort is dead. It's gone and passed. Move on."
"I can't, Hermione!" He stands up too. His eyes flash and finally I see life in them I haven't seen since seventh year. "My life, my pathetic excuse. They're all I have. I'm nothing. Don't you understand yet? I'm nothing. I'm a half-assed child celebrity that just happened to have a prophecy connected to my name. If there was no Voldemort, I'd be nothing."
"But there is a Voldemort!" I stamp my foot in frustration. He never gets it. "And ever since first year you've used him as some kind of excuse for your life. You could do what ever the hell you wanted because you were Harry Potter. Even Fudge was too scared to expel you from Hogwarts. 'Oh, Harry Potter's supposed to kill Voldemort for us, so we're going to need him to be as prepared as possible. Imagine if he was killed by a psycho fugitive rather than Voldemort himself.' Pathetic." I raise my finger and point at him. "All you've thought about his Harry – ever since first year."
"Oh that's rich, Hermione. As if your lover," he spits the word as if it's poison, "is any better." I reel back. Draco. My mind races. What am I doing, arguing with Harry? He hated Draco, even when Draco switched sides. He still does and he did not say anything until now about my affair. I'm suddenly sick to my stomach.
"Pathetic." I slump down onto the coach again. "We're all pathetic aren't we, Harry? Us 'heroes of war'. We're all so fucked up, we can't see the top anymore. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." I'm breaking down. All the fights I've fought. All the people I've killed. I suppose I'm still no stronger than I was before.
"Oh Hermione. We needed that. We needed to get it out of our system." He sits down as well. "I pity our children, Hermione. I hope their generation is...happier than ours." I nod blindly. My tears burn trails down my cheeks.
"I hope so too."