Seasons Out of Time
...
"…and now we're grown-up orphans that never knew their names;
we don't belong to no-one, that's a shame…
so you could hide beside me, maybe for a while,
and I won't tell no-one your name…
scars are souvenirs you never lose; the past is never far
did you lose yourself somewhere out there
did you get to be a star?
and don't it make you sad to know that life is more than who we are…"
- Name, Goo Goo Dolls
…
There was something about him as he slept, she decided. It wasn't that he took on a deceptively angelic air, dark lashes dusting high cheekbones that she knew nearly as well as her own… for if you could still call his aura otherworldly, you would also have to call it haunted. Even he, the archetype of wizardly allure and power, had not escaped from the last five years unscarred. And one small, sick part of her was glad to see this; glad to see that even if he had never shed one tear in her presence, he had been affected somehow.
She hated herself for this spite she held… especially when he lay beside her, sprawled on his back in an almost undignified manner, with one hand tangled in her hair, auburn ringlets swirling about his fingers like forgotten trails of blood…
No.
She would not think like that. It wasn't enough that they had to survive. No… they had to remember, and she wasn't sure which was worse. She was strong, and she'd tasted darkness before – she'd even had a white knight pull her from the brink of death so many years ago. It didn't matter at the time that the knight was wearing a tattered uniform in place of armor, or that his hair was mussed and his glasses broken. All her younger self had seen were a pair of piercing green eyes; eyes for all the weight that they had to carry were as uncertain as hers.
They were eyes that she had loved before she had even met the boy-child who they belonged to; they were the eyes of a hero, she had believed. But in seeing him vulnerable, her love changed. The pedestal forgotten, she recognized his failings and weaknesses as he fought, frightened but determined against a blinded behemoth, and struck down the memory that had seduced her. And she loved him all the more for his strength.
For all that, they never were lovers, or even all that close. He dated, she dated; they were friendly whenever they met in the Great Hall, or at the Burrow over summers, but there was no sign of a closer bond between them that one might have expected. It would have been easy… too easy… to fall under his spell of affably awkward companionship; the polar opposite of the coolly assured endearments of the demon-boy who had once captivated her. But it would have only been another form of imprisonment.
So she turned away, choosing to be his friend; to be, at first, strong for him. And somewhere along the spin of time, she realized that she really, truly, didn't miss the thought of him anymore. He was there, he was a companion… it was enough.
This was why it hurt so much to have him save her again, when he was one of the last people she had expected… She didn't even think he was anywhere near her in the midst of the battle; spells flying in enthrallingly lethal arcs of color and magic… raised wands and tempers and fears...
But he was – he must have been, to have reached her, and knocked her to the ground beneath him – the deadly green light intended for her catching him instead. Sprawled beneath him, pithy retort on her lips forgotten as she felt his muscles tense, and then slacken a heartbeat later. She felt – she saw – him die.
The hero of her childhood… the crush of her adolescent years… the friend of her adult life… he was not immortal. She knew it before this moment; she had tasted his humanity, and loved him all the more for it… but it nearly killed her to know it… to know that she'd never see him stumble down the stairs at the Burrow, half-asleep but already planning Quidditch strategies with Ron. To know that she'd never see him smooth his bangs over his scar self-consciously, or fudge over his Divination homework, or blushingly ask her for 'girl advice.' To never see his expression change again – emerald eyes were frozen, now. Not in fear, as was common for the spell. No. Far worse.
They were… almost bashful, a state the rueful quirk of his lips confirmed. Almost as if he'd been expecting her quip, and preparing for it. As if he'd expected the spell to miss both of them, and they would get up moments later, laughing and joking, their companionship perhaps a little tensed in battle, but no weaker.
But she knew him better than that.
He knew it was going to kill him… and that made it hurt even worse.
Oh, they won, eventually. But she couldn't remember who, or when… or even how she got away from the heart of a battle, a broken arm her only visible injury.
He was gone; their savior, their golden boy… her friend.
But they rallied together, and made the darkness pay dearly for his loss, rarely returning with their own lives.
The war ended, but the memories did not… and somehow, somewhere she lost everyone. Harry and Charlie to the wands of Death Eaters and the dark creatures that Voldemort called into his allegiance… Bill to Fleur and the distance he sought in a foreign land with his new wife… Percy to Azkaban, his bright, ambitious, warped soul forever darkened… Fred and George to broken wands and abandonment of the wizarding world – and Europe, if rumours of the time were to be believed… Hermione and Ron to the halls of Hogwarts, this time as teachers, the young, bright girl losing herself in dust-laden tomes of legend and lore, her sparkle all but lost, only emerging when coaxed by her youngest brother, his blue eyes decades older than they should have been.
She had never been especially close to Hermione, but she understood the girl's desire to forget the past. It was a foolish thing to try to do – and she knew this from experience – but it didn't stop her from trying, herself.
And even although some part of her consciousness thought it awfully clichéd, she tried to forget it all… forget everything, under the belief that if she did, it would hurt less. She'd never liked alcohol much… but the right stuff burned, and it was a hot, distracting flame – one she could deal with, unlike the cool green flames that consumed her nightmares.
Days turned, unnoticed, into weeks, and weeks likewise into months; she stumbled through work at the Ministry, a farce of productivity and good citizenship. She'd smile – having little other choice – and if you didn't look too close, you'd believe that she meant it.
Unfortunately, he had a habit of being observant.
And it was on a particularly slushy night in early spring, as she tracked half-melted snow into the main room of the Leaky Cauldron on the soles of her heeled boots, that he noted the shadows dancing at the corners of her eyes.
He didn't say anything – the war had taught him a smidge of prudence – but she caught sight of him almost immediately. So they sniped at each other like schoolchildren; the usual subjects, tinged with hints of poison and curiosity. They would have their drink, carefully distant, and life would continue.
Neither would admit that things had changed – they rarely spoke, other than the occasional snipe - but even with the distant awareness that they carefully maintained, it was undeniable that they were no longer so much alone.
Even war-shadowed, he was still a gentleman, she realized slowly. Perhaps more of one than he had ever been – definitely to her, anyways. He eventually asked her over for a drink, and knuts were short that week, so she accepted, moving a few seats over from her usual spot by the bar to the booth seat across from him.
As she drew nearer, she noticed that he was wearing the signet ring of his family, and she couldn't help but flicker her eyes up to his, surprised at the meaning of this detail.
This time, grey met cinnamon… but she knew his eyes… and, startled, she looked away first.
When she looked up again, pain had flickered across his face, so quickly that she wasn't even sure if she had seen it, quickly followed with a soft smirk and an inquiring tilt to his eyebrows. And she smiled slightly, shrugged, and joined him without further words. There were things that they both were trying to forget, it seemed; she'd heard, indirectly, of his work as a double agent – sometimes even playing both sides against each other in an attempt, it seemed, to protect his family. But as brilliant as he was, they were eventually captured, she learned; his mother sent to Azkaban soon after the final battle, and his father killed in front of him by Voldemort's own hand – a punishment to the heir who had strayed so badly…
And, it appeared, the combined loss of his parents had nearly broken him. Always lithe, his frame seemed especially fragile as he sat across from her, his long, artist's fingers wraith-like as they encircled the tall glass, and the dark circles under his eyes matching her own.
Neither slept well, it seemed.
Even so, as she looked closer, she was startled by what she caught in his eyes. They were still the trademark slate, but there was a newfound depth and determination; the boy who once had his every desire at his fingertips had hardened, fire-tested… and hints of that fire lurked at the edges of his eyes, which measured her own, and sparked contentedly in the low light.
They finished their drinks, nodded companionably, and went their own ways, cloaked to the night and the remnants of the wizarding world.
It became a bit of a ritual – if something so haphazardly casual could be a ritual, then this was, for them. A taste of stability and casual camaraderie when neither of them wanted to remember, or knew how to continue. Words were rare… a muttered exchange of names as greeting, and an occasional inquiry, but as the nights grew slowly longer, she found it increasingly difficult to leave with just a nod, or an occasional smile.
Until one Sunday night in late fall; his eyes were darker, and he was almost slouched over his drink as she arrived, cheeks blossoming from the wind's touch and eyes sparkling. Frowning, puzzled by his demeanor – he did not slouch – her step lost its bounce as she wondered what could have caused the slip into gloominess. Nodding to the bartender as she moved over to their usual booth, she slipped her hands to his side of the table, tangling her fingers around one of his hands; shocked when he did not pull away or glance at her disparagingly.
No.
Never that easy, never that simple, never, never that predictable.
He turned his hand, moved the other from his drink to tangle with hers, already entwined with his own. It was his birthday tonight, he told her.
She hadn't known – they were hardly close in the past, and he had never mentioned it before. She supposed she could have been more curious, but something as harmless as one's birthday seemed so insignificant… unless he was, for the first time, having to celebrate it alone.
Playing both ends against the middle hadn't left him with many friends… and for him to have lost both reasons for treading such a dangerous path…
Almost before she realized what she was doing, she drew their hands to her, and brushed her lips against his knuckles, whispering happy birthday as she did so.
His eyes widened – she had succeeded in surprising him, it seemed – and he mirrored her gesture, murmuring stay, grey eyes vulnerable.
It was only one word, but they both knew what it meant.
Which was why she could do nothing else but shake her head, and smile wistfully as his shoulders stiffened, and he swept the glass aside to gain leverage to stand. Before he could leave, however, her hand caught at his sleeve, and he turned back, faint scorn dripping from the mere swirl of his cloak.
…no… she told him. But as she'd nowhere to go, anyways…I'll take you dancing…
The scorn in his eyes turned to intrigue, and she took this as acceptance. Leaving the last of her drink, she stood, joining him, and threaded one of her arms around his, steering him expertly through twilit alleyways to a small jazz club, unknown to most wizards, and highly discreet for those who did frequent it.
Cloaks shrugged off absently, they moved onto the dance floor, smoky rhythms and carefully entwined steps working their oft-tested magic, bronze melding with gold, his head bowing as hers slipped onto his shoulder. Hours passed, and they danced until the tune slowed, and as it did, so did they, until they were doing little more than swaying in time with the solo saxophone, its rich-rebellious sweetness softening the edges of the night.
He raised her chin, eyes sparking into hers darkly – a warmer version of how their eyes had met, that first night after the War. Kissing the tip of her nose… thank you…
She smiled, and this time was the one to mimic his gesture, brushing his long, pale bangs aside, and standing on tip-toe to press her lips against the edge of his cheek. …anytime, she whispered, only to repeat her gesture with the other cheek.
And before he could say anything, she accio'd her cloak, and Apparated with a smile at the last.
It wasn't until she had materialized in her small apartment that she realized just why she knew his eyes that first time… and perhaps why they spoke to her so powerfully. His eyes were their eyes… cool, yet driven Tom… bright, passionate Harry… starlight and shadow. In his eyes, she saw the two men that she had loved desperately… and this was a frightening thought, to say the least.
It was more than that, though… they were alike, she and this haunting blond. Known darkness, known light; stolen a bit of each, but belonged to something in between. She may have recognized pieces of those whom she had loved in his eyes, but they were still ineffably his. Eyes that flickered in torchlight and crinkled ever-so-slightly at the edges when she walked into the Leaky Cauldron after work to meet him. Eyes she was missing at this very second…
Sinking her head into her hands, she closed her eyes.She obviously needed sleep more than she had thought…
Even so, five days later, she found her feet walking towards that same jazz club she had dragged him to. And, in what seemed his tradition, he was already there, nursing a lime water and listening intently to the pianist on stage. She couldn't say she was surprised by his presence, weaving through the tables to join him, squeezing his shoulder companionably as she moved to sit down.
But she froze as he whirled around to stand in front of her, his eyes slightly glazed and haunted, and his wand at her throat. He hadn't forgotten the dangers of the past – and she had been quiet in her approach, not wanting to disturb him. She should have remembered… the wounds had healed, perhaps, but the scars – the memories – remained.
For he mustn't have heard her, or had just been wrapped up in the wistfully powerful tune presently coming from the piano… breathe… not quite sure whether it was for his benefit, or for her own.
So he did, although his eyes were disgusted and frightened at what he had almost done to her. The last strains of the piano died away, and the night band replaced it on the stage; wistfulness turning to seduction as the sound deepened.
Slowly, carefully, she wound her arms around him, the embrace reassuring, for he relaxed almost immediately, still looking down at her as if he believed she was mere illusion… that the real girl had fled at his reaction. Slowly, he lost that look as she was the one to lead him to the floor this time, swirls of colour and smoke and emotion dancing about them.
That night, she did not leave.
They stayed until the first beams of sunlight peered through the small windows of the club, dancing slowly, carefully; speaking little, but hearing much. His flat followed; exhausted, but infinitely more alive, they fell together, hooded eyes and brilliant sunlight; tangled sheets and lipstick smears and the occasional tearstain the remnants of the first morning, as it were.
Sleep snuck in quietly, familiarly to both of them; curled together like children, like puzzle pieces, and for the first time in months, smoky grey shadows danced through her dreams in the place of cold green fire.
Absolutely tangled, the two of them. Nearly inseparable – limbs entwined together, his fingers twirled in strands of her long hair, her cheek resting on his chest – but this imprisonment did not frighten her. He… unlikely, fey, strange as he was… was her equal. Her past was no different, but with him, her future had changed. True, she still had to remember; any less would disgrace all those who had lost everything in their fight… but she no longer had to remember alone.
…think I might just love you… she thought, tangling her fingers in his wispy, sun-brightened blond hair and settling her head back on the pillow. But she didn't say it. She didn't need to.
Few things really needed to be said between them; they were survivors, lovers, kindred. They simply knew.
.
…finis…
.
Disclaimer: Draco, Ginny, Harry, and all the other wonderful HP folk belong to J.K. Rowling. I just borrow them (and, on occasion, kill them off.) "Name," while I wish it belonged to me (brilliant song as it is) doesn't belong to me either.
Sabriel's Scribbles: Er… 'the plot bunny who could'? Just more proof that I can't write smut. This is about as close as I could get… kind of embarrassing, but kind of encouraging at the same time. Definitely a darker take than I normally have – I don't usually kill characters; call this a 'practise run' if you will – but it fit perfectly. Or, at least my brain at 1 AM seemed to think so…
Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome; in the meanwhile, Peace, and Starry Nights.