Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't ask, don't tell. ...Or at least don't tell JK.
Note to readers: For the candles and incense that made me feel as if I had a reason to write just for fun again. ...And everything else. And, also, thank you to Kat, O Wonderful and Merciful Malfoy Goddess. (...psst! Everyone! She's "Mayflower" here on !) This chapter's title was conceived by LittleMaggie.
Chapter 14: All is Fair in the Game of Love and War and Whatnot
Something fell over the school during the next four days. The weather grew rapidly colder. The lake began to freeze; a thin coating of ice appeared at the lake's edge. Mist settled over the lake's placid waters, crystals dancing, as Saturday's rain turned into slowly falling snow, dusting the castle and grounds with glistening white; but the snow didn't stop. It carried on falling, steadily increasing until all of Hogwarts was covered in a thick layer of cold gray.
But no matter how deep the snow on Hogwarts gets, it always melts away. Always.
Something had fallen over the inhabitants of the magical school. Denial and grief spread like disease all because of the "accident" involving the late Ms. Chang, and Rouge calmly sat back and watched the chaos, the sickness spreading. The students and professors in denial thought of the most entertaining excuses for the incident, she believed.
Most of the students that Rouge had overhead blamed the Seeker's untimely end on the long hiatus of practice because of the Tri Wizard Tournament. Some of the bolder students even dared to whisper that Cho's Quidditch performance had been dwindling ever since "after Cedric." But that was all they would say: "after Cedric," as though hisdeath was some unspeakable event in need of a euphemism. The reason was plausible and quickly becoming putative throughout the school. The thought of conspiracy and murder seemed beyond them, and that was why Rouge simply got to sit back and contentedly watch the aftermath.
Yet Rouge would overhear a Professor whispering to another – or a Prefect recounting a Professor's words to his or her comrades of similar esteem – once or twice and these occurrences always gave Rouge a slight twinge. These words would always be of concern over the game's security, rules and the like, and even of the security of the school itself. But Rouge never dwelled long on these words, the Exhaurio potion wouldn't allow it, along with the help of Rouge's favourite repeated excuse for the tragedy, which was thus:
"It was raining. Bad Quidditch weather."
This always brought her a vague feeling of triumph, along with a similarly vague smirk. It's as though they were trying to make this easy. And for so long, Rouge had fought it... She could have laughed.
But there was one group in particular that Rouge found herself wanting to avoid, feeling rather ill, though she forced herself to trail about them when they met. The small yet distinctly noticeable group of students that had formed in front of the Infirmary during any free moments they had. The one group that Rouge was sure she'd get the most enjoyment out of seeing. Because it was the one group that Harry Potter had appeared in.
It was the morning of Wednesday, December 20, and during the few precious moments before the morning's classes, the small group once again accumulated at the doors of the Hospital Wing.
Specifically, they were a group of mourners, though at the time they weren't specifically aware that they were so. Their solemn, somber faces speaking their anxiety far more eloquently than words ever could, they waited silently at the doors.
Two Ravenclaw girls exited the Infirmary, breaking the silence with the creak of the opening door and with their grief. Quite literally, in the case of one of the girls. Said girl was freckled – with short brown hair and round brown eyes – and bawling. The girl stumbled, bleary-eyed with tears to her fellow Ravenclaws, who embraced her with silent consolation and sympathetic bereavement as she sobbed... quite loudly. But the girl, who had come out with the weeping girl, also a Ravenclaw, differed quite drastically with her comrade in the presentation of her grief.
She walked out calmly, as silent as the grave- well perhaps it shouldn't be phrased in that particular wording under these circumstances, for the sake of tact. She walked out calmly, quietly, resignedly, her head bowed and eyes to the floor.
It took Harry a moment to recognize her as the friend of Cho's who had given him words of comfort after Cho declined his request of her to be his dance partner for the Yule Ball... nearly two months ago. Had it really been that long? After another moment he realized she was also the Keeper and new Captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team that he had seen play during that tragic match last Saturday. And as she looked up and met his gaze, there was no mistaking those jade green eyes.
She blinked at him once or twice before giving Harry a sad, pitying look that he had to grit his teeth to bear. She approached him with a quiet and reserved opening line of, "'Morning, Harry."
Harry guessed that she had specifically refrained from using the greeting "Good morning" out of the ineptness of the adjective "good" for this particular morning. He agreed. He could see nothing good about it.
"Morning... er... Lisa... Ackersomething, isn't it?" Harry greeted her feebly.
"Ackerley," she corrected offhandedly, "but just call me 'Jade'."
There was a pause as they stood side-by-side, seemingly unable to look at each other with the intuition that bore upon them both, but even heavier upon Jade, as it wasn't intuition for her. It was knowledge.
"Err... you played well on Saturday, ...Jade," Harry offered and Jade scoffed bitterly.
"We didn't win," she said, a hint of wry sadness in her voice, as though she thought it was ironic, throwing a glance at Harry. He didn't understand the gesture. She continued, "But neither did Slytherin, technically. Madam Hooch told the team that since Cho... I mean..." she faltered for a moment before continuing, "since the game wasn't finished, they're... nullifying the results of the game. I think that's how Madam Hooch said it."
Jade drew a long shuddering breath and took on a rather mechanical tone as she added, "So no one won. The professors are giving both Ravenclaw and Slytherin fifty points each or something like that so neither house is put at an unfair disadvantage... But the professors... they want to keep all this quiet since... since..." She broke off, staring straight ahead of her, which happened to be where her crying comrade stood with the other Ravenclaws.
"Oh, Harry..." she whispered so that only he could hear, yet she didn't, or just couldn't look at him, "she's dead."
After that, Harry didn't seem able to look at Jade either. Cho's dead. The silence hung between them, painfully heavy. Cho's dead. The words seemed nonsensical in Harry's mind. He couldn't seem to comprehend them. He just couldn't imagine... he never could have thought...
Jade had to draw breath again. "Dumbledore's going to make an announcement about it at dinner," she told him quietly, "for the sake of telling us the truth, y'know? But I don't know how much he'll say. They don't want everyone panicking over this... And you know how tense people are nowadays, ever since last year when-"
Jade broke off again and they were left with only the other girl's sobs to break the silence. Harry knew that Jade was thinking about the Third Task, but seemed unable to speak of Cedric's death like so many other students, Cedric's murder, as though if she even mentioned it, she'd be insinuating that Cho was murdered, too. Harry veered the conversation elsewhere to spare them both of thinking of such a thing.
"Cho's in there, isn't she?" he asked, jerking his head towards the door of the Infirmary. Jade nodded, and Harry continued, "Why did you and that other girl get to go in?"
"Hannah and I were Cho's best friends," Jade explained, gesturing to the crying girl who Harry guessed was Hannah. "They... the professors... they thought it'd be the right thing to do, to let us see her... one last time. Like... like, don't you think they'd let those two kids you always hang out with – the youngest Weasley boy and that Granger girl... don't you think they'd get to see you if... if you died?"
Harry, who by this point was feeling numb with all this talk of death and the confirmation of Cho's death, was unnerved by this notion of his death, even in a theoretical sense. Maybe even scared.
They bid each other hurried and awkward good-byes and Harry departed alone, leaving the mourners to their tears. But Rouge had quietly slipped away from the scene slightly earlier without anyone's notice. She had heard enough.
"I can't believe it," Ron repeated for at least the twelfth time that day. Hermione was sure of it as she and the other two members of the Gryffindor triumvirate, Harry and Ron, descended the stairs from first floor corridor at some distance behind, other Gryffindors and another scattered non-Gryffindor-house-member or two all marching down for lunch up ahead.
"I know, Ron," Hermione assured him, trying to sound sympathetic and then rather failing as she added, her natural, know-it-all tone returning to her voice, "but I understand their reasons for doing it. I'm sure Professor Dumbledore-"
"Their reasons for doing it?! Hermione, there are no reasons for going and canceling the year's Quidditch season just because of some accident! Quidditch is all about accidents, they happen all the time! They can't do this! It just isn't fair-!"
McGonagall had just told them the news in that morning's Transfiguration class that the remainder of this year's Quidditch season would be canceled this year. She didn't mention any of the reasons behind this decision or even that Cho had died, Harry had noted. But remembering what Jade had said that morning, he supposed the professors weren't going to say anything – if they were going to say anything at all – until Dumbledore had made his announcement. Harry figured that Dumbledore felt it was his burden to tell the school first.
The blow of the news seemed to hit Ron the worst – the news of Quidditch's cancellation, that is. Or at least his outcry of protest was the loudest. Harry and Hermione let him rant without complaint, as though he were the only one suffering, as though he were the only one to have something taken away.
"It's just not fair, it's not right! I only just got on the team! I haven't even been able to play a single game yet and they go and cancel the season-!"
"-and spare the rest of us of having to witness your lamentable Quidditch skill, right, Weasley?"
The Gryffindor triumvirate had reached the Entrance Hall, and upon reaching the top landing of the marble staircase, that mocking drawl reached their ears. As one, they turned their heads to the sound of the jeer. There, at the foot of the stairs, calmly leaning against the post at the end of the banister was Draco Malfoy, smirking self-righteously up at them.
The smirking Slytherin was alone. There was no Crabbe or Goyle bodyguards, no posse of fellow Slytherins – no one. The other groups of students filed into the Great Hall, quickly emptying the Entrance Hall. The muffled lunchtime chatter could be heard from the Great Hall, and, in his anger, Ron wondered as he reached for his wand if the lunch-goers would be able to hear Malfoy's screams.
Ron expected to feel Harry and Hermione's hands grab his robes to hold him back, but the restraint didn't come. He glowered at Malfoy and swore insults at him, but instead of hearing Hermione's disapproving chastisement, he turned his head to see Harry join him at his side, wand out and looking, if at all possible, angrier with Malfoy than Ron.
When Ron turned his malevolent glaze back down to Malfoy, he found that it was no longer returned. Malfoy was looking somewhere off to the side of where the triumvirate stood. He was still smirking. Ron followed his gaze... to Rouge, who had appeared in the side doorway through which they had came themselves and Ron's expression turned into a scowl.
"C'mon," he muttered, nudging Harry's shoulder and, in a skulking stomp, led the rest of the triumvirate past Malfoy, who surprisingly made no further trouble besides a snicker and a sneer. At some distance behind Rouge attempted to follow the Gryffindor triumvirate's beeline into the Great Hall, but upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, Draco caught her arm. His smirk was gone.
In an empty classroom, located off the Entrance Hall, opposite the doors to the Great Hall, from which Rouge could still hear the muffled lunchtime clamour, she tried to make some sense of her Slytherin counterpart and once accomplice. The silent urgency in which he'd dragged her across the Entrance Hall and into the classroom they currently occupied she couldn't comprehend reason for. And there he stood, his back to her as he peered out a sliver of an opening in the door with a shifty-eyed gaze before closing it with a ginger touch so as to quiet the 'click', and the only word that came to Rouge's mind was "paranoid."
And he had once taunted her for her precautions. She scoffed, and Draco turned at the noise.
"Do you want us caught or not?" he snapped.
"I didn't realize there was reason for caution," she murmured mildly, as though she held the thought in credence, as though a Ravenclaw seeker hadn't been murdered a mere four days ago. She made a thoughtful noise, a click of her tongue against her teeth, giving him a lofty gaze. "You're not scared, are you, Draco?" For she had no reason to be, and because of that she only just managed to keep a straight face.
"Caution and fear are two completely different things last time I checked, Magie," Draco retorted smoothly, his poker face on. "Any particular reason you're asking? Do you need reassurance? I can give you reassurance if you'd like it." The tone of his voice suggested that he did by no means intend for any such thing to happen. It was more mocking than anything else, trying to rile her up. If a challenge was what she wanted, a challenge was what she'd get.
"No, it's just that caution was never something I ever particularly associated with you. As for fear... well..." she drawled, choosing her next words, "I'd hope not. I'd expect better from you."
She knew these retorts were uncalled for. Draco had always shown appropriate caution while preparing for the match, as had she. Meeting her surreptitiously out on the pitch in the middle of the night, with or without Crabbe and Goyle, he'd always practiced appropriate caution and stealth. They both had. They always carefully planned everything down to details such as where Rouge would be sitting in the stands, carefully practiced every Quidditch tactic that would be used, and, which Rouge was certain must have been difficult for the social butterfly, he swore to secrecy to ensure their safety. They both did, though the only real threat of that rested in Draco. But he had been a good accomplice; they'd carried out the plan successfully. But that didn't mean he wasn't a great prat who drove her bloody mad.
But the match was over and the deed was done. What need for caution was there now?
"I'm not scared, Magie. You can put your little mind at ease about that, at least," he told her, his face showing lines of distinct irritation. He paused, and added, "And it's not as if you've done anything. Anybody'd think you were suffering some great disease the way you're carrying on. Guilt, perhaps?"
"I beg your pardon? I haven't been 'carrying on'. I have no guilt," she spat at him as though the word 'guilt' had left a bad taste in her mouth. She had no guilt. Her extra dose of the Exhaurio potion that morning ensured that. "And how can you say that I haven't done anything? It was my plan. I thought it up. I asked His Lordship for permission to put it in action. I asked you to be a part of this. I set the wheels in motion." She lowered her voice to a caustic hiss, only just reaching Draco's ears. "If it weren't for me, Ms Chang would still be alive, and Potter would still be happily dreaming about her."
He snorted. "You did nothing but dream about it, so caught up in that pretty little head of yours, too scared to do it," Draco sneered. "So, naturally, I went and did all the work, so you wouldn't be uprooted as some common, incompetent thing. Therefore, I should be the one that gets the credit." His voice lowered, just as hers had – maybe even softer. "And I swear to you now, Rouge, that I will get it."
For a moment, Rouge found herself helpless, only able to stare at Draco through narrowed eyes. And when her voice returned, the first sound that emitted from her was a laugh – short and acidic.
"Is that all you dragged me in here for?" she asked, gesturing about the empty classroom, her voice still so bitten with that caustic laughter. "To... to swear to me that you'll get your glory? That's all?" She laughed again, so taunting and so jeering in that single sound. "Trust me, Draco, I know you'll get your due credit. You needn't drag me into an empty room and say as much in a hushed voice. What do you mean by that, anyway? Trying to... establish your dominance or something?" Taking a step away from him, she threw back her head for a final laugh. Shaking her head as she stared at the ceiling, she murmured, "...You've forgotten your place..."
For a few moments, Draco looked as though he would attack her from all angles, flushing in obvious frustration. And then... then everything disappeared. He stared, rather than glared. He drew his lower lip in and bit it, smirking faintly.
"My place...?" he snickered, each little vocal rack as eloquent and sly as his speech. "My place is, at this very moment, here in an abandoned classroom, trying to dominate you. Unless you'd like to dominate me, instead...?" There was a very distinct duality to that phrase that was perhaps a little off-putting due to the innocence he exuded.
And Rouge found herself very off-put, standing there and feeling a wave of vulnerability wash over her – a feeling of sudden nakedness. Subconsciously taking another step away from him, she stared at him, eyes narrowed curiously as though she hadn't heard him quite right. Exhaling a scoff of disbelief, she shook her head vaguely, and sat down at an empty chair she'd subconsciously groped at for support at an empty desk in the empty room, all too alone with Draco.
"You disgust me," she murmured, still so faintly shaking her head at him.
"No I don't," he said quite certainly. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Yes, you do, and don't go assuming that you know otherwise, you wretched megalomaniac," she told him sharply and moved her eyes to an opposite corner of the room so she didn't have to look at him and that smirk of his. "Now, is there anything else you want with me, or can I go to lunch now?" She'd have left already if Hogwarts food sounded any more appetizing than this.
"I don't particularly feel like letting you off just yet, thankyou," he said, as though he not only had a right to that power, but owned it. Robes swirling around his feet, he swept over to the desk Rouge sat at, planted both hands on the desk, and leant in, looking her squarely in the eye. It was not a happy stare, especially at this proximity, not in the least. It was, in fact, so not happy, it was bordering on something of expended fear. "You are, after all, the reason why there are bloody great monsters flapping all over the place." His voice, however lowered, did not convey anger, or irritation; it was... empty. Pointed, but not accusing.
For a moment, Rouge didn't understand what he was referring to; she barely registered it as words with any meaning at all, and she merely returned his stare with every so slightly pair of widened eyes; she was transfixed by his gaze.
'...bloody great monsters flapping all over the place...'
And sounding practically skeptical in her uncertainty, she ventured, "...the thestrals?"
She knew she shouldn't be surprised. Word of the skeletal, winged horses that seemed to have appeared overnight was all over the school. "Thestrals" – that word was being passed around as well, whispered in reverent fear of the supposed death omen that the beasts were. A vast majority of the school had never seen those milky white eyes or leathery wings before, but after Saturday, everyone who had been at the match now saw the thestrals. Rouge had been able to see the beasts all year and had never entertained the thought that Draco hadn't. And now with such suggestions of this notion being true, Rouge was surprised. Had Draco never seen death before...?
His head cocked so slightly, it was barely noticeable. Mouth barely parted, upper-lip curled slightly... it was as if he couldn't believe she could be so slow.
"Oh, is that what they are?" he said, cradling his most silky voice, eyebrows raised. "I didn't know, did you notice?"
"I've been seeing them, the 'bloody great monsters', all year. They are not a new feast to my eyes," she retorted fluidly, as steady as her unblinking gaze. "Haven't you been able to see them before?" It was an obvious challenge, as though seeing death were some proof of valour.
"Is my being too close to you causing some brain malfunction or what? Maybe I am being too lenient with you."
The beginnings of a scowl edged their way to the surface of his face. There was a pause, in which he considered biting her head off, but it was more of a fight to force himself to look away. Eventually, his head lowered, and he stared at the desk. All scathing emotion was forced out of his system, and it was then that he decided to try something different for a change – being serious.
"...No, I haven't," he said quietly, eyes lifting to look at her though he did not move his head. "Is there a problem?" This was his own challenge to her, daring her to say something that would ruin their relationship – and subsequently force him to win the power struggle.
But for some time, Rouge didn't rise to the challenge, saying nothing as she found it not as difficult to look away and did so. In fact, she found it quite easy to look away; it would have been much more of a fight to return his gaze. When she finally gave any sort of answer to his challenge, she shook her head, no. Keeping her eyes on some invisible point on the desk, she made a thoughtful noise in the back of her throat, keeping her thoughts to herself... to a point. She let out a chuckle, shaking her head again as though out of disbelief.
Shoulders caving in, he searched her face meticulously, anxiously for any possibility of being mocked, taunted, teased, patronized, or his being subjected to some sort of stress in the near future. He was always concerned about what anybody thought of him, but for this moment only, it was obvious and – heavens forbid – pure. He murmured, "What...?"
It was that single murmured word that brought Rouge's eyes back to Draco's, the corners of her lips tugging into something that was almost but not quite a smirk. But it was that pitiable concern for his image all too evident in his face and gaze that made that feeble smirk quiver for a moment and disappear into the blank and emotionless void that was Rouge's face.
She wasn't quite sure what to say. It didn't seem right, some how, to point out the irony of it all; big bad Death Eater Draco Malfoy that she'd envied and hated for so long... had never seen death, when she had so many times, so many times. It didn't seem right... but then again, was it right for any fifteen-year-old to be so well acquainted with death?
"No, Draco," she said, her voice close to a whisper in its quietness. "No problem at all." And she said this with their gazes met, and she said it in full honesty. Draco took a breath, and exhaled it in a sigh. It was awkward, but at the same time, he felt strangely... safe, that he'd finally spoken. This didn't mean he didn't refrain from remaining somewhat wary.
"...Good," he said, just as vaguely. He looked thoughtful, more pensive than devious. He knew what was going on. He just didn't know how to say it... "There's more of a difference between us than you realize, isn't there...? I hope 'my place' hasn't changed."
"Of course it hasn't, Draco," she assured him, submissive in her quietness and total lack of betrayed emotion. He'd dominated her after all.
"Good," he said again, and Rouge's eyes had already returned to the desk, simply unable to keep her gaze on him. And a veil of silence fell over the two, laced and embroidered with an understanding that was unspeakable to them both. The mutuality of their relationship was too dangerous to be spoken, for he knew her weakness, and she knew his. This understanding was so precarious, like balanced weights; uncertain of whom would make the first move to tip the scale.
"So what now?" Draco asked, breaking the uncomfortably, even painfully poignant silence.
"I..." Rouge hesitated, as though considering lying, but then again she still had a feeling a power in this mutuality. She didn't have to be afraid of Draco's reaction. So she barreled on, "I was thinking about asking His Lordship to permit me to embark upon the..." She hesitated once again, looking thoughtful as she chose her word, "...the sortie. The errand. The undertaking, if you will." She gave a snort of wry amusement, though Draco didn't exactly see eye-to-eye with her.
"Well, what to you call what we just did on Saturday?" Draco interjected, though she could tell that, behind the frustration in his eyes, he didn't quite understand what she was going on about, and that in itself worried him.
"That was deputation, Draco. My idea, though He authorized it. This is a plan of His devising."
"What plan-?"
"You know what plan."
A flame of recognition flared somewhere in the back of his mind and his eyes widened ever so slightly. ...The plan His Lordship had planned over the summer...
"Rouge," he stressed his words, "His Lordship meant that assignment for me. It was meant for me." He tried to sound patient as if she'd merely forgotten – condescending in his garishly painted-on façade of maturity – though anger churned just beneath the surface.
"I dare say I believe otherwise," she argued, her calm much more genuine.
His upper lip formed a sneer, and he spat, "You wouldn't dare take it."
"But would you?" It took him a moment to decipher this question and when he did he hated her all the more for her mild, soft-spoken manner and her bold – cheeky, even – presumption. She could tell that it burned him even more than she was right. "Really, Draco, would you kill me for it?"
For a single second, as Draco glowered and scowled at her, it seemed as though he would say, "yes." But as the word formed on his tongue, he caught himself, as if the thought of actually having to kill her entered his mind. He looked away, as if in all his pride in himself and in all his hate for her, he could no longer endure the sight of her. It was then that Rouge made her exit, simply and quietly opening the door and closing it again behind her. She was not absconding; she had the last word and there was no other reason to stay. After all, she decided, she much preferred seeing the hate of a threat in his eyes when he looked at her than being unable to look at him because of the uncharacteristic purity of a confidant... of a friend. It just felt safer.
Niccolò Machiavelli said it himself; "it is much safer to be feared than loved."
"...Ooh! A clump of soot on the candle wick!" Lavender exclaimed to Parvati, giddy with excitement. "That means you'll meet a stranger who becomes a lover...!"
It means that the dorm will smell like smoke and cheap candles again, Rouge thought, and turned over in her four-poster-bed. She had all the curtains tightly drawn so that she lay silently in the dark, but the dormitory was far from silent. Lavender and Parvati sat on one of their beds, practicing their little love spells, oblivious to Rouge's presence in the dorm.
They called what they were doing "divination". Rouge called it utter nonsense. It was the sort of thing that mothers taught their daughters as something "fun" to do during slumber parties. It wasn't real magic, but Lavender and Parvati practiced these little rites like religion. They'd gone through apple spells (the dorm smelled like fruit for weeks, with seeds occasionally found on beds), cutting open the rosy fruit and asking the little seeds to point them in the direction of their true love. And they'd gone through scrying spells that presumably one could see one's future love with. Rouge had walked in on one of those rites a few weeks back, Parvati telling Lavender as they leaned over a bowl of water, "My mum once taught me and Padma how to see visions in a bowl of molasses."
"Molasses? Ewww... sticky..."
Rouge simply stared. When they noticed her presence, they hesitantly though politely offered for Rouge to join them, an offer obviously meant to be declined, or at least Rouge thought so. And Rouge declined it, grabbed her cloak, and left for a night-out. But for three nights now, the two girls had tried out candle spells, and Rouge was certain they'd end up burning the castle down.
Briefly, Rouge wondered if she envied them. A ridiculous notion, to be sure, which was why she only entertained the thought for a few moments. But did she envy these two girls, able to simply have fun with their little fantasies, dreaming of true love and marriage (through the guidance of their overwhelming hormones, Rouge thought – forever the cynic), and barely ever a thought about death entering their pretty little heads...?
...No. Of course she didn't.
She closed her eyes and listened to them for a while until Lavender asked her friend, "Hey, do you think Professor Sprout could give us any bay leaves? I'm certain that I know some bay leaf spells."
"Yeah," Parvati agreed, "maybe we can get that Rouge girl to pop down to the greenhouses and get us some. She spends a lot of time working with Professor Sprout, you know."
"That poor soul. Hermione must be influencing her. There isn't a hope for true love for her now, acting that way. C'mon, let's go down to the greenhouses ourselves, I don't want to ask Rouge."
Rouge listened to them extinguish their candles and exit the dorm, the faint smell of the smoky residue of phlogiston already abrading her nose. The dorm was finally silent, and she exhaled.
It was some time after dinner, and the gloaming light that drifted through the dormitory failed to penetrate the barrier of curtains on Rouge's four-poster. She felt tired, but it was tiredness beyond the capabilities of sleep to relieve. A weariness that seeped into every pore of her skin, weakened every muscle of her body, and overtook every fiber of her being. Through glazed eyes, she stared into the darkness, too tired to move, as though she had no body at all. She was just a pair of eyes in the darkness, contained in this little box of curtains.
She tried not to think; she was too tired to think. She just wanted to lie there in the quiet, in her languor... but her mind refused to rest. Words paraded through her brain, full thoughts starting to form before she even realized their existence. Her thoughts were sneaking up on her in her fatigue, and she couldn't fend them off. A newly formed thought broke off of the sluggish weight of her brain and drifted up to the surface of her consciousness like an air bubble in oil.
"You're hungry," it said.
Too tired to argue with that distant part of her brain, she ignored it, turning over in bed again as though she could turn away from that part of herself. She hadn't eaten anything at dinner, merely pushed food around her plate as Dumbledore rose, called for silence, and spoke. The gravity of his sober words bore down upon the inhabitants of the Great Hall and she had tried to shut out the sound, but only to some success. A few phrases leaked through, "...and though one of our own is gone from us forever, we will carry on as normal..." She'd resisted the urge to look down the table, look for a mop of black hair and green eyes behind glasses. She scratched the tips of her fork against her thumb, the sensation nicely distracting.
"He wants to tell everyone the truth," another part of her brain said, and she agreed. And yet she knew there was hardly a word of truth to any of it. "Doesn't want to leave everyone in the dark."
In the dark of her little box of curtains, she breathed quietly. We're all in the dark.
Another thought swelled and broke off from her brain, drifting just like the one before it and popped at the surface, "You're not some common, incompetent thing."
She tried not to think about Draco and the encounter with him that she'd had that day. She didn't want to think about it, and yet the memory of it kept returning. Uncontrollably, a part of her kept resurfacing the memory and demanding her attention, though she was unwilling to give her attention to anything but the silence.
Draco was wrong. They were more alike than either of them wished to admit. The thought of that overwhelming mutuality still hung over her, how they were mutual in their ambition, in the qualities expected of them, in their fear, and moreover, in how each viewed the other as a threat because of this mutuality. And his talk of dominance... oh, how she hated him.
She couldn't sleep. She couldn't rest.
Have mercy on me, she pled, yet she would not be granted such luxury.
The quietness over Gryffindor Tower soothing his ears, his own stillness cradling him in an armchair before the fireplace, its fire within smouldering, Harry Potter found himself once again alone in the common room. He'd watched the evening pass him by, people coming and going, all eventually retreating to their respective dorms, even Lavender and Parvati, a bundle of a plant of some sort in their arms. Harry wasn't interested enough to ask. The grandfather clock by the portrait hole knelled the late hour, but the sound seemed muffled as though out of respect for the quiet... respect for the dead.
...and though one of our own is gone from us forever, we will carry on as normal...
Harry shivered, picked up the iron poker and prodded the log nestled in the embers.
...one of our own is gone from us forever...
It... it was still so cold in here, so Harry gave the log another jab with the poker, though a bit more violently this time.
...gone...forever...
And all the grief Harry had kept contained and suppressed the whole day, grief he'd kept so quiet he'd practically denied its existence during Dumbledore's speech... now that grief welled up inside him, spilling over in tears and sobs that racked his entire being. He dropped the poker with a clang and brought his hands to his face to muffle his sounds of anguish and he cried. Cried and cried and the rest of the Tower was silent in respect for him for what seemed an eternity, save a single voice that came from the base of the stairs some minutes later with the intent of bearing comfort.
"What's the matter, Harry?"
With a sharp inhaled breath akin to a gasp, Harry whipped his head around to face the source of the voice. Of all people... it was Rouge.
He turned, his gaze returning to the fire, and he furiously blinked away his tears. "Why would you think anything's the matter?" he muttered.
"You're crying."
"Am not."
"Are to. I heard you all the way from the dorms."
Harry hesitated, bristling and shifting uncomfortably in his armchair, and he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his pajamas. "Was your ear pressed up against the door or something?"
"No, it just that sounds always seem to be magnified by millions when you can't sleep," she said simply as she approached, taking a seat on the hearth. "I was considering telling a spider on the window sill to bugger off because it was making so much noise."
Harry chuckled a little, reluctantly. "Ron would go stark, raving mad if he saw a spider on the window. He hates spiders, you know."
"I know."
An awkward silence hovered over the two after that, clearly from the mentioning of Ron – a subject still rather tender – and they both stared fixedly at the fire. It gave a small splutter as the embers started to dim. As though giving a last protest before dying, Rouge thought.
"...Really, Harry, what's wrong? You can tell me," she prompted, trying to sound concerned. She knew what was wrong, but she had to hear it herself straight from him. She'd been lying to herself all day... the plan wasn't carried out successfully until she knew the extent of Harry's pain.
Harry made no immediate reply and continued to stare into the fire as though he didn't hear her, ignoring her silhouetted figure, but he slowly gave in to the prospect of sympathy. He almost felt as though he wanted to tell her, or at least to talk about it to someone. He didn't care what she thought anyway, so what did it matter?
"I found out today," he began, and paused to take a shuddering breath. "...I found out today that someone... someone I was rather fond of has died."
He stopped there, breathing out. The words seemed so small, so formal and detached. He felt a little better, as though he needed to get that out, and some of the pain of Cho's death had gone with it. As though letting it out in the open allowed him to stand back, look it over, and come to terms with the situation. So he continued, "She was so young... her whole life ahead of her... and now it's just gone. She's gone. It's... it's just not fair-"
Rouge had felt a sort of painful pressure swelling in her chest as Harry spoke, as though the pain he was letting go of was collecting in her. She couldn't hear anymore of it. She didn't want to hear anymore. She hadn't predicted feeling this pain... she didn't know...
"Life isn't fair, Harry," she interrupted suddenly, and Harry could hear that the façade had returned in her voice. "It's just fairer than death." Silence.
"What's that from?" Harry asked after a moment's thought and Rouge was taken aback.
"What do you mean, 'What's that from?'"
"It's a quote, isn't it?"
"...Well... yes..."
"Then what's it from?"
Rouge hesitated, looking at Harry curiously, though he didn't see.
"The Princess Bride," she replied, "by William Goldman."
Harry nodded silently, and Rouge could barely see it in the dim light of the embers. She felt as though she wanted to say something to him. Apologize, maybe. Perhaps just bury the hatchet, but all the words she considered always got lost somewhere in her throat and, rather, she gaped at Harry in a bewildered sort of wonder.
"Why are you always reciting quotes like that?" Harry asked, breaking the silence.
Rouge found her voice. "What?"
"Why are you always reciting quotes like that?" he repeated. "You recited that one just now, you quoted Shakespeare and some other guy when I met you at the try-outs, and I heard you say something to yourself at the game on Saturday... something about the trouble of liking someone-"
"You heard that?" she asked, frowning curiously at him, and he nodded without breaking his stare on the fire. "...'I do not want people to be agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them.' It's a quote by Jane Austen."
"Yeah, so, as I was saying, why are you always reciting quotes? Can't you think up anything to say of your own?"
Rouge didn't reply straight away. She got up from the hearth with the intent of not granting him an answer and made the trek back to the stairs leading back up to the dormitories, but she didn't seem able to make it the whole way without saying something. He deserved the respect of her granting him an answer.
"I've tried that," she answered finally, "and it... it just didn't work." So she might as well live on someone else's words.
"Bonne nuit," she bid Harry good night as she walked up the stairs.
And she doubled her dose of the Exhaurio potion that night.