Title: Ponderings
Author: marred clarity
Email: gothicvanity{at}gmail{dot}com
Feedback: Is like crack... the good kind.
Archive: Haha! Right. Like someone would want to.
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I am not JK Rowling. Therefore, I do not own Harry Potter. Modus ponens, man, modus ponens. Nuff said.
Author's Notes: The varied ways through which my mind works amazes me... No, just kidding. Heh. A bunny that burrowed its nasty head into my carcass of a brain when it was 1:30 in the bleeding morning. I couldn't sleep, nasty rodents. This story makes no sense. Be warned. It's a letter away from "Plot? What plot?" I just have to know what letter is missing.
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It was past curfew. She was, as she was wont to do, sitting cozily on the common room sofa, a book that had nothing to do with magic or her studies held in her hands, her eyes roving over the words hungrily.
He came to her then, a smile on his lips, his clothes a little rumpled as if just from slumber. His first words to her had been, "Hermione, may I sleep on your lap?" and the immediate answer of, "No, of course not, are you mad?" passed swiftly through her brain.
It did not pass through her lips.
His eyes -- their eyes that were forever imbedded with a twinkle of mischief and amusement -- were unreadable to her now. From her sitting position, he looked down on her passively, the smile still on his lips but never reaching his eyes, and she could not tell who he was. There was, no matter how nearly invisible to the untrained, a difference between the two of them. She could not see it now. He could have been them both combined and she would not have been surprised.
"If you want to, I suppose you could," came her answer, surprising her. "Do you want to go near the fire?"
He gave her a grateful smile as they positioned themselves near the fireplace, one that reached his eyes but revealed nothing to make her tell who he was.
Her book lay forgotten on the ground. She watched the fire instead, so vibrant and bright, so lovely and warm.
"Fires are beautiful, aren't they?" she said, rhetorically, not looking at the boy whose head rested on her lap.
"Deadly too," he answered back, eyes half-lidded and voice soft. He seemed half-asleep.
"In the right amount, they are very useful," she said. She had no idea what led them to a conversation about fire.
"But can one really control something so... uncontrollable?" He paused. "If I were fire I wouldn't want to be tamed."
She considered his words. "Does your brother share the sentiment?" she asked.
She did not receive a response immediately. "Perhaps," he said at length. "There are things even twins do not agree on."
She briefly wondered if that were true.
Sometimes, when she sees them together, she can't help the fact that they are so alike it seemed to surpass this twins-hood that they share (if ever there was even a word like that). She's met twins before, fraternal and identical. One of her more distant cousins were twins.
She noticed in them, this desire to be different from one another. Not to the point that they would disagree with their sibling just to be different; just... a common wish to be known for merit they alone did. This chance to be acknowledged as their own individuals.
They never gave her that impression, these two. It seemed to her as if they are content to be known as a pair. As if, the both of them are only worth mentioning if the term used is "they" and not "he," when they are talked about in the same context. Why is that?
Bill was Head Boy, Charlie, a Seeker. Percy is a prefect and the twins are funny. Anything I can do, someone's already done. I can't compete with that.
A sudden thought came to her head. Was it possible that they distinguish themselves from others by always considering themselves a pair? Is that possible? Can she actually be right?
She began to stroke is hair. Suddenly, she felt irrevocably sad.
Was that not lonely? To always be attached to the name of another person, to always be the shadow of someone else... To never be your own person?
"Are you Fred or are you George?" she asked him softly, her eyes trained on the flames as they licked against the tiles and flickered almost hauntingly, illuminating the empty common room. "Are you George or are you Fred?"
He did not answer her and she briefly wondered if that was because he was asleep or if because it wouldn't matter to whose name he answered to.
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End Notes:
I've been thinking of my (long deceased) Twins/Hermione fanfic and I realized, "Why the hell would I put Hermione with George/Fred when it's the same things whatever name I place with hers anyway?" or some such. Has there been any noticeable difference between Fred and George aside from the fact that Fred asked Angelina to the Ball and that he's noisier than George? Is there? Please clue me in.
Ron's line isn't worded like that. I just pulled it out of my memory (because I have no books) so forgive me if it is way different than the original one. And thus, my madness ends. Sort of.