Dirt in the Ground
By:
xXNaziHaloXx
What does it matter, a dream of love
Or a dream of lies
We're all gonna be in the same place
When we die
Your spirit don't leave knowing
Your face or your name
And the wind through your bones
Is all that remains
And we're all gonna be
Just dirt in the ground
The quill from the buzzard
The blood writes the word
I want to know am I the sky
Or a bird
'Cause hell is boiling over
And heaven is full
We're chained to the world
And we all gotta pull
And we're all gonna be
...Just dirt in the ground
Now the killer is smiling
With nerves made of stone
He climbed the stairs
And the gallows groaned
And the people's hearts were pounding
They were throbbing, they were red
As he swung over the crowd
I heard the hangman said
We're all gonna be...
Yeah yeah
We're all gonna be
Just dirt in the ground
Now Cain slew Abel
He killed him with a stone
The sky cracked open
And the thunder groaned
Along a river of flesh
Can these dry bones live?
Ask a king or a beggar
And the answer they'll give
Is we're all gonna be
Yeah yeah
We're all gonna be just
Dirt in the ground
"Dirt in the Ground" by Tom Waits, the "Bone Machine" album
Disclaimer: The characters and situations do not belong to me, but to J.K. Rowling, who is the creator of the Harry Potter world. The beautiful quotes belong to the great Greek philosopher, Socrates.
THE ANCIENT, dingy pub was completely obscured by a cloud of thick cigar smoke, illuminated eerily by the green-flamed torches hung on the rotting stone walls.
A mysterious stranger entered the pub, a cascade of long, shimmering silver hair escaping his top hat to flow freely down his cloaked back. A jagged, silver scar marred his white cheek, slithering down his neck and disappearing under his cloak. His eyes were hidden by dark burgundy shades.
He looked around the dimly lit chamber, scrutinizing each customer with a stony expression. After a few contemplative moments, he seemed to deem the pub safe, and began to slowly make his way towards the bar. The old, toothless bartender was busy washing alcohol stained glasses.
"One fire whiskey" said the stranger in a smooth, silky voice that suggested his aristocracy. The bartender, seeming to be at awe by the man's class, immediately set to work preparing the ordered drink with the utmost precision. The silver haired man looked around himself in bored indifference as he waited for his liquor.
"'Ere ya go, Gov'ner! That'd be elevn' sicks," chimed the bartender, specks of saliva flying out from his bare gums. The man wrinkled his fair nose slightly in disgust, taking out a black silk strip of material from his chest pocket, and whiping his face free from the old man's spittle. With a sneer, he flipped a gold coin with a skillful, gloved hand onto the surface of the lad.
"Keep the change."
Taking his drink, he ignored the many, "Thank ye, Gov'nor!" and began to weave his way around the many round tables occupied with raucous drunkards, seemingly looking for a place to sit. Or, perhaps, he was looking for a person or a lost trinket. It could not be said, as he gave nothing away by his statue-like expression.
The ominous footsteps made by his expensive, crocodile skin boots were vaguely heard even over the cacophony of the pub.
He looked left and right, carefully analyzing each person's behavior. Sometimes he would pause in his pursuit to take a sip from his drink, and then he would start his journey again. The only evidence of his impatience was the slight twitch of his pale lips. The minutes ticked by, and yet the stranger still continued to stalk around the chamber like a prowling wolf.
Suddenly, he stopped.
Whatever it was that he was looking for was found as he abruptly halted his march, and raised the elegantly sculpted corners of his lips in triumph.
Sitting in a secluded corner of the pub, thinly veiled by flickering shadows and velvet cigarette smoke, was a woman. She was hunched over what appeared to be a very thick volume, a long cigarette wand held loosely in her gloved hand as the other impatiently flipped through the pages of the book. Her dark brown hair was styled into a neat bob, and a half empty glass of Bailey's Irish Cream was perched on her table.
The stranger smiled. Not wickedly, but in something akin to relief and affection.
He melted into the shadows and stealthily slinked towards the oblivious woman, warm smile widening with each step he took.
And then, as he finally reached the edge of the table, his smile faded. The woman's hands were shaking. Very slightly, and not noticeably, yet the tremble was visible for his trained eyes.
"I knew you'd come," said the woman in a tired, raspy voice; as if she had been screaming for too long.
She looked up from the yellowing pages of the volume, and those huge, glittering brown eyes that used to brim with challenge and warmth seared a hole through the man's soul. They were no longer sparkling with challenge. They were no longer warm. They were dark and haunted and tired, eternally replaying lifeless eyes and rotting, massacred corpses lying limply in a blood flowing river.
He looked away from those eyes, allowing his platinum hair to fall over his face as a pretext not to look at her.
"I had to." She put out her cigarette after slowly exhaling through her nostrils, still looking at him with a calculating gaze.
"Have you ever heard of the Greek philosopher, Socrates?"
The stranger pulled out the chair opposite the woman, and gracefully slid into it with a noisy exhale of breath.
"No, I haven't," he answered, taking off his hat and hanging it on his backrest. She chuckled.
"I thought so," she said quietly, a small smile curving her lips. The stranger frowned, feeling a small ripple of irritation go through him at her veiled insult.
"Just because I haven't the time to read as much as you do, doesn't mean that you have any right to feel more smarter than me," he growled in a deceivingly blank tone. The woman was unbothered by his dangerous demeanor, and calmly swirled her drink around in it's glass cage.
"The only good is knowledge, and the only evil is ignorance."
The stranger quirked an eyebrow at what was obviously a quote.
"Not capable of using your own words, are you?" he asked, his earlier annoyance evaporating into oblivion. She smiled ironically, dropping her glass back onto the table with a loud 'thunk'.
"Nothing anyone can say that hasn't already been said," she said softly.
They lapsed into an eternity of silence, each lost in their own tangled thoughts. The volume of the pub was slowly starting to drop as people began to leave to go home for the night to their families. For tomorrow was the fifth anniversary of the Golden War. Funny, that is was called Golden when nothing about it was grand or honorable.
The cigar smoke began to fade, and the room was now more healthily lit.
"I envy you, you know," he said quite suddenly. She didn't look up from her book as
she said, "Envy is the ulcer of the soul.."
He laughed slightly.
"When have you become this philosophical?" he asked with a grin. She looked up, not a trace of humor in her eyes, her cherry stained lips straightening into a firm line.
"What am I to be envied for, I wonder," she asked hollowly. The man looked disbelieving.
"You have a family! One that's loving, caring and—"
"Dead," she finished quietly. He looked away from those eyes. Once again, only the faint sound of murmuring voices was heard.
He drummed his fingers distractedly on the table surface, then began to trace a curiously shaped wine stain on the crème colored cloth.
The woman followed his gaze and stared down at the stain, a light frown marring her face.
"I wonder who left that there," she said airily, a deeply contemplative note in her tone. He looked up at her face, smiling slightly.
"Still have a writer's mind, I see." Her tinkling laugh filled their corner. His throaty one joined hers.
"It looks like..." she began, carefully examining the stain. "Like a pair of glasses."
He looked at it closely. Then he smiled.
"Looks like the one's Potter had," he commented, his smile dropping into a frown. She stared at it for a moment longer, then averted her gaze towards the ceiling.
"Had," she sighed. He placed his glass over the stain.
"He died smiling," she said suddenly. The man looked up, surprised. She looked dreamy and distant.
"His eyes were a vibrant green, and there were frozen tears on his cheeks. And he was smiling so brightly..." she trailed off, a far off look in her eyes.
She looked at him with a smile of her own.
"But that was a long time ago," she said, going back to her book, her face turning grim and serious as she forced her eyes to move from word to word, not really seeing them but necessity demanding she do what everyone expected her to do; read.
He watched her.
"You know..." he began. She murmured a 'Mhm' to show that she was listening.
"You're the most amazing person I've ever met." She was looking at him again.
"Just a muggle-born witch, but so selfless..."
"I am not an Athenian or a Greek, but a citizen of the world." She said. "I am not a Mudblood or a witch, but a citizen of the world. You are, too."
"I know that now."
And then, quite suddenly, he reached out a gloved hand and gently tucked a stray strand of shiny brown hair behind her ear. She looked up, momentarily startled. He smiled sadly.
"I remember when you cut your hair," he said in a distant voice. She looked at him with a glassy gaze.
"Long hair can only be a distraction during war," she said, dropping her eyes back to her book.
"But you cut it right after we finished school," he reminded. She nodded slightly.
"I did it because... it symbolized a new life. And for our Auror training." He smiled softly.
"You never let it grow out after the Golden War. It's been five years," he said. She finally looked back up, a thunder of emotions raging in her eyes.
"I had no reason to. That life is gone." The man slowly began to take off his right glove, exposing pale, slender fingers and a scarred palm. He placed it palm up onto the table, as if extending for her being, and stayed perfectly still.
She looked at the handsome, pale hand, tracing the shapeless scar with her eyes.
Then, she also began to take off her black silk glove, and closed her eyes tightly as she tenderly placed it into his.
Those slim, white fingers firmly closed around her own scarred hand, and the two adults silently held hands over the table.
"We're a lot alike, you know. We've seen things. We've done things. Please..."
"Shh... don't ruin it," she whispered, her eyes serenely closed. He fell silent. Everything, for those few moments, stilled to a dizzying stop. Colors and sounds and smells swirled around them, but they were bathing in bliss, ignorant of time. Until reality made itself known, and it was time to go back to living.
"I have to go," whispered the stranger regretfully. The woman refused to open her eyes.
"I love you, you know," she breathed sadly. He didn't reply, but brought her small hand up to his lips and planted a tender kiss onto her skin.
"You won't reply, will you. I knew you wouldn't. You always insist on not telling me anything. Once again, I know nothing," she said, more to herself than to the stranger that was presently straightening his top hat and pulling on his leather, ebony glove.
In one fluid motion, he stood up and turned to go without a word, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at the lonesome woman sitting in front of her huge book and glass of Bailey's Irish Cream.
"The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing."
She grinned widely.
"I thought you didn't know Socrates, Malfoy?" she accused with a laugh. He smirked, tipping his silk top hat over his white rose petal forehead and bowing at her mockingly.
"You don't know a lot of things, Granger. Like the fact that I love you, too." And with that he swiftly turned and left the pub, a blur of elegance and shimmering silver hair.
"Wisdom begins in wonder." She said quietly before going back to her book.
Author's notes: Schizo Flower will no longer be continued. I hate it. I have no inspiration to continue, and I despise writing it. I never want to look at it again, so if anyone wants to continue writing it, I'll gladly hand it over. I'm simply not made to write humorous stories. It's just... not my thing. Sorry to everyone who liked it, and thank you to the eight LOVELY, FABULOUS, BEAUTIFUL, WONDERFUL folks who actually bothered to read it and review on it. Thank you so much, and I hope you like this story, too. 'ta, sweets, I hope you like Dirt in the Ground.
Schizo Flower reviewers:
Pinkmooseofdoom: Thanks you, doll, for reviewing. Yes, he should be Padfoot. But I'm an idiot and I forgot that he wasn't Snuffles. Go figure...
FiRePHEONIXReMiXz: Thank you! :P
ZombieGurl98: Thanks.
Vietgurl0607: Nah, she wasn't that schizoid. I had no idea what I was doing when I started writing that story. Admit it, it sucked, didn't it? Thanks for reviewing, anyway, tho! ;D
Miss Piratess: Love, you give me too much credit. Personally, I LOVE your stories and I think you have a fabulous style. Thanks for reviewing, and for your sweet words!
Severus's-band: Sweets, there are TONS of great Lily/James fics out there. I suggest any from my favorites list, they rock. Thank you for your praise, tho. You're such a sweetheart! Mwah!
Luna Moonglade: Moonglade... That's such an awesome name! Anyway, thank you for reviewing, darlin'. You're a doll. ;j
And to a reviewer that reviewed the Schizo Flower that I deleted:
Tekvah Ariel: Wow, I didn't know that! A lot of people assume schizophrenia is when you have another personality (Like poor Smeagol) I'll have to look into that later. Thank you for reviewing, though! Mwah!