It's also a bit indulgent, as I do adore the man :) Fine, it is totally self-indulgent, but we can all have some of those sometimes, can't we?
As it is now after 4 a.m., excuse the typos, bad grammar and other mistakes. I wanted to get this up before the book came out, I suppose in a way to ward off what will happen, even though it is already written down. I'll clean it up later.
AS FAR AS I KNOW, HE DOES NOT DIE! I have yet to read the book, as the rest of you, so I do not know. I apologize to any who I frightened, this is simply from my fear he would be the one!
AN, part 2: Has now been cleaned up a bit :) Obviously, as well, we now know he did not die, but I shall let this stand as is – minus the typos - as a testament to all those unsure moments before the dawn of a new revelation of a chapter or story.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Harry Potter. They belong to JKR (who better be nice to them) - I adore her work and mean no disrespect in any of this piece of fiction. I really don't own the OC, as there is a piece of her in all of us. I definitely do not own my favorite Professor Dark-and-Cranky, although... well, I'm sure you can fill in the blanks.
The Power of Us
Jessica Arbuckle (Jessi, Princess of Impatience)
July 15, 2005
"Nooooo!" the cry came, the desperate, keening wail of one who has lost something they can never retrieve, something that means the world to them. It was accented by the loud thump of a sizable hardback book against the far wall.
On the bed in the middle of the room, a woman sat, her arms wrapped around knees bent close to her body. Just as had happened before, slow, hot tears slipped down the woman's face. For many, the scene would have been ridiculous. A woman, in her mid-twenties, crying tears of sadness over the events of a simple book. But she did not care, for she knew there would be those that joined her in her sadness over the next days and weeks, just as they had done the last time.
"How could you!" she muttered, cursing the name of the writer. "Why him, why did he have to die?"
It was unfair; it was truly and completely unfair. The woman knew that many things in life weren't fair, after all, but it didn't make the situation feel any different. The writer had breathed life into that character, making him one that most who read the books loved to hate. However, he was the one that this woman had just adored. Every turn of his smirks, every nasty, sarcastic comment, every bit of rage and pain, every moment of rejection and abuse that lurked in his past was immortalized for all time, and all of those things, along every last bit of information she did not know about this character, drew her to him like a magnet.
She looked in disgust at the book now lying on the floor before turning away from it. She vowed would not finish it, ever, even though only a few chapters were left. She would not allow the writer to find a way to make his death the right thing to do for the story. She buried her face in her knees, her tears now hot on the skin of her legs.
Someone touched her arm and she tumbled off the bed in fright. Heart pounding, she righted herself and moved to peer fearfully over the bed, desperately wishing for something, anything with which to protect herself. As her eyes leveled with the top of the bed, she was finally able to see the intruder and, for a moment, she felt her heart stop. What she was seeing was an impossibility of reality. That is, an impossibility of the realities of those who didn't believe. She did believe, even though the proof of her belief was leaving her faint and breathless.
There he stood, in a glory she could never have imagined, even in the most creative parts of her mind. He was familiar, yet not. The woman thought hazily that her mind's image had indeed been altered by the movies that had resulted from the books, as she had somehow expected him to look the same. He did, and yet he did not. This man was taller and thinner, his eyes and hair impossibly darker. His robes lay almost lazily around him, if clothing could be lazy, and she wondered what they really looked like as they billowed.
He was by no means handsome in the typical sense, but he was arresting. His was an indefinable attractiveness from the draw of intelligence in glittering black eyes, the musky smell of maleness and magic. He was as pale as she had imagined, and she realized she had never met one so pale. There was no doubt that his nose was large and hooked, but it gave his pale face a commanding quality. She was also shocked to find that his hair was very much greasy, but it did not repel her. Like everything else, it was a part of him and he would not be the man he was without it. She could romanticize him in any way she wanted, but the reality of him was far more compelling than any word she had ever written.
"Disappointed?" the man asked, a slight smirk on his face as his dark eyes bored into hers.
She went to speak and found she was without words at the sound of that one word. Of all the things about him she had imagined, she had definitely done his voice a disservice, for it was truly beyond description. The tones of the one word had been like warmed black silk against bare skin, like the taste of melted dark chocolate, like the gleam of moonlight on a raven's wing, like the slow throb of thunder in a summer night's storm, like the smell of the dark corners of an old bookshop. His voice wove itself around her to evoke images in all of her senses, all of dark and sensual objects.
She shook her head violently and he moved around the bed to stand next to her. Looking up at him, even with the amused smirk on his face, she finally understood the fear he created in the other characters. He was imposing and commanding as he towered over her crouched form.
"Come, get up and finish the book," he said, holding out one empty hand and one hand with the book. She took the empty hand and allowed him to help her rise, marveling at the texture of slight roughness of the palm and fingers of his hand. At least one thing she had imagined about him had been right. Once she had stood, he moved the book closer to her, but she glared at it and then at him.
"I refuse. This time it went too far," she said in an angry voice, wiping away a few stray tears that fell from looking at it and remembering the words, they way it had happened. Silly to be crying when she had a perfectly good figment of her imagination in front of her. Yet, something told her that this was no figment.
"Why, because I was killed?" he asked, smirking. "As touching as your concern is, I'm a surly, dark, greasy git. It was time to go."
"No, don't say that. You were important. What you did mattered and now, without you, there will be more death," she insisted hotly.
He seemed amused as he held her gaze with his own. "But that was her decision in telling the tale how she chose it," he said, his voice almost gentle.
"Why are you defending her? You are a figment of my imagination, you should be agreeing with me!" she said, moving away from him angrily.
He snorted and grabbed her hand as she moved away. "Do I feel like a figment of your imagination?" he asked, gripping her hand tightly.
He most definitely did not and she reached out with her other hand, daring to do something she had always imagined doing. She touched his hair, the look of surprise registering on her face at the softness of it. She had seen how greasy and lank it was, but the texture was in complete contrast to that.
He looked at her and this time he simply smiled patiently. "I knew you would do that," he said, his dark eyes alight with amusement.
"You used Legilimency on me?" she asked, giving him a shocked look. "I know I'm not magical, and wouldn't have sensed it, but still, that is pretty rude."
"No, I knew you would do it because you, like many others, have a grand fascination for my rather unpleasant looking hair. I assure you, looks can be very deceiving," he said.
"Well, I'm glad you didn't invade my mind. It seems kind of unsettling, especially when I have no magic to stop you," she said, feeling relieved and sad at once. What she wouldn't give to have magic, to live in the world he inhabited.
"Have you learned nothing?" he asked, his voice stern, yet not harsh or cruel. He was sneering slightly, in impatience, not anger or disgust. "Why do you believe that because you do not engage in foolish wand waving, you have no magic?"
She laughed at the comment, but then what he said sunk in. "I have magic?" the woman asked in shock.
He sighed. "I know you are more intelligent than this, you all are, yet you all have the most trouble with realizing this truth. Your craft is your magic."
She mulled this over for a minute. "I guess I knew that, deep down. I just wish it was strong enough to make the events in that book different," she said sadly.
He tapped the side of her head impatiently. "Use your brain. I am here and not a figment of your imagination. Now think, what was the one draw of your craft, the reason you embraced it?"
"That no story has to end, and no ending or event need be the only one," she said softly, eyes wide in realization.
"Yes, very good. It is the power of all of you," he said, his gaze intense.
"The power of us?" she asked, even as her mind was formulating the answer.
"All of those of your craft. You all have the magic to make me live on - to find a thousand and one ways to bring me back or to simply ignore this book and write your own version. No one way is right. She is considered our creator by your world, but all those in your craft and all of those that your craft is based on know that some characters are created and others surface from places unknown. While it is true some are indeed formed of pure imagination, existing only in the mind of the one who created them unless they become strong enough to exist on their own, many do exist where they cannot be seen, simply waiting to be discovered and introduced to the world."
"You mean…" she breathed, the full weight of meaning settling on her.
"That story is but one interpretation of something that really happened. We all very much exist," he said, chuckling softly at the look of awe and growing excitement on her face.
"Amazing," she said. "If only…"
"Someday, my dear," he said softly, "perhaps someday you will see it all. But for now, I will simply have to suffice."
"You do," she said, placing a hand on his arm. "This is more than I could have ever imagined, ever hoped for. Meeting you is the best thing that could have ever happened."
"I am… glad," he admitted, looking faintly pleased. "And now, if you will excuse me, I am a bit behind. While it has been a pleasure, I do have to be going to my next stop."
"Next stop?" she asked in surprise.
"Do you think you are the only one of your craft that felt so strongly about me, the only one tossing that book across the room or out a window, the only one needing to be confronted with the truth?" he said with an amused smirk.
"No, I suppose not," she said, feeling a bit embarrassed. How self-centered to think she would be the only one to merit such a visit. "So you really have to go around and tell all of us?"
"Only those like yourself, that truly believe in the reality behind the fantasy. Just as the last character to fall did two years ago, I will provide the proof of the truth to those who can accept it. For the rest, they will simply accept what has happened in the story and go on to their own path in the craft from there."
"I wish you didn't have to go, but I'm glad I got this chance. Thank you," she said, reaching to give him a tentative kiss on his cool, pale cheek.
As she drew back, flushing from her boldness, one long finger touched her cheek as his eyes glowed with surprise and appreciation. "It was my pleasure," he said softly. "I do believe you are the first to ever thank me, and I've see quite a few of you already tonight from those who cheated and skipped to the end. Some are simply too much in shock, and a portion of those who aren't shocked senseless have… inappropriate designs on my person," he said, giving her a real smile that was truly extraordinary.
She snorted in amusement, and then looked at him curiously. "Why don't you do that more often?" she said, gesturing towards his face. "It changes your whole demeanor."
"I do, just not in that version of the story," he said, gesturing to the book. "Contrary to the belief of many, I do have many sides beyond that. You know that, I've seen you write them and I know more ways to write them lurk inside of you, waiting to be shared," he said, "as they must be, so you must never stop."
She returned his smile with a pleased on of her own. She, who had only ever imagined strangers reading her work, now knew her work was read by the object of so many of her stories. And from the unspoken things she could read clearly in his eyes, he enjoyed them. Now was her chance to make sure she was doing it right.
"Before you go, I want to ask…" she began, then paused. Maybe she shouldn't, maybe it was better not to know?
"Yes," he said and from the look on his face she could tell he already knew the question.
"Do you mind the pairing?" she asked, gesturing to the image on her wall, a graphical altering of movie images to put him with a certain female, a pairing nearest and dearest to the woman's heart.
"No," he said with a smile, but the look on his face closed. She was not great at reading secret emotion in others - though she could write it - so she could not tell, from his face, if there was truth to the pairing she had always favored. What would it hurt to ask?
"Is it the truth?" she asked, studying him, hoping to catch some sort of proof either way.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" he teased with a smirk, his eyes flickering for the briefest of moments. "Perhaps someday you will find out." Then he disappeared with a soft pop, leaving the woman to stare after him in frustration before she began to laugh delightedly.
She wasn't sure if it was the truth of what she had seen, or the imaginings of her mind, but she could have sworn she saw something warm in those eyes. It didn't matter, though, for they would always be paired that way in her heart.
She looked to her bed, where the loathed book lay, and she moved to pick it up. As she did, the room began to swim nauseatingly.
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The woman awoke, flying straight up into a sitting position; panting and clutching at her heart as it raced wildly. She scrubbed frantically at sleep-fuzzed eyes, focusing on the clock next to her. There, next to the brightly shining green of the time in large numerals was a smaller numerical display, a number seven, then a dash, and then a number fifteen.
"It was just a dream!" she cried out in a rush, relief coursing through her veins. The event that had been the start of her dream would not happen for over twenty hours.
She lay back on her pillows, wiping at the sheen of perspiration on her face. It was just a dream, and that fact alone caused her more relief than she had felt over many things in quite some time. Truly, only those like herself could ever understand the passion she felt for the characters of the story, how their triumphs and failures brought smiles and tears to her and how the mere thought of anything happening to her favorites was enough to induce the dream, almost a nightmare at the beginning, that she had just experienced.
Slowly her breathing calmed and she was able to reflect back on the dream. He had been perfect, the true manifestation of all the tiny details etched into her consciousness, from the subtle sneer to the silky, dark tone. He was part of a dream but for those moments, he was exactly how he should have been. He was also more - teasing, gentle, pleasant, and above all of that, completely right in what he said.
She rolled over, switching on the air conditioner to cool the sleep-fevered heat of the room before she closed her eyes. No matter what lay between the covers of the book she was to hold in her hands in less than a day, no matter who died or lived, or what plot element drove some close and others further apart, the fact remained that to her, and the others of her kind, it did not have to end that way. It didn't even have to begin that way or come close to being that way, for she, just as they, had sway over the destiny of the characters. While they might belong to the mind of the one who had written them into awareness, their fates did not rest solely in that one soul's hands.
He would live on, in one way or another. They all would.
Please R/R, I would be ever so pleased!