Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc. belongs to JKR.
Pores bubbling with scalding oil. Muscles spasm and nerves shudder. You want out. You want it so bad you scream it and they laugh. Amused and surprised. They don't know you. Or why you're here. They've never even seen your face and yet they can conjure up enough hate to fuel the spell. They do not hate you. They don't know you. They hate your blood and what your life represents. (What it did represent before they came and took it all and gave you him who you hate and love because that is all you are capable of anymore.)
Brainwashing and prejudice are their weapons of choice now. No longer do they need Imperio or blackmail to spread their word. They are the Government now. They hold the power they coveted for so long and they use it in ways that can inspire hate for a prisoner whose face you've never seen.
Did they tell them of all the people you killed in your desperate attempts for hope? Did they show the pictures of the lifeless corpses you left behind, corpses of friends and family members, their own relatives that you struck down because it was the only way to keep on surviving? Is that what makes them hate with such power they can burn you from the inside out with curses so saturated in evil you cannot speak the incantations without pain.
You wonder what they talk of in History of Magic nowadays, back at Hogwarts (if Hogwarts still stands that is…). You always used to think it would be a forever thing. Harry Potter, saviour of the world. It was one of those set things, him living forever through the legacy of the first defeat, alongside the names of Albus Dumbledore and Merlin as the great wizards of the ages… But now he must be seen as… well, something akin to how Voldemort was talked of when you were at school. Do they fear to speak his name for fear that it may somehow resurrect his spirit? Is Malfoy seen as something like Peter Pettigrew? Are you the new Bellatrix Lestrange?
They say history repeats itself and in some ways it feels as though it has… Only in reverse. Though this time, you think, Harry wont be coming back from the grave, nor will you return to your rightful place beside him…
Even if they unlocked the chains you don't think you would manage to move. It's been that long. So long the muscles are wasted beyond repair. It's a miracle you're still alive, you think sometimes. But no. Not a miracle. It is simply magic. Spells and potions woven into your blood to keep you living, nutrients injected into your body with water by magic so there is no hope of starving yourselves to death. They want you alive for no reason other than to let you suffer.
You open your eyes (a habit still. There is never anything to see, even their spells are blacked out…) to the sound of them leaving. You noted this with no small amount of pride; it was something he had been trying to teach you for a while now, shutting your mind off to the pain. Sometimes you would not need it, sometimes it just hurt so much it ceased to hurt at all, but others, like today, you needed ever ounce of mind power to block it out. He told you focus on something, but not too hard, ('don't force it', he said). Focus on something so the thoughts simply flow and you become absorbed. He said it should be like reading and it was. You smile, like a first year completing her first spell – accomplishment – it is a feeling you thought you had left long behind, but apparently not. And that feels good.
Another day (month/year?) another blinding bout of pain. They have so much hate. You note it with disgust and appal, but also a form of wonder. You never managed that kind of emotion, raw enough to drive spells of this strength. Again you wonder over the power He must have over the human mind, to enable these people, barely eighteen, to hate with such passionate ferocity it could hurt that much… It is impressive. (Disgusting, but impressive.)
It makes you think sometimes, was that what made them win? The raw emotion that fuelled power far greater than anything you got on determination and strength alone. It is strange really, the possibility that they won on the weight of an emotion. What is the most prominent value of the pureblood way of life? Strength. And what is emotion? Weakness – the greatest weakness.
Not for the first time you ponder and hate the thought of Good being the weaker of the two. That is not how it should ever be, they were not even supposed to be equal… Was that what lost it for you? That certainty that you were going to win? That firm belief that even if they grew in numbers and strength, you would still triumph simply because what? You had God on your side? It has been forever since you believed in God.
"Well… We've got nothing to fear in death."
"Is that a good thing?"
"I'm not sure."
"You believe in God?"
"No. You?"
"Did… but that was a long time ago. Times change. I believe in Satan. Does that count?"
"I don't think so."
"Oh. Still, it's funny really…"
"What is?"
"People say that suffering should either make your link with Him stronger or destroy it; all it did for me was leave me hating the devil…. Until, one day I just woke up and… well, he just wasn't there."
"Not much of a Job then?"
She laughed. It sounded hollow. "No. Would make my father proud, he never was much of a believer."
"Wouldn't have taken you to be one either though… Know-it-all bookworms do tend to be rather atheist with all their demands for proof and reasoning."
"I was never like that before. Before Hogwarts they called me a dreamer. My head always in the clouds. I read too many books… I was always a hard worker, but stories interested me far more than science… Magic and castles and fairies… That was what I lived for.
"But when I got my letter, all those dreams came true… For you those textbooks were work, but to me they were the fantasy stories I loved as a child. I wanted to know it all. I wanted to see how it worked, and how I had escaped thinking it wasn't real for so long. I don't think it was until the war really began that it really sunk in that I wasn't living a dream… the good guys never died in fairytales."
"Hmmm. Hermione Granger the Dreamer. I'm not sure, doesn't have quite the same ring, does it?"
She laughed again.
Did we never hate enough? You ask yourself as they leave. If you had tried just that little bit harder, hated a little bit more, fought that little bit dirtier? Would that have won it for you? Were you really just too kind hearted to conquer? But then you remember him. Your companion. Draco Malfoy. Your soul mate because you have no one left.
He fought the dirtiest of them all. A traitor. He used the weapons they had given him and turned them back on the ones who raised him. He killed childhood friends, cousins… He stood and watched as his father was executed and it was as though it kept him fighting. The pure adrenaline of being so wrong. So utterly, utterly bad. He became the enemy of everything he stood for and it made him powerful. But it also made him arrogant and perhaps through that it made him lose…
No. Fighting dirty was not what was needed to win. And nor was hate, because you have more of it now than ever and it gives you no strength. (Self destructive. That is what you would be if they allowed it. But they won't ever let you die.)
The thing you have really grown to hate. More than the pain and the helplessness and the dependency on the bastard that got you here in the first place. The thing that pains you the most is their indifference.
You remember before. When you were a prisoner of war (it only happened once, back when Harry was there to get you out). They had tortured you on the hour every hour (there was a grandfather clock just outside your holding cell) and they did it with such relish. As though every splinter of pain that wormed its way out of your heart (because that is where it feels it is coming from – within you – mind numbing and personal), as though every last scream meant the world to them. At the time it made you sick – it made you want to look down on their bloodied corpses and smile, dancing on their graves – but now… now the thought of that gives you a twisted sense of nostalgia. Back then you meant something. The people holding you (torturing, beating, hurting you) felt something in your pain. Now they feel nothing.
It has been so long that many of them no longer remember why you are here. (How old are you now? You can't remember and neither can he. You have felt so old for so long now. Spent. You feel spent.) They beat you because they are told to. Because it is good practice. There is no malice in it. No feeling or accomplishment in their taunts. Their hearts are not in it as their tear you apart, and that makes you feel so worthless. Because if they don't care (even to hate) then who is there left?
All point in living evaporated long ago and now you mean so little the people who torture you cant even be bothered to hate you. Not truly. Not personally. You mean that little. They hate your reputation and your blood, but not you. What makes you you is not considered as they bleed you dry only to replenish the blood. They wont ever let you die.
They are having the beginners play with you now, he says. He can tell because he was one once. You never learnt the Dark Arts and he confides to you that he misses it. He misses the sense of power you can only experience in the pain of another. ("Not blood pain. Not pain if flesh or mind. It's pain of the soul. That is what it feels to wield true power. The power of gods. You can make them hurt to the very core of what is them. Not physical or mental. It's spiritual pain and I know it's wrong but it felt so good.") (It is almost ironic that the thing he misses so much is the very thing you experience day by day.)
He says that the way their voice shakes and the spell shudders to a halt with a whimper that could be yours or theirs, he says that tells you they are not sure whether they like what their doing. He says that shudder is their conscience. He says that after a few months that shudder fades to nothing. He says that it's human nature to adapt. You don't think you like human nature very much.
"You know, I used to play the piano."
Stunned silence and then, "What?"
"I used to play the piano."
"You did?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"Yeah… I was quite good too."
"Oh. Really?"
"Yeah. Used to like it."
"Cool."
"Yeah."
This happened a lot nowadays. You sometimes think it shows how much the two of you have changed. Before he never volunteered information about himself – he relished the mystery surrounding his character and his decisions – never once, in all your time fighting alongside one another, never once did he talk about his childhood, or in fact anything about his life. It was like the fighting was his job and he kept it utterly separate from his personal life. That was where he differed from you, you realise, to him the fighting was simply a stepping-stone to something greater, but for you fighting was everything. It held your entire existence in the balance and you gave it your all. Again you wonder if you both deserve this punishment, you are both here for entirely different reasons. At times you hate yourself and think with all your soul that it is you who should be here, who deserves to sit here to rot (living – you will rot with your heart beating – that is their goal), and in other cases you hate him and truly, honestly believe that he is the only one who merited such punishment (after all, you did no more than Ron or Ginny, and yet they escaped with death (painful but complete)).
But all the same, you are both here, both chained to the same fate – one you can neither see nor predict (you were so certain they would have him put to death). And you talk (because it is all you have left. The one outlet in your own personal hell). You bitch and he teases you, he shouts and you curse him, he laughs in their faces and you bleed and sob, and then he does the unexpected, a real conversation (the type shared by friends, not mortal enemies chained in a pitch black cave). He'd say something, something utterly random about the past, you'd exchange pointless pleasantries about it and then you'd stop and think. You would sit and think and try and picture what he said, and play it over in your head until you made it real.
Him sitting at a pianoforte, playing in a huge hall, a ballroom perhaps, with swirling couples, waltzing to the music. The room was beautiful. Tall. Ceiling as high as the Great Hall at Hogwarts, only it's arches met as a dome, a great dark violet pool with all the stars of the night sky reflected in it. It is almost as though you remember the sound of the piano keys, ringing out to mingle with the peaceful chattering of guests at whatever event was being held. You almost remember the floor to ceiling windows that looked west, and the deep lavender, mingled with crimson that stained the evening sky. You almost remember walking out, out onto a wide balcony, overlooking mountains and trees and beautiful grounds at a beautiful stately home. You almost remember sitting there, on the brink of night, the brink of darkness, and listening to him.
That's what he does sometimes. He lets you remember things too beautiful to ever witness. He lets you feel things you don't think you ever felt. He lets you live, as you sit in that dark shared cell where your only pastime would be trying to guess the weather from the quality of the air or the consistency of the water that slides down your back with numbing monotony. With his pointless facts about an existence long since passed he gives you something to focus on and smile about. He gives you something to live for…
"Don't forget me?"
"Ha, its not like I can really, now is it?"
The cell was dark, always dark. You had been here only a matter of weeks and it was still only dawning on you that this was it. This was the rest of your life; cold, dark and uncomfortable with only a childhood rival as company. You couldn't even see him. His company was, as always, a painful reminder of what you wished you could forget, but in some ways you found you had formed some form of attachment to his familiar and almost welcome derisive drawl.
"No…. I mean. Well. They might take you out or something? You know… I don't know… I… well, you were a traitor, right? They, they're going to want to punish you slightly more effectively than just hanging you in the dark to rot, aren't they? I'm not dangerous anymore because I have no powers or anyone to back me up, but you, you being alive is all the power you need. You're an insult to him. You said it yourself, your very existence insults him. And… well. Voldemort doesn't seem like the type to take insult very well."
"So, you think they're going to come kill me?" And you blink at the response…because he sounds as though it never occurred to him. The wave of pity that strikes you then is unlike anything you ever experienced related to him. You don't really understand, it's the same as what you felt when you explained to those sobbing first year muggleborns that, yes, they had just entered a world of magic where dreams came true with the wave of a wooden stick, but they had also entered into a nightmare that should never have been possible. It was that same sense of pity you felt when telling those small children that they would have been better off staying with their parents, but if they went back now their whole family would end up dead. It was what you felt when you shattered the innocent illusions of an eleven-year-old, telling them they may have to learn to kill if they wanted to survive the year…
He sounded bewildered by the fact that they would want him dead. He sounded so alienly naive that you had to double take and scramble back the words that a moment ago were on the tip of your tongue.
"Well, what I mean is… If they take you somewhere else, if this isn't enough punishment because we've got company or something… If we're put in isolation or executed… if this is just temporary… I just don't want you dieing hating me… That's all."
There was a momentary pause as he absorbed your words, and then:
"I told you." His voice was so quiet you had to strain to hear it. "I told you before, I don't hate you. I haven't done for a long time. I mean, you're as irritating as hell, and sometimes I blame you for everything… just because… well – there isn't really anyone else to blame anymore is there? And sometimes I think it would be so much better if we had just not fought– after the end – when they came for us, if we had just not fought none of this would have happened. And that would have been better. And sometimes I hate you for that. Because that was the only reason why I fought at all. Redemption or something. Because I had nothing left to lose and your life seemed like something better to fight for than my own and well… I 'spose I was just trying to make it up to you. In some twisted roundabout kind of way. And I'm sorry. Because I screwed that up too… Look where it got us." He laughs, the hollow laugh of a dead man. "And I know you hate me. And I probably deserve it because in the end it is my fault. But all the same, I'll ask the same back of you. Just don't die hating me like you do them. And I did try. In the end. I know… in the end when it didn't matter anymore and just made things worse, but I did try." He laughed again. "Guess I'm just not hero material, eh? So yeah… I'm sorry, and I'm not likely to say it again so remember it. Oh – and don't bring this up when we're in the middle of some big shouting match or something… I don't take well to having my own apologies thrown back in my face."
And you just stared at him, because you couldn't think of anything else to do. You just stared in the direction of his voice in disbelief. Because he… He understood. He didn't know he did, and if you had your way he wouldn't either… But… He knew what it was you were feeling. What you had been feeling since the moment they shut the door. And he blamed you and he blamed himself and he hated them and what he'd done. And he didn't want to apologise but he felt he needed to because… just because. Because they were both each other's reasons for being here although they blamed themselves… and… and you knew exactly what he meant.
The pause was almost shuddering in its intensity as you sat too stunned to word an answer and he waited in anticipation of a harsh rejection.
You blinked, swallowed and responded softly. "I– I'm sorry too. And I hate you and blame you and hate and blame myself, but… But I don't think anyone deserves this. Not you or me or even them. I want to get out but I know if I did I would have nothing…. So it's a losing battle really. A losing battle against myself…
"I don't know how long we're going to be together in here… but. Just in case something does happen… I do hate you and I do blame you… but right now it isn't half as much as I hate and blame myself… and if I get the chance, it will be them I die hating. So… yeah. Truce or something, I suppose."
And he had meant it too. The bit about never repeating it. And in a way… it seemed to make it more solid… more real. Because it meant enough to embarrass him, the fact that he was sorry and he had been wrong. And you had meant it too. There really was no point lying to each other, you knew it then and you know it now. But there was something in his voice then, something you would never forget. It was sincere in a way you would never have anticipated from him… but at the same time hopelessly proud, as though he knew he was running himself into the ground but there was no reason why he shouldn't do it with his head held high. You could almost see his chin angled in defiance while he sneered his apology at you, willing you to believe him because there was no way he would lower himself to grovel.
It was a moment you chose to near enough ignore in significance at the beginning, that particular truce of course lasting all of a day, but in essence that one conversation, shared on the brink of the realisation of the true hopelessness of you situation, was what kept the two of you going. You hated and blamed each other, and perhaps you always would… but you were united in a common cause. As such. Because there was no escaping it, even in death and if you could not hate together then what hope did you ever have of agreeing?
AN: Me giveth up. The chapter ends here and I am well aware of how bad it is but nergh. I cant be bothered. So forgive the rambling trains of thoughts (im never any good at cutting them down) and the general pointlessness of the whole thing really. Whether you like it, hate it, or just generally despair for my sanity (or their sanity or the sanity of the human race as a whole) please Review?