Diclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER. JK ROWLING OWNS IT, WITH PUBLISHING RIGHTS TO VARIOUS PUBLISHERS AND MOVIE RIGHTS TO WARNER BROTHERS INC.
The Funeral of Hearts
The sky burns with a tempting glow, smoky wisps of cloud blazing across the horizon.
The moon hides from the atmosphere, concealing herself in the night. Even the stars veil themselves in the twinkling tears they cry. Only the bravest of constellations and ethereal forms gather to witness the haunting event that will mark history in this world, this age. Brightly, the Milky Way and Orion Belt burn- shedding light on this mysterious revolution.
Therein lies a field, barren with dry ground and withering life.
Death.
From afar, a radiant flame burns with thrashing colors, the intensity and vivacity of the comely battle turns into something much more- beautiful. Men and women alike cloak themselves with robes, hiding them away from the night- hopefully delaying their inevitable ends. Streaks of magic whiz past many of these witches and wizards- most of them still children. They fall to the darkness of it all, the sinful wickedness of war and chaos twisting in their reflections.
Night is befalling this field, the quiet and calm serenity of this world soon to be put to an end. The war moves on, swooping down onto this scene as it did so many others;; already lives are lost. The rivers bleed scarlet with the tragic essence of those forsaken; the earth crumbles with the remains of those fallen. Cries of pain and grief merge with the reverberation of war howls and pleas; dying silence ceases.
A disgusted expression enters her face;; she licks her bottom lip, its trail of blood slipping down her chin. The body of the wizard she has just killed is staring back at her, the empty eyes dark with a last wish of fear. His name used to be Gregory Goyle- used to be. She murmurs a quiet prayer for him, stepping over his body lightly.
She descends onto another fighter.
The pretty witch is adorning sparking, emerald gems around her pale neck. A flash of regret and revelation crosses in her eyes as she realizes what she is doing. She hesitates a moment, stepping back and looking at her. Was glory worth it? Was power and fame possibly worth it? Another feeble view is directed at the girl standing before her. So much more worthy…
Daphne Greengrass raises her wand; she falls.
Tsk, tsk.
The girl sighs, shakes her head and moves away.
Her eyes pierce through the battlefield, scans quickly here and there before moving once more. Her body aches with a dull numbness, a gash decorates her right leg as blood flows from her brow. Roughly she knows how to eliminate her enemies, how to bring peace to those who used to be her classmates. She shies away from the beautiful disaster of it all, specifically looking for one person.
The wand in her hand transfigures into a knife;; the blade blinds eyes with a white-silver glare. Crimson matter is stained into the perfect steel, the shimmer of blood blessing the death of so many. Intricate designs embellish the dagger as it raises silently into the air, preparing to strike.
She glances furtively at her enemy, lips parted slightly as she witnesses his power and strength. A low murmur escapes her lips;; she was aghast at how cruel and heartless he was- how she was. A moan escapes her throat when she sees him kill with a glittering gleam in his eyes that burns for her- only for her.
She can't kill him.. Not just yet.
It is their pact, their honoring deal.
Not until everything was done would they move quietly toward one another.
It is their dream, their promise.
When did this all begin?
This moment of truth and respect?
It was this childish ambition and rivalry that resulted in death and war.
He stares at her, a hungry look enters his oh-so pale face.
The hungry look isn't a passion for lust, but for death.
Or perhaps it is for lust, a lust for death.
She is everything and nothing to him.
The silly girl has had such an impact in his life, that everything dear was now tainted.
While she strives and flourishes,
He fails and withers.
Restless, silent, restrained.
He is trapped inside this body that forbids him.
This sanity that reigns over his soul confuses him.
He is lost within this world that expects so much of him.
Frozen within his spot, he holds his gaze with her.
Tell me, sweetheart, when will this be over?
Tell me, love, when will we be through?
Tell me, darling, when will grace bless us?
Ridiculous, betraying thoughts promise him images of a denied life.
She is ruining everything,
Just as planned.
She brings forth rays of goodness, of enviable purity.
She stands in the way of absolute power, glory.
His gray eyes remain upon on her face a moment more, wavering slightly as his heart begins to pound.
A throb enters his body, the painful pleasure beginning to build up within him as he strikes and moves, strikes and moves.
Someone charges at him.
Ernie MacMillan falls at his feet, his eyes open.
A rather nasty shocked expression is etched into his face, forever more printed.
His wand lays next to his body, the fallen boy spread on grass and dirt- serving as his deathbed.
He sneers at the fallen boy, stormy eyes lingering on the sight of a dead body for just another moment.
She is weak, unstable and frail before him.
He is strong and powerful, so cruel and so full of malice.
He is a… symbol of everything she detests, loathes.
He can stop her with just a single glance.
He is strong enough to strike her silent.
He resembles a thorn in her heart.
Darkness calls to her, craves for power…
Her magic..
He is the epitome of evil, calling for her…
His magic…
And what frightens her, is that she is attracted to it…
Are different.
When she had first met him,
He was cruel and selfish.
Now, when she will last greet him,
He is a melancholy beauty.
She has spent eight years studying him, observing him.
And now she is afraid,
Of not knowing him.
But the truth is- she does know him.
And he knows her.
How will she win?
How will she defeat him?
How will she kill her very counterpart?
There is a strong connection between them; everyone can see it, whispering.
They are not fools; they recognize the strong emotion that binds them for eternity.
They are stopped only by the emotion that confuses them, bewilderment splashed across their features.
Hate and Love is separated by a thin line.
How willing are they to cross it?
Love.
It is a mere dream, a whimsical emotion.
What right do they have to it?
It is denied to them, tucked away from them.
Was it really wrong, then, to see such fragile shadows?
Hate.
It is a euphoric feeling that tempts them, blinds them.
Why should they decline their feelings?
It is a despairing perfection, a lonely path.
What did they really feel then?
This is a trivial battle, nothing more than a contest to see who is the better fighter.
This is their game, their questionable adoration for the other.
Affection, love..
Loathing, hate…
It is all the same, isn't it?
To love is to believe in the impossible, to know that there is more to this world.
But to accept true love is to glance into paradise, utopia.
And everyone knows that true love does not exist.
Not for these two.
They are two sides of a coin, separated by an hourglass.
Perhaps,
In another time, they can be together;
In another world, they could love each other.
But now, in this time..
… in this world …
They are miserable and confused.
Harry watches them, ignoring all fleeting amounts of pain that scars him.
Blood seeps into his clothing, bodies dropping before him.
Hexes soar into the sky, blinding him.
All he sees is her.
And him.
He stumbles toward them, his arms outstretched and open wide for her.
His fingers grasp only at the simple thought of her.
He falls down.
Harry struggles, trying so desperately to get back up.
His emerald eyes glance at him, a glaring hint of envy and hatred burns.
Knees buckle as he stands up and slips into a stagger.
Why does he get to have her?
Why does she belong to him?
Why did they ever have a chance together?
A reflection of this scene is displayed in his eyes, folding out in front of him.
He is moments away, a film of clear mist forming in the corners of his eyes.
Harry sees her, and only her.
She drew him in, from the very moment they met.
She captured his soul, his heart when they first shared their words.
She is everything.
Why?
Because she is strong and beautiful,
Understanding.
She is the only one who can release his troubles.
She is the only one who can keep him from the tempting darker side.
She is the only one ..
His only one.
Most have fallen;; only the strong stand now.
The few who are standing move to the side, silently watching the final battle take place.
Voldemort is dead; Dumbledore is dead.
Now they wait for the final pair to duel, now they wait for the war to end.
Vincent Crabbe watches from the side; Hannah Abbott steps back.
Blaise Zabini is dead; Ginerva Weasley is injured.
Marcus Flint falls; Luna Lovegood attacks.
Everyone else is silent.
Either dead or alive.
Now ... They watch and listen, wait and are ready.
If she dies, her friends will give up hope- they will turn to Harry in dismay.
Harry will lose hope; he will fall a blind death.
If he dies, his cause will fail and his allies and peers will flee in fear.
With him dead and with Voldemort dead, there is nothing worth fighting for left.
Finally, it is time.
He moves quietly- slinking towards her with a sinking emotion in his eyes.
His lips move, but no sound is made.
He clutches his wand, his right hand trembles slightly as he realizes this is it.
Sweat gathers, tickling the nape of his neck as his breathe turns shallow.
He slowly counts his footsteps, the clock down his path of death, ticking.
She gulps, pushing back blood and thoughts of fear.
Panic rises in her eyes; terror replacing the bravery reflected in his lifeless eyes.
The dull, brown irises widen as they gather the world in vision.
Everything bursts into color as she quivers; she raises her wand slightly, moving forward.
They advance, slowly counting the moments till the meet finally- as one.
Harry wobbles towards the nearest patch of green grass.
Seamus and Ron hold him up, each housemate taking an arm and swinging it over their shoulders.
Harry takes their help without words, leaning onto them for support.
A question shadows his eyes, a single glance directed towards Seamus.
Where is Dean?
Seamus shakes his head, a choked cry suppressed.
Poor boy …
Dean Thomas is dead.
Harry swallows back his guilt, his tears.
A side glance is directed towards the ground, emerald eyes spiraling downwards as the image of the fallen boy enters his mind.
---
She steps closer, her feet digging into the earth as a rhythm begins to drum within her chest.
It is a tantalizing feeling that falls into place with the fear and curiosity that demands her attention.
And for that, she is ashamed.
This story, this reality is supposed to be tragic, this poignant war ending with a final goodbye.
So why does it feel so right?
His steps are heavy and dragging, this prolonged encounter between them has come at last.
This death that he waits for, this fate that he is condemned to…
He moves with precise, careful movements- delicate in his own way.
Depth and substance, talent and ability.
It is all the same.
This imperfection, this disgrace that honors them.
What more is there to this closing?
Now … it is the time.
They stand before one another, unsure and uneasy.
Their eyes avoid the dramatic picture that they are producing.
Fingers grip wands tightly as they breathe in with shallow hearts.
Concentrating, they glance up and see each other.
Parted lips, forgotten words.
Trembling bodies, fear stirring.
How long?
Their meeting needs no words, no comfort or solace.
This is a solemn occasion, this is a sinful act they are proceeding with.
And yet it feels so right, so … desirable.
It is their birthright, their stake to honor.
Without it, their lives would have no meaning.
This is what they want:
Perfection.
Quiet gasps greet them, eyes widen as wands raise.
Rising, up and up…
Eyes close.
Harry focuses on her, the mere sight of her fuzzy and blurred.
He tightens his grip on his support, willing his eyes to place all of his attention on her.
None on him, none at all. He is nothing, nothing more than a whisper of an envious dream.
Harry clenches his teeth, cursing his poor vision.
He needs to watch them, he needs to see her glory.
Because she is stronger than him,
Than any of them…
She gives her friends a slight acknowledgement, nodding her head and smiling briefly.
He spits at the ground, throwing back commands to his peers.
Everyone steps back, not wanting to be involved.
They hide away in fear and shame, they don't want this.
None of them do.
But, perhaps, it is needed- they realize that.
Balance is everything, it is fate.
And right now, they are willing to tip the scales and let chaos loose.
Because in order to live in perfection, you must first rid away the last of your evils.
And though she may not be it, she is willing to sacrifice herself for this.
Because he is not evil without her.
And what they are doing is not evil without each other.
Eyes flicker, hearts beat.
Wands are raised-
Spells and curses are muttered.
Shuffling and whispers cease.
A bright light encases this battle, the sun turning the tide and spilling forth rays of light and power.
Gold waves blind them, twisting them to close their eyes and hope.
Hope, hope for the best and the worst.
Hope, hope for their lives.
Hope, hope for time.
The others fall in pain, crying out as they struggle to see what's become of them.
A whole new light imprisons the battle ground.
Emerald, lovely emerald power throbbing with passion creeps onto the dawning earth.
Breath is hitched as they wait, waiting to see who has won.
Harry cries out and lashes out unexpectedly, reaching out for her.
His glasses slip down the end of his nose, falling …
" No … "
Everyone murmurs this quiet conclusion, this final cry to this episode.
What they see is what they cannot believe, what they cannot even dream about.
The End.
Red silk draped over two wands, a chain forgotten..
These are the remains of two powerful warriors, two great heroes.
Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger,
Are gone.
His body lay next to hers, his arm wrapped around her waist in protection.
Her body lay beneath his, her petite frame tucked below him.
Their fingers intertwined,
Lips parted slightly..
Eyes blank, lifeless and open.
It looked like a romantic picture,
A hopeless escape of two lovers from a world
That denied them everything.
Unacceptable.
Harry makes his way towards her, dragging his limping leg.
His teeth clenched, his pulse quickening as his rage built.
Seething anger…
He falls at her side, not sure of how to approach.
Tears begin to slip down his dirty, muddied cheek.
Hot humiliation blazes within his cheeks,
Coloring them a faint rouge…
He cannot disturb them,
He cannot leave them,
He cannot dream.
Amidst the screams and the howls,
The blood and the bodies,
The dust and the heat..
He still sees her;
The image of his lost one is forever implanted within his memory.
He glances at her one last time,
Before moving on.
Harry is torn away, Ron and Neville pulling him as they yell out commands.
Seamus grabs abandoned wands, preparing for another battle.
They disappear within the sea of livid and enraged souls who had fought so hard,
All for despair.
The crowd moans with fury and anger;
What now?
The war continues…
And the two soldiers lay forgotten,
Together at last.
This is a tragedy that they all burn in, that they all are born into. This sin is what costs them eternity, utopia. And yet they shall continue to bask in the glorious darkness and simple light; why? Because this is their reality, their humanity.
How do you like? I finished this after so long, gosh.. Its different than some of what I have written, so ... -shrug- REVIEWS are always welcome :)