Disclaimer: I don't own the quote or the theory (Again!) (You'll know what I'm talking about if you read this). It belongs to my history teacher, and The DaVinci Code. Hee hee.
A/N: And yet another one-shot to add to my ever growing collection. Let's see if anyone can figure out the relevance of the title… even I had to ask (my beta is the genius behind a couple of my titles).
The Fine Print
It was her 20th birthday. She stood in the yard, surrounded by friends and family; chattering, laughing… and right then and there it seemed, nothing could go wrong. Someone plucked a lone wildflower from the grass and stuck it in her hair.
For luck, they said.
The backdoor flung open and his figure was framed in the doorway, haphazard and breathless.
"It's here," he said. "The war has started."
They moved like zombies across the battlefield, though they fought viciously. She stood amid it all, the spells flying by, the shrieks and curses… and it felt strange because she couldn't actually hear it at all.
She marveled at how little compassion she saw through the holes in their masks. In all her friends she saw that spark of determination and righteousness in their gaze, but these people… where was that telltale light in their eyes that believed in this twisted cause? What if…
A man she'd known many years collapsed in front of her, and the trance was broken. She rushed forward with newfound vigor, at the same time trying to muffle this deafening roar. Then she found herself behind a clump of trees, mouth clamped shut by a pale, firm hand.
"Hermione," said a voice.
"Oh, it's you," she breathed with a sight of relief. "Draco."
He smiled a grim, grim smile. "I wanted to see you before… if… if I… we…"
She placed a gentle finger to his lips, and they silently watched the scene from their secluded spot.
"They don't really believe in it anymore… do they?" she murmured. "They've seen too many from their side die as well…and even they still have feelings..."
"Yes." He replied. "Everyone still has some good in them… brainwash is a hard thing to cure." He sighed. "Maybe if we'd just put more effort into helping them all convert… but…" glancing at her helplessly, he continued, "…would it even have helped? They already know it's wrong… it's just that…"
"…they're already too far in." she finished.
Her eyes met his.
"We should be getting back to help the others." She said abruptly.
"They're doing fine without us." He observed. "Voldemort can't win with followers who have lost all faith… and who've betrayed him"
She looked at him sharply. "Many are spies for us now, aren't they?"
"Of course. See the direction of their curses? They're aiming at themselves."
A few stray tears escaped town her face. "We couldn't have done it without them. Brave souls… so brave…"
"Too bad they'll never even get credit for it." He wiped her tears with the sleeve of torn robe. "But that's a price we've got to pay."
"B-but we'll tell it for them won't we? We'll tell the world once this is over! They'll write books …memorials… there'll be all sorts of holidays dedicated to them…"
He grabbed her shoulder. "Think about it Hermione! Who's going to believe us? It's only us two who know! So many will be dead by nightfall. Dumbledore's gone already. These people have seen too much… they'll never accept it! The confusion will cause another war in itself… and that's just something we can't risk! You've seen the horrors… you know why this can't happen again!"
The tears were coming down his face too now.
"Besides," he said, "it's no use, they're…"
"…already too far in." She muttered as if reading from a textbook. "History is always written by the winners. And we are the winners… not them."
"They do win," he consoled softly; "It's still their cause that wins, after all."
"But history is still written by us. Why?" A sob escaped from her throat. "Why should we get to tell the world our story and not them? They deserved that chance too! For Pete's sake!" she shrieked, "I. Don't. Want. To. Write. History. Anymore! I've had enough!"
She glared at him, and tore out the flower he'd stuck in behind her ear earlier. An eternity ago. It had long wilted, drooping as she held it by the stem, as if it were mourning this loss of justice as well.
"We'll tell the world." She stated, daring him to object. "I don't care what they think. We'll tell them and they'll listen and they'll GET IT!"
He considered her momentarily. "Alright. We can try. But Hermione… we can tell their story for them all we want, and the fact's not going to change. History is written by the winners. Always has been, always will."
"But we can give them hope." She whispered. "Even if it's just that tiny little inkling of it…"
"Hope…" he murmured. Giving her a faint smile and the briefest of nods, their hands intertwined.
The corners of her lips tilted upwards. "Let's go." She motioned towards the battlefield. "They'll be waiting for us."
He nodded.
The wilted flower fell to the ground.
A/N: What can I say? Inspiration called. (Hopefully this one doesn't need an explanation.)