Animus: Quest for a Brave Heart

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling earns her credit. This is hers, scene manipulation is mine.

'The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.' -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra.

...

11: Auroral

Fred and George have cornered me with their questions and only stop at my sharp, desperate reprimand, pleading for their silence. After considering the flecks of glass in my eyes, the beginnings of tears, they turn to more light-hearted conversation. It does not last long.

'So, you know, I said to Lee that Fred and I would only continue Potterwatch if he allowed us to advertise Wheezes all the time, and—whoa.'

He is looking over my shoulder and I know that Claire has finally been spotted. No girl has a chance anymore.

I whisper, 'That's Claire,' stricken by the very thought of Oliver choosing her. My diamond eyes have returned –they are not Hope diamonds, they are plain, brown and disgustingly glassy.

Fred's gaze snaps to mine. 'She's with Wood?'

I nod and suddenly cannot look at him. 'I'm going to go find Harry and Ron,' I say and set off before the twins can protest. I chant a march in my head of left, right, left, right, one, two, three, four. My eyes follow my footsteps in my plain shoes that fail to truly match my dress.

The party has reached its peak and the dance floor is littered with couples. I pause to watch Neville expertly leading Hannah Abbott in a majestic waltz and do my best to completely bypass the mess of Cormac McLaggen arguing heatedly with Zacharias Smith. I find Harry and Ron peering out a tall, arched window, their wands tight in their grasps. The window's lock is firmly in place.

'Good evening,' I reach out to embrace him, holding on while he becomes flustered.

'Hermione…' he whines and I laugh a little as I let go.

'It's good to see you too, Ron. Now, what's out there?'

'Skeeter,' Harry mutters. Ron moves me in front of him since he is so tall. Rita is standing as a white snow queen in the cold with her blonde hair as tightly crinkled as ever and that horrible, acid green quill poised over a roll of parchment. She is sharp and at the ready. Her cameraman stands behind her, looking bored and dirty. 'For once I would just like a night where I'm not Harry Potter,' he says bitterly, rubbing his scar.

'It'll pass, mate,' says Ron. He places his hands on my shoulders. I grasp Harry's scarred hand so we are all connected.

'Yeah, well, whatever. Let's just have some fun. That's what we came for. We'll get those drinks.' But he does not move and only Ron and I can hear his silent sigh. In times like these he seems so old.

'I'm proud of you both,' I tell them and kiss their hands, one after the other. 'My boys.'

'You sound like my Mum,' Ron laughs. But they both squeeze my hands.

Then a camera explodes from the night outside and we know we have been caught. Harry curses and Ron blacks out the window in a second but it is too late. We will be in the Prophet tomorrow, no doubts.

Harry storms away and the guests part for him, in awe of his perceived royal status. Ron sighs, his hand touches my shoulder before he too leaves to lose himself in strong Firewhisky, and I wait to quell the anger burning through my veins. When I am sufficiently calm, I retrieve the Powder and, throwing the window's lock open, hurl it into the sea of reporters and slam the window back. Its glass pane shakes with my restrained anger. When my eyes open again, the outside world is black. We do not need this. I do not need this, not tonight, not now that the burning is back and clouding my senses. I do not want to give into the Passions when Oliver cannot be mine.

Harry, all who served in the name of the Light, deserve the world. We all deserve our wishes and if we cannot get it at Christmas, when can we?

-x-x-x-

Ginny asks me later why Harry is in such a foul mood. 'Skeeter,' I reply and that is all she needs. We leave Harry at the bar to readjust with an empty pitcher and a bottomless cup of air, swapping Ron's Firewhisky for hot tea. Their thoughts will be dark and Ginny knows as much as I do that if we attempt to brave their sweeping currents we will surely drown. Maybe the war killed us too.

Eventually, I crack and pull Ginny into the corner and tell her what has happened.

'Oh, Hermione, you should have told me. All these years, and I never knew! What kind of friend does that make me?'

I smile to her lightly. 'I just hid it well, or well enough. But, Gin, I don't know what to do. I'm so confused.'

Ginny grasps my shoulders and turns me around. My eyes immediately land on Oliver and Claire. She has her hand on his arm and they seem to be talking firmly and quietly. But she has her hand on his arm; her hand, his arm, and he lets her.

Ginny wraps her arm around mind and says, 'You go to him, you sort this out.'

'But I'm not—'

'Not brave enough?' She swings me around, her eyes and attitude fiery, as red as her hair. 'Hermione, you've been saying that for years, about everything, but it never stops you. Haven't you noticed? You are brave. All these years, with or without the war, you've been reeking of it.'

'But—'

'No buts!' Ginny nods over my shoulder, pointing furiously. 'Just look at them. Do they look like a happy couple to you?' I glance over my shoulder: Claire's silken hair swings as she departs, stomping on her stilettos, and Oliver bent over on a seat, holding his stomach. I turn back and she shakes her head. 'I didn't think so.'

I sigh and look at the ground as she pulls me into her embrace. 'Gin,' I whisper, 'I'm not sure if I can do this. My heart is...'

'That's what I'm trying to tell you,' she says, swaying with me gently. 'Your heart is brave. You have a brave heart.' She pats my hair back and grasps my arm again as we part. 'And you will never know that if you don't try this, okay?'

-x-x-x-

When I step through the curtains, I see Oliver standing at the cement balustrade alone, gazing out across the football field that is near the rented hall. He turns and sees me. 'Got you a drink,' he says, gesturing to two bottles of Butterbeer resting on the edge. For a moment, he stays quiet, then stands fully and steps forward, only one step. 'Couldn't keep my eyes off you all night,' he says. 'It was a chore to come out here and wait. How'd you get rid of the twins?'

'I threatened them with bookkeeping,' I tell him warily, hanging back near the door. 'They used to split it but since I do it now, they've gotten used to its absence.' I cannot tear my eyes from him either. There is a small outside light brightening the half he has avoided. Oliver is in shadow but his face is illuminated by my memory. He looks like desire tonight. His hair is spiked at the front and smooth at the back and he is clean shaven without any nicks. His black formal suit is a muggle design, at odds with his primarily wizarding background, and tailored to accentuate his broad shoulders. The tie he was wearing – red and thin – has been taken off. The top two buttons of his white shirt are undone and it is hard to tear my gaze from them. When I meet his eyes again, I know that he has been observing me too. I whisper, 'You're here.'

'I'm here. Not Claire.'

'Oh?'

'She was... well, she's gone. Socked me in the stomach with her clutch and vanished.'

Cautiously, I step forward and move to stand beside him, looking out at the football field, and curl my fingers around the unopened drink. There are indistinguishable people setting up the fireworks for midnight, running back and forth with lines of explosives. I watch them while Oliver watches me. 'I hope you're okay.'

He shrugs and lowers himself to lean against the balustrade. 'Sure. One thing about Quidditch is that you get real good at medical magic. I numbed the pain, but not the area. Wicked, huh?'

'It's something else,' I say. I feel his fingers touch my shoulder and glance to him. His hands are cold.

'You're something else,' he repeats. I stare at him until he looks away. This constant burning should kill me but I am warm, too warm. His hand falls away and, as mine shake, I open the lid on my Butterbeer. We both sip from our drinks. He places his on the cement and traces the small rim with his finger. I stalk the movement out of the corner of my eye. 'About... back then. It was stupid. I knew I had a game. I was young and didn't really know you're not supposed to do things like that to girls. Well,' he pauses and cocks his head to the side, glancing to me, 'women. Girls always seemed more like women than boys did like men back then.'

I stay silent, afraid my words of agreement will dissuade him from the topic that I had been too hesitant to breach.

'I'm sorry I stood you up – twice – and I really want to make it up to you.'

My throat has started to close up and I can feel the beginnings of tears. I have him back. I have him in my hot little hands and I have wanted this, whether I was aware of it or not, for years. 'It was a long—'

'I don't care,' Oliver almost shouts. He puts down his drink and turns to me, leans forward, bracing his weight on the edge of the balustrade. My eyes widen at his sudden vehemence and proximity. I could kiss him, I could kiss him right now. 'I don't care how long ago it was. It happened and I was a right git about it.'

I push at his chest, trying to gain my head back. 'Yes, you were,' I try to stop myself but it is pouring out of my mouth and my honesty is telling me he deserves the cold, hard truth. 'I waited for you. Waited for hours and you didn't show.'

He blinks at my brutality and leans away. My hand slides from his jacket. 'I know.'

'And then you had the gall to ask again. My friends were telling me to let you go, but I stood up for you, Oliver. I went to meet you again and then... it… it hurt. And you knew?'

He nods, like it is all he can do. I see his eyes flick across my body and down to the ground.

I swallow and step back, clutching my arms in front of me and my plain dress. 'It doesn't matter now. I couldn't go through that again, no matter the pay off.'

Oliver shakes his head and he suddenly blocks my path, his hands on my shoulders. I want to pull him closer and yet I want to shrug him off. I wish away this wretched confusion. 'You won't have to,' he says. 'I'm still learning, but I'm not so bloody stupid now.'

I stare at him. 'How can I believe you?' I whisper, gripping my elbows. 'I hardly knew you, know you.'

'That'll change if we let it. Seriously, do you think I care? And you know what?' He leans forward again and his voice has dropped to a knowing whisper. 'I don't think you care either. Does it matter to you so much?'

I look away, proving my guilt. 'I want to say it does,' I admit. 'But it doesn't. I don't know why, but it doesn't.'

'See?' He rubs my arms and, slowly, surely, I uncoil myself so when he brings me closer and into his embrace, I wrap my arms around him and breathe in his scent, tired of the whole situation and yet strangely content. 'Let me make it up to you, and then you'll know. I won't be letting you down anytime soon.'

I pull away and we return to our more neutral positions in an almost sad procession. 'Does that mean you will at one point?'

Oliver stares at his Butterbeer then grips it in both hands, fingers tapping on the glass. 'Probably. I'm not perfect, Hermione. Far from it.'

It is this honest declaration that chips the first shard of ice from my heart. I smile a watery smile to him and relax. 'That's okay.' I glance at him and see him staring at me with darkened eyes. 'Do you have a definition for this game yet?'

He starts and sets down his drink with a thud. 'You think it's a game?'

'No, I don't. I think it's different and I think I don't know anything when you're around.' I run my hand over my hair, passing my fingers over the coloured ribbons, resting my elbow on the balustrade, and peer at him. 'God, I haven't seen you in years, we never had a real relationship besides meeting in the halls and friends-of-friends and here I am, talking completely uncensored. I feel like I've known you my whole life.'

I freeze then jerkily turn and lean my back against the cement half-wall. My hand flies to my mouth. I was not supposed to say that. Why did I say that?

'I mean—'

'A puzzle.'

'What?'

'You, me,' he says cryptically, moving to stand across from me. 'Puzzle pieces that fit together.'

I stare at him. 'You're so insightful.'

He shrugs and says plainly, 'I stared death in the face and always live on the edge of an adrenaline rush. It changes you, makes you see things and be things you couldn't before. Like you. I didn't know what I saw in Claire until I saw you again.'

I swallow. My mouth is so dry. 'What did you see?'

'I saw you.'

'Me?'

'You. Every girl I've tried dating has had something like you. First they looked like you, then they were kind, determined, diligent, smart. In Claire there was hope.' He brushes back my hair briefly and when he drops his hand, I ache. 'But none of them had that look in your eyes.'

I blink, a slow, dangerous movement that makes my quivering all that more obvious. He is close, yet I lean forward, to take him in, to remember him. 'I don't have a look in my eyes, Oliver.'

'You do,' he says, nodding. He brushes back my hair again and this time his hand does not drop. His fingers graze the corner of my eyes. 'The world's in your eyes. I know it's a sappy way of saying it, and I've tried to describe it differently, but I can't. Every feeling you've got, Hermione, they show up right there.' His fingers move across my cheek. My eyes are wide and glassy, with my desire, fear and contentment flooding through. He smiles as if he understands. 'When I'm around you I feel like I can't live without you. We fit.'

He reaches forward and holds my hand, as if he is scared I might fall. I would have if not for that hold, my tether. 'You can't live without me?'

'To me,' he says, placing his hands on my waist, 'you are like flying.'

'Like flying, like love,' I find myself saying, breathlessly unable to stop the memory from surfacing, 'like you can't live without it.'

He leans forward and down and before I realise, his lips touch mine in a kiss. I give in to the heat and the ice around my heart melts as he cradles the back of my head, his hands lost in the forest of my hair. I have waited for this for my entire life. I have waited for this since the birth of the earth and the beginnings of days and I will take this memory to my grave.

I kiss him back with all the fire of a phoenix, forgetting about going slow and steady. My head is silent and I have waited my entire life for a kiss that would send me senseless. I pull him closer by his collar, wrap my arms around his back. I know I burn him too. Years have passed and still I waited for this, still our love waited to burn bright. I feel myself falling as if through space, by slow motion and suspended in time.

When we part, he pushes my hair back and knots his fingers into the stubborn curls, staring down at me with shining strength. I match his gaze, my fingers trapped in his, and he kisses their tips and lays my hand on its rightful place by his heart. I am secure in his embrace. 'Hermione,' he says, placing his forehead on mine, 'I love you. We've waited too long: I've loved you a long time.'

I kiss him, sudden and slow. I burn him, a slow burn. 'Remember that photo?'

'Definitely.'

'Fred and George took it. And you know why? Because that was the day I fell in love with you.'

In another world, the red and green fireworks begin, and the cheering is a distant cry of relief. He brushes back my hair and kisses me again, another burn to my bruised and swollen lips. Midnight presents itself: the clock will strike twelve times. Our love is its fuel.

I am a phoenix, he is my burning day and our love is reborn.

-x-x-x-

Comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading.

-AA-