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author's notes:
I started a community. It's appropriately called "good shit." You can find it if you click "communities" on my profile. It's run by myself and trusted friends. You will find quality fics there from various fandoms. You might want to follow it.
I have a twitter. My handle is the same as my penname. I'm going to be more active on it soon. If you're interested in the author behind the fics, you may like to follow it. I also have a tumblr, same as my penname.
My beta position is cursed like the DADA position at Hogwarts. This has been a public service announcement.
This chapter is an interlude. A heartbeat. An eternity.
Enjoy.
Recently beta'd by [ amidtheflowers ]. Thank you, thank you! You did an amazing job and your comments were hilarious.
If you reach the end of this chapter, please review.
fair fortune
by
sweetasylums
in·ter·lude: an intervening period of time.
Calm.
Quiet.
Nothingness.
This is the fountain's gift.
Water surrounds her in all directions for as far as she can see. She is still, floating in the dark depth. Her hair is a halo around her, swaying as it pleases. Somewhere above, she sees a glimmer. It beckons her forth. The faint illumination grows wider as she gets closer.
Nothing hurts. This must be death.
She isn't afraid she won't make it in time. There is a calm certainty that assures her she is fine; that she has nothing to worry about.
All is well.
White light and silence greet her as her head breaks the surface. It's bright, too bright to see. It bounces off the water, gleaming, blinding. Light is pulsing from all directions. She wishes she could see, wonders where she is.
The space around her answers. A few metres away, knee-deep in serene waters, is a woman. She is dressed in flowing white silks. Her skin is as milky as the fabric that clothes her. Auburn hair falls to her waist. The look on her face is sad. Lost.
"Excuse me?" Hermione asks. Her voice echoes. The woman looks to her but does not move from where she stands. "Where am I?"
"Don't you know?" the woman wonders. Their eyes meet. Hermione has only seen that color of green once before. On a boy. A boy who lived, a boy who died. Lily Potter has come to meet her, here at the end.
Don't you know? The echo reaches her again. Does she? Yes, she supposes she does. She's not here, not there. She's somewhere in-between. "How did I get here?"
"The fountain took you."
Well. So much for saving the world. "Lovely," she drawls. "So glad I spent the last years of my life searching for it."
Lily doesn't laugh. Maybe there's no humor in the afterlife. Only sadness lingers here, thick like a fog, rolling over still water. The woman's face remains crestfallen. Hermione wonders if it's her, Lily. If she's the reason this place is forlorn.
"It's a gift," Lily says after a long while, green eyes searching the waters like it's a dangerous cure, a gilded blade, a poison to answer to her prayers.
"How?" Hermione wonders. She treads water, nears Lily. She stands as she reaches something sloped – the shore, perhaps, if there is such a thing here. She is not clothed, she notes. Her body is younger now, unscarred. She wishes she had something to wear, anything, even Lily's silks. And then it's there, as soft as the water is on her skin, draped around her as if it had always been there.
"It is life," says Lily. "Youth. A second chance."
"To live?" she asks, looking down at the water guardedly. As if it might swallow her up and spit her back out in the hell she just came from. Her life, if one could call it that. That torment of an existence. She watched everyone she loved get torn apart by bravery, by love, and she alone chose her end. What did she have to show for it? Nothing. There was nothing to live for. Another journey, another struggle? Another fight? "I don't want it," she tells Lily. "This gift, this curse. No. I've seen enough of life. I'm ready for something else."
Lily looks away from her, stares out across the water. The fog rolls away and there's a shore in the distance. Hermione can see figures now, too, silhouetted by ethereal light. They're there, waiting for her. Shapes that are familiar to her, figures that she knows. So many of them peppering the horizon. The sight makes her breathe in, breathe out. A feeling swells within her; an emotion she has not felt in years, decades. Relief.
And there on the shore, standing ahead of all the others, is the figure of a man. The others move, trade places, try to wave. But this man stands still. Stoic.
"Go to him," Lily's voice breaks her reverie. She is smiling through her sadness, a gentle kindness. "Go," she says again, her voice a softened lull. "He has been waiting for you for so long."
So she does. There is sand under her feet as she leaves Lily behind, treads through the gleaming waters. Her pace quickens as she gets closer. The figures are coming into focus. She can make some of them out now. There are Grangers, Weasleys, a Lovegood, and oh, there's Neville, smiling at her from somewhere to the left. She nearly stumbles when she sees Ron and she feels laughter escaping her. Everyone is there.
The man straight ahead is still bathed in light from behind. She thinks it's Harry at first, but no. This man's hair is different, his gait is all wrong. He holds out his hand to her, reaches for her. The hand looks strong, steady. Familiar yet foreign.
Hermione reaches out, too. She tries to drink everyone in, all the faces of those she loved. Loves. Her fingers are outstretched, just about to brush his, when her smile falls. She stops. Her heart drops. Something's wrong. Something's missing. Someone.
"Where's Harry?" she asks. Her voice echoes over the water. The question reaches her again. But no answer comes. The fog rolls in again, and the smiles on her friends' faces fall. "Lily?" she asks, her hand still so close to the man's, so close she can feel the warmth of him.
"You know the answer to that question, Hermione," comes Lily's dejected reply. Hermione looks over her shoulder then, sees Lily is where she left her. She hadn't followed. The water is to her chest now. She is sinking. "The Dementors took him."
Fear twists her insides, winds tight around her heart like a vice. "And? Why isn't he here? Why didn't he come to meet me?"
The water is to Lily's chin now. The current has changed. It's harsh. Stirring. Winds are whipping, salty water is spraying over boulders, stinging Hermione's eyes. Lily lifts her head high enough to speak. Her long hair is afloat around her, dark from the water, pooled out like blood. "The dementors took him," she says again. One last echo carries across the water. "His soul is lost."
Hermione cries out, feels a wave of shock run through her body. Her heart is breaking. She turns round again, looks down at the man's hand, still reaching. She knows if she takes it she'll be placated. She'll be happy. There will be no more struggle, no more fighting. If she takes it, there will be no more fear. No more pain. Just a perfect feeling of content. Of happiness. It sounds nice, she thinks. It would be so simple to reach out, just another centimeter or two, and twine her fingers through his. It would be so easy.
But she thinks of Harry. Brave, sweet Harry. How little he cared for himself, how much he cared for her. For all of them. Her dearest friend, that integral piece of her soul. She thinks of what he'd do. What he'd do if he were her. What he'd do for her.
Hermione drops her hand, backs away from this man who has been waiting for her. Waited for so long, Lily had said. Waited for her in this heartbeat, this eternity. "I'm sorry," she whispers to him. His hand falls away from her. He does not sink back into the crowd. He stands still again. Stoic. Still waiting.
She turns away from him. Away from the welcoming light, the warmth, the comfort. She takes off at a run, splashes through the cold water, fights the current. "Lily!" she screams, but she cannot see her. "Lily, wait!" she calls out, yelling until she's almost hoarse.
"Lily, wait for me!" she yells out across the endless waters. The figures have faded, far off in the distance now, disappeared behind fog like they were nothing more than a mirage. "Wait!" But there's no one there. She's alone now, staring up at the churning abyss above her. She's crying, angry, desperate tears, cursing the water, the sky. "I want what was promised!" she screams to anyone, anything that's listening. "I choose the water," she says through sobs, with breath she can't catch. And finally, with all the conviction she can muster, almost enough to make her believe it herself, she cries out: "I choose life."
The water sucks her under.
The water is unrelenting around her, pushing, pulling, dragging her deeper and deeper. The light above fades to darkness. She whips her head around, fights the current, searching for something, anything. She's clawing at the water, kicking her feet, screaming out. Nothing but a dull sound and a stream of bubbles escape her. She can hear the water in her ears, rushing past, and she's panicking. There is no more calm, no more quiet, no more nothingness. Her chest hurts, she can't breathe. She's afraid she won't make it in time.
And then she sees her. Lily. She's long and lithe, waiting below, arms outstretched. Her face isn't sad anymore. She's smiling, wide. Relief. She's beckoning her closer, reaching out for her. Hermione stops struggling, lets the current take her. She and Lily collide, their limbs entwine. Searing hot pain rips through Hermione as her skin touches Lily's. She screams again, the water swallows the sound. Lily hold her close, holds her tight. Pain, pain. It's all she knows, all she can feel. They're floating in the dark depth. Their hair is a halo around them, swaying, tangling together as Hermione convulses. Somewhere above, she sees a glimmer. It beckons them forth. The faint illumination grows wider as they get closer.
Everything hurts.
This must be life.
"Robert! Wake up," a woman demands, shaking her husband awake. "Oh, God," she cries out, clutching her stomach.
The man wakes then, sits up when he sees her. Terror etches his face. "Ivy? Is it the baby?"
"Yes," she says, bent forward, trying to breathe through her pain. "I think something's wrong."
Robert pulls on his shoes, helps her with hers. He steadies her as she stands, runs his fingers through his hair. "I'll wake Petunia – can you make it to the car?"
"Yes – go," she tells him, already half-way down the stairs.
White light surrounds her. Stainless steel tools and instruments gleam in the florescent light, machines make odd noises, the smell of rubbing alcohol makes her stomach churn. Robert is beside her, holding her hand. The whites of his eyes are red from fighting exhaustion. Ivy isn't even tired anymore, too wound up from nerves to even think of sleep.
The doctor comes in, holds up a black and grey sheet to a box filled with light. He starts saying words like pain and false labor, Braxton Hicks contractions, nothing to be worried about. Ivy exhales, finally. Relief. She wonders how long she has been holding her breath.
"Nothing to be worried about," the doctor says again, his smile wide. "Your babies are just fine."
Ivy and Robert look at one another lovingly, happily, and then they pause. Their faces contort with confusion.
"What? Babies? Babies? With an 's' at the end?" asks Robert, his head whipping around.
"But we're only having one?" Ivy agrees, suddenly losing faith in this doctor and his promises. "If it's a boy, we're calling him Harry, if it's a girl, we're calling her Lily," she tells them, nonsensically. Fear is making her babble and she can't do anything to stop it.
Robert stands up, pulls the doctor to the side, starts telling him he's wrong. They've been to every appointment, done the sonogram already. They know what they're having. It's one baby. Not two. Ivy looks back up at the florescent lights, tries not to cry.
The doctor holds the paper up to the light again, calls in a nurse. They speak in hushed whispers. They leave the room. Another doctor comes in. He stares at the sonogram hard, shakes his head.
"Curious," he says. He doesn't elaborate. "How far along are you?"
"Two months," Ivy whispers, surprised that her voice works at all.
"Curious," the doctor says again, and leaves the room.
Nurses come in for more tests. Needles, blood tests. Another sonogram.
"What's all this about?" Robert says, asking the questions that Ivy's too afraid of. "Is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine, sir," the nurse assures, ambivalent. "The doctor just wants us to run some more tests.
And they do. All night long.
"You're having twins," the doctor tells them in the early morning hours.
"But –" Robert tries to interject, but the doctor holds up his hand.
"Your early sonogram said one, I know. But these machines make mistakes sometimes, charts can be misread, misplaced. There are plenty of explanations why it could have been overlooked. Modern medicine isn't perfect."
"Well that's reassuring," snarls Robert, but Ivy rests her hand on his, quieting him.
"Are they alright?" she asks.
"They're just fine," the doctor tells her, confidently. "They're healthy. You're healthy. All is well."
She cries, then. Happily.
Six and a half months later, she meets them for the first time. They're wrapped in blankets, tufts of fluffy hair atop their heads. They bring the oldest one over first, born seven minutes before her sister. She has orange-red hair and her eyes are closed tight. She's wailing at the top of her lungs, struggling in the blankets, screaming.
"Wow, she has a set of pipes on her, this one," Robert calls over the cries, placing the baby in her mother's arms.
"Hello, Lily," Ivy laughs, opening the blanket. Lily's limbs kick and punch but Ivy holds them one by one, counting fingers and toes. "They're all there!" she tells Robert, smiling. "You are perfect, Lily Evans," she tells the wailing child.
Robert takes Lily again, brings her over to the little blonde girl who's sitting silently, unsure of what's coming towards her. "Here, Tuney, I'll help you hold your little sister." The little girl's eyes widen but she holds out her arms. Ivy watches with a content smile.
A nurse walks over holding another bundle. This one isn't crying, isn't screaming. She's completely still as Ivy cradles her, quiet as Ivy counts fingers and toes. Her eyes are already open, drinking in her surroundings. Green eyes, big and bright. They stare at one another for a long while. Her daughter doesn't stir, doesn't make a sound.
"Hello," Ivy whispers. For a fleeting moment, she could almost swear there's recognition in her daughter's eyes, a subtle jolt that says she knows. Ivy holds her finger out, and smiles, astounded, as her daughter reaches out for it. Wraps her tiny fingers around it. Her grip is strong. Confident. Sure. Ivy smiles down at her, feels tears warm her eyes.
"How clever," Ivy says. "How bright you are, Hermione Evans."