The Breathing Dead
The Breathing Dead, or: Sometimes Survivors are not the winners.
One-shot
Fandom: Harry Potter
Timeframe: Post Final Battle, disregarding Deathly Hallows.
Pairing: Ron/?
Rating: T? Or something about there.
Length: 1800 words.
Summary: War's over. Everybody's gone. Ron wishes he was too, but at least he's not quite alone.
History: This is a different take on an old idea of why_me_why_not - I think, at least, that there's where this thing started. It's been finished for two years. Never posted it; I always wanted to expand this, make it a series, make a statement about development.
Then I realized that sometimes life doesn't work that way.
He comes home, like every day, at exactly 5 o’clock.
Only, home is the wrong word. Home, he associates with brilliant green eyes, brown bushy hair, round glasses, a bossy voice, with fair ones lusting after craftsmen.
He misses them.
Only, miss is the wrong word. You don’t miss your lungs, your heart, your soul. They are there, or you aren’t.
He is still here. At least he likes to think so. He still laughs at jokes his fellow aurors, like the ones Coote and Chambers tell. He goes to work, raiding the hideouts of the few remaining Dark Wizards, and spending thrice the time on writing reports to Scrimgeour. He watches the Quidditch World Cup Finals in the VIP Lounge; there is no one, certainly no one alive, who wouldn’t grant him this little favour. He plays wizard chess, and, if anything, he got better. But he is no ungraceful winner, and no one envies him for this little gift of strategy. Best of all, the war is over, finished, by mutual destruction. Peace is ensured.
So what if he doesn’t go out with his mates, meeting them, really getting to know them?
It’s his life, isn’t it? And it is a life, for sure!
Only, mate is the wrong word. They are colleagues, and even this is dangerously close to attachment.
He stops remembering - a skill crucial to him in the last years, even if a berating voice in his head tells him he’d never had problems with this particular ability before.
He’d give his right hand, his left hand, his entire self to hear this voice outside of his head. But he does not, and will never again, and so will no one else. Sometimes, he wishes he could cry for those who cannot fathom their loss, for they never knew what could be. But he has no tears left, and if he had, he would not weep for others.
This apartment he sleeps in, the place his co-workers call his home, but have never entered, is a smallish thing in the thick of muggle London, bare of everything except a kitchen, a bed, and her.
She is waiting for him.
Only, waiting is the wrong word. Waiting implies a deliberate lack of action, a choice. To say that she is waiting is like claiming a rock is waiting for the universe to end. She doesn’t wait. She is.
He looks into her deep, empty eyes, hidden behind the golden curls which are unkempt, and sees nothing but his own reflection. He remembers, although he is unwilling, how these eyes were ridiculing, hating, manipulating, adoring, caring, filled with love. He remembers the black hair she had in Hogwarts, back in the good old times. He remembers her spiteful, evil self, and remembers her belonging to a golden-haired prat.
Not that any of this matters. He belonged to a bookworm, owned, just like her. No arguments, heated as they were, could have denied this fact. He remembers his own, shiny red hair, where now a bald skull gleams. He remembers the time when his cold, steel-blue eyes were judicating, smiling, loving, caring, hating, blind.
What should matter is that she’s here. Not in Azkaban, where she belongs, and not six feet in the ground, where she deserves to be. He has seen her at the best of times, almost sacrificing herself for a bloody git who didn’t deserve it, and at the worst of times, killing people he came to care about. And yet, neither her good deeds -which he didn’t like- nor her bad deeds - which he actively despised- stopped him from rescuing her from a flock of aurors circling in on the dungeon she was hidden in, almost a year ago.
He recalls the scene, the old Malfoy Manor, how he stormed ahead, ignoring any possible danger, leaving his team behind. He recalls stupefying Narcissa Malfoy, ripping apart their protecting house-elf with a spell so cruel that its inventor never wanted it to be used - and especially never against house-elves - , punching Crabbe, Sr., knocking him out. It’s all a haze, of course - but the important parts are still here, in his brain, branded like the memory of H- but this is not what he’s thinking about, is it? No, he remembers how the Unplottable spell over the manor was lifted, on behalf of the ministry, because they knew Narcissa Malfoy hid the couple of remaining Death Eaters, how they managed to catch them all, how he is - in a way - the only remaining member who fought the war, who really fought the war, who was in the final battle. Crabbe, Sr. flew after Voldemort’s Death, some others even before.
It helped none of them. After the victory - but was it really a victory, or was it a pyrrhic defeat, beaten by the dead? - the ravenous, vengeful Aurors and Unspeakables hunted them down, like the mad dogs they were.
He isn’t quite sure whom he’s calling mad dogs in his brain.
There are no other members of the DA alive. He knows at least one is dead because of him. And there are no Death Eaters who are neither dead nor kissed.
Except for her.
He found her, deep in the dungeons, alone. She sat there, staring at the entrancingly decorated wall, on a posh bed. She looked like a doll in her satin dress robes and with her carefully made hair. When he saw her eyes he knew she didn’t look like a doll - she was. He doesn’t know why he took her, apparated her into the futile safety of his apartment. He left her there, blind to the potential danger for her, for him and for the world.
Only, blind is the wrong word. Blind implies he would care about it, if he had just seen it, if he had thought about it. He doesn’t know why he helped her, but he is sure no amount of consideration would have changed the outcome. It was something primal, short-sighted.
And then he went back into the manor, claiming he was caught in a disparition gate, and only with luck and cunning escaped the deadly trap. The team believed him, and that was that.
He didn’t think she would be there when he returned that evening. On the other hand, he knew she would be there, on the same primal level as his cunning and idiotic and above all paradoxical rescue of a damsel in distress.
Only, damsel is the wrong word. A damsel is clean and pure and helpless. She is none of these words, not even helpless. A damsel yearns to be saved by a knight in shining white - or even better, black - armour, and he is neither.
Since then, she has been here. She cleans the apartment, but he does not know when nor how, except that she cannot be using magic; the apartment had been selected for its total mundanity, and even the faintest trace of magic would show up like a firework. But he’s never caught her at scrubbing the floor. It simply happens. Whenever he’s near, she simply stares into the wall and he begrudges her this existence. He comes back at 5 o’clock, cooks dinner for 6 o’clock, and they eat at 8 o’clock. He talks with her, about his day, about his co-workers. About nothing important.
Only, talking is the wrong word. To talk would mean she’d listen to him, appreciate his words. She doesn’t respond, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t understand. It’s like speaking to a wall - a wall without ears. In world full of magic, that’s something which needs mentioning.
Afterwards, he reads the daily muggle newspaper. Not for long, - the news of the strange world are even more depressing than the news of his. So, he strips down, and goes to bed.
Every night at 10 o’clock sharp he’s aroused by a female scent in his bed, by soft, small hands touching him - parts of him, anyway. She initiates the shagging - it is nothing else. No kisses, no gentle caresses, no exchange of anything but body fluids. She doesn’t care that it’s not her name he whispers, just as he doesn’t care it’s Draco’s Name she sighs while faking an orgasm, not even when it’s the only thing that ever leaves her mouth. Then they sleep together.
Only, sleeping together are exactly the right words. She cuddles -no, not quite cuddle; she nestles to him, like a blanket, and he’ll never tell anyone, but the soft pressure on his chest is the only thing which gives his life any meaning. Not hunting evil, not the carnal pleasures, not the fame, but this harmless little needing gesture of a human monster.
He never speaks her name. Not when he’s talking, not when they’re screwing. It would give substance to her, to the idea that he, Ronald Bilius Weasley, Hero Of The Last Battle, harbours an escaped - no, the escaped - Death Eater.
And it would give substance to the reasons why he does.
As they lay together, when a normal couple would be basking in an afterglow, she is usually even stiller than before, and only the beating of her heart and some very, very shallow breaths tell him she is still alive. And even though she stinks of sweat, just like him, she is calm, unmoving beyond human measure, like a breathing corpse, like a living statue.
Yes, he thinks, he is quite the anti-Pygmalion. He didn’t fall in love with the soft and smooth art piece of his own creation but with an edgy, now stone-faced thing which once was a real girl.
Only, love is the wrong word. He needs her, like he needs the air, like he needed, once upon a time, friendship, recognition, and all the other things he craved, but has survived. He understands her; yes, that is the right word. And it’s probably the only right word.
After 20 minutes he rises, carefully not disturbing the already asleep woman - shouldn’t he be asleep, and the girl demanding conversation? At least, that’s what they always joked about, him and H - it’s late already. He’d better walk to the loo and freshen himself up. He needs to be awake at 6 o’clock sharp, because, should he ever be late, he’s pretty sure his team would look for him, and since they’re his team they’d find him. He doesn’t want them to find his apartment, he doesn’t want them to find him, and least of all he wants them to find her.
He washes his face, and his body. The water is cold, and wakes him up even more. He tries not to look into the ghoulish face which the mirror claims is his. And he knows, he’ll come home tomorrow at 5 o’clock sharp.
One-shot
Fandom: Harry Potter
Timeframe: Post Final Battle, disregarding Deathly Hallows.
Pairing: Ron/?
Rating: T? Or something about there.
Length: 1800 words.
Summary: War's over. Everybody's gone. Ron wishes he was too, but at least he's not quite alone.
History: This is a different take on an old idea of why_me_why_not - I think, at least, that there's where this thing started. It's been finished for two years. Never posted it; I always wanted to expand this, make it a series, make a statement about development.
Then I realized that sometimes life doesn't work that way.
He comes home, like every day, at exactly 5 o’clock.
Only, home is the wrong word. Home, he associates with brilliant green eyes, brown bushy hair, round glasses, a bossy voice, with fair ones lusting after craftsmen.
He misses them.
Only, miss is the wrong word. You don’t miss your lungs, your heart, your soul. They are there, or you aren’t.
He is still here. At least he likes to think so. He still laughs at jokes his fellow aurors, like the ones Coote and Chambers tell. He goes to work, raiding the hideouts of the few remaining Dark Wizards, and spending thrice the time on writing reports to Scrimgeour. He watches the Quidditch World Cup Finals in the VIP Lounge; there is no one, certainly no one alive, who wouldn’t grant him this little favour. He plays wizard chess, and, if anything, he got better. But he is no ungraceful winner, and no one envies him for this little gift of strategy. Best of all, the war is over, finished, by mutual destruction. Peace is ensured.
So what if he doesn’t go out with his mates, meeting them, really getting to know them?
It’s his life, isn’t it? And it is a life, for sure!
Only, mate is the wrong word. They are colleagues, and even this is dangerously close to attachment.
He stops remembering - a skill crucial to him in the last years, even if a berating voice in his head tells him he’d never had problems with this particular ability before.
He’d give his right hand, his left hand, his entire self to hear this voice outside of his head. But he does not, and will never again, and so will no one else. Sometimes, he wishes he could cry for those who cannot fathom their loss, for they never knew what could be. But he has no tears left, and if he had, he would not weep for others.
This apartment he sleeps in, the place his co-workers call his home, but have never entered, is a smallish thing in the thick of muggle London, bare of everything except a kitchen, a bed, and her.
She is waiting for him.
Only, waiting is the wrong word. Waiting implies a deliberate lack of action, a choice. To say that she is waiting is like claiming a rock is waiting for the universe to end. She doesn’t wait. She is.
He looks into her deep, empty eyes, hidden behind the golden curls which are unkempt, and sees nothing but his own reflection. He remembers, although he is unwilling, how these eyes were ridiculing, hating, manipulating, adoring, caring, filled with love. He remembers the black hair she had in Hogwarts, back in the good old times. He remembers her spiteful, evil self, and remembers her belonging to a golden-haired prat.
Not that any of this matters. He belonged to a bookworm, owned, just like her. No arguments, heated as they were, could have denied this fact. He remembers his own, shiny red hair, where now a bald skull gleams. He remembers the time when his cold, steel-blue eyes were judicating, smiling, loving, caring, hating, blind.
What should matter is that she’s here. Not in Azkaban, where she belongs, and not six feet in the ground, where she deserves to be. He has seen her at the best of times, almost sacrificing herself for a bloody git who didn’t deserve it, and at the worst of times, killing people he came to care about. And yet, neither her good deeds -which he didn’t like- nor her bad deeds - which he actively despised- stopped him from rescuing her from a flock of aurors circling in on the dungeon she was hidden in, almost a year ago.
He recalls the scene, the old Malfoy Manor, how he stormed ahead, ignoring any possible danger, leaving his team behind. He recalls stupefying Narcissa Malfoy, ripping apart their protecting house-elf with a spell so cruel that its inventor never wanted it to be used - and especially never against house-elves - , punching Crabbe, Sr., knocking him out. It’s all a haze, of course - but the important parts are still here, in his brain, branded like the memory of H- but this is not what he’s thinking about, is it? No, he remembers how the Unplottable spell over the manor was lifted, on behalf of the ministry, because they knew Narcissa Malfoy hid the couple of remaining Death Eaters, how they managed to catch them all, how he is - in a way - the only remaining member who fought the war, who really fought the war, who was in the final battle. Crabbe, Sr. flew after Voldemort’s Death, some others even before.
It helped none of them. After the victory - but was it really a victory, or was it a pyrrhic defeat, beaten by the dead? - the ravenous, vengeful Aurors and Unspeakables hunted them down, like the mad dogs they were.
He isn’t quite sure whom he’s calling mad dogs in his brain.
There are no other members of the DA alive. He knows at least one is dead because of him. And there are no Death Eaters who are neither dead nor kissed.
Except for her.
He found her, deep in the dungeons, alone. She sat there, staring at the entrancingly decorated wall, on a posh bed. She looked like a doll in her satin dress robes and with her carefully made hair. When he saw her eyes he knew she didn’t look like a doll - she was. He doesn’t know why he took her, apparated her into the futile safety of his apartment. He left her there, blind to the potential danger for her, for him and for the world.
Only, blind is the wrong word. Blind implies he would care about it, if he had just seen it, if he had thought about it. He doesn’t know why he helped her, but he is sure no amount of consideration would have changed the outcome. It was something primal, short-sighted.
And then he went back into the manor, claiming he was caught in a disparition gate, and only with luck and cunning escaped the deadly trap. The team believed him, and that was that.
He didn’t think she would be there when he returned that evening. On the other hand, he knew she would be there, on the same primal level as his cunning and idiotic and above all paradoxical rescue of a damsel in distress.
Only, damsel is the wrong word. A damsel is clean and pure and helpless. She is none of these words, not even helpless. A damsel yearns to be saved by a knight in shining white - or even better, black - armour, and he is neither.
Since then, she has been here. She cleans the apartment, but he does not know when nor how, except that she cannot be using magic; the apartment had been selected for its total mundanity, and even the faintest trace of magic would show up like a firework. But he’s never caught her at scrubbing the floor. It simply happens. Whenever he’s near, she simply stares into the wall and he begrudges her this existence. He comes back at 5 o’clock, cooks dinner for 6 o’clock, and they eat at 8 o’clock. He talks with her, about his day, about his co-workers. About nothing important.
Only, talking is the wrong word. To talk would mean she’d listen to him, appreciate his words. She doesn’t respond, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t understand. It’s like speaking to a wall - a wall without ears. In world full of magic, that’s something which needs mentioning.
Afterwards, he reads the daily muggle newspaper. Not for long, - the news of the strange world are even more depressing than the news of his. So, he strips down, and goes to bed.
Every night at 10 o’clock sharp he’s aroused by a female scent in his bed, by soft, small hands touching him - parts of him, anyway. She initiates the shagging - it is nothing else. No kisses, no gentle caresses, no exchange of anything but body fluids. She doesn’t care that it’s not her name he whispers, just as he doesn’t care it’s Draco’s Name she sighs while faking an orgasm, not even when it’s the only thing that ever leaves her mouth. Then they sleep together.
Only, sleeping together are exactly the right words. She cuddles -no, not quite cuddle; she nestles to him, like a blanket, and he’ll never tell anyone, but the soft pressure on his chest is the only thing which gives his life any meaning. Not hunting evil, not the carnal pleasures, not the fame, but this harmless little needing gesture of a human monster.
He never speaks her name. Not when he’s talking, not when they’re screwing. It would give substance to her, to the idea that he, Ronald Bilius Weasley, Hero Of The Last Battle, harbours an escaped - no, the escaped - Death Eater.
And it would give substance to the reasons why he does.
As they lay together, when a normal couple would be basking in an afterglow, she is usually even stiller than before, and only the beating of her heart and some very, very shallow breaths tell him she is still alive. And even though she stinks of sweat, just like him, she is calm, unmoving beyond human measure, like a breathing corpse, like a living statue.
Yes, he thinks, he is quite the anti-Pygmalion. He didn’t fall in love with the soft and smooth art piece of his own creation but with an edgy, now stone-faced thing which once was a real girl.
Only, love is the wrong word. He needs her, like he needs the air, like he needed, once upon a time, friendship, recognition, and all the other things he craved, but has survived. He understands her; yes, that is the right word. And it’s probably the only right word.
After 20 minutes he rises, carefully not disturbing the already asleep woman - shouldn’t he be asleep, and the girl demanding conversation? At least, that’s what they always joked about, him and H - it’s late already. He’d better walk to the loo and freshen himself up. He needs to be awake at 6 o’clock sharp, because, should he ever be late, he’s pretty sure his team would look for him, and since they’re his team they’d find him. He doesn’t want them to find his apartment, he doesn’t want them to find him, and least of all he wants them to find her.
He washes his face, and his body. The water is cold, and wakes him up even more. He tries not to look into the ghoulish face which the mirror claims is his. And he knows, he’ll come home tomorrow at 5 o’clock sharp.