Harry Potter fic, Orpheo: 7 (remembrance of embraces)
title: Orpheo: A Fairy Tale
author: caledon (the_tower_room)
pairing: Ron/Hermione
rating: M
summary: AU. Who will save whom in this quest for love?
words: 6831
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.
Remembrance of Embraces
Sunday, July 15, 2007
2 o’clock in the morning
Ron stood by his window, staring at the only woman who had the power to make him feel so vulnerable, so helpless. And he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop himself from falling in love with her again, even after all these years, even after that long ago time when he felt as though she had ripped out his heart when she’d left him for school, when she’d left him for Harry. And even then, he couldn’t bear to hurt her. He would have unmade himself.
Ron watched her fiancé hold her arm possessively as they made their rounds to say goodbye. Only his brothers, Ginny, and Harry were left out there. His parents and the other guests had already gone as the party dwindled to a close. His nephews and nieces were gone as well, ushered by their mothers to bed, while outside Fred and George’s fireworks still blew, half-heartedly bright and less loudly.
Ron watched Hermione turn back to stare at his darkened window, straight at him. He was grateful that he was shrouded and she could not fully see him. Even from this distance, he saw something in her eyes and he felt a pitch at the pit of his stomach; hope rose within him. Maybe there’s still a chance for us? he wondered.
But he deflated as she Disapparated with whatzisname. He knew rekindling the old flame would be fruitless, pointless. He would not be able to stay. He had pledged his life to a quest, and even though he had failed, he still had to finish it, see it through the end. And he didn’t know where he would be after then.
Sharing a couple of days of his life with Hermione wouldn’t be fair to her. But could he resist the desire? Was he strong enough not to give in to its seductive pull? His heart’s desire was her and for her to love him again, a wish that would remain unfulfilled by the end of his quest-curse.
Ron turned away from the window and went to his old bed, laid down on top of the covers, and tried to quell the thoughts that plagued him.
Interlude: Alun Fielding
past 2 a.m.
Alun and Hermione Apparated to her flat. It was not the first time he was here, and in those other times she had not allowed him to stay the night, or indeed, even for longer than a few minutes. They had never slept together in her bed.
And not for the first time he mourned that there was a part of her that he could not seem to reach. It was a wonder she had accepted his invitations to go out months before (after some time of pestering her until she gave in), and back then he had always known she was worth the patience. But even after a few months he had reached his limit, and had asked her to marry him.
At the Burrow, before they left, he had heard the graveness in her voice, and he knew the inevitable had come too soon. But he would not let her go willingly.
Hermione led him to the pristine kitchen where everything was in its precise and aligned order. The curtains, though, were pulled back from the opened windows. He leaned out, puzzled. He had never noticed before that a flock of black birds lived just outside her window. But then again, he was rarely in her flat. They intrigued him.
Alun rubbed his eyes, trying to see clearly. They perched out there, thirteen ravens in all, everyone at the ready as though to pounce at their prey. For a moment, he harboured the thought that he was their victim. He chuckled ruefully at his fancy.
Alun turned back to Hermione, who was supposed to be making tea for the both of them. He was startled to find her pulling his engagement ring off her finger and placing it on the table between them.
“It’s over, Alun,” she said sadly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t marry you.”
“Why?” asked Alun, aghast that she would actually go through with breaking their engagement.
“Because I realized that it wouldn’t be fair to you. It wouldn’t be right to marry you when I’m still in love with someone else.”
“It’s that Ron bloke, innit? I knew he was back; I saw him at the party. But did you really see him, Hermione? Really look? He can’t afford you, while I have a lot to offer you. I can give you so much more-”
“You don’t understand, Alun! It’s not a question of what he could give me. It’s a question of who he is and what he means to me.”
He shook his head. “You’re not thinking clearly, Hermione.” He walked to her, about to grab her by the arms to shake some sense into her, but she brandished her wand and pointed it straight at him.
“No, it’s over between us, Alun. I don’t love you. I never have. I can’t marry you.”
“No, Hermione, no. I’ve been good to you, and this is how you repay me?”
She heaved an exasperated sigh, and he couldn’t help but notice the bodice of her dress clinging to her breasts as she breathed. “Please leave.”
He shook his head, starting to feel enraged. He began to make his way towards her. She just couldn’t tease him like that! Who does she think she is?
For a moment, he thought he heard a rustle of great wings, flapping menacingly in warning. Hermione seemed oblivious to it as she eyed him warily. Alun thought he heard a voice inside his head that sounded very rough, as though the throat from whence it originated wasn’t meant for human speech. It said, “The lady said ‘leave,’ Master Fielding. She is not worth losing your soul over. But if need be, my companions are hungry and will not turn away from you.”
The implications of the words hit him, and he felt cold, sheer terror freezing him in place. He stopped, turned away from Hermione who still had her wand pointed at him, and looked out her window.
“We are ready and waiting to show you just how unkind we can be, Master Fielding,” continued the voice that only he could seem to hear. “Please take your ring and leave.”
It seemed that the birds had grown in number. Alun was besieged with the thought that the ravens had left the Tower of London just to have a piece of him.
He turned back to Hermione. He cautiously reached down to the table between them and took his ring. He looked at her, still tense as she watched his every move. He opened his mouth a few times, wanting to try to explain his previous actions, but he knew his explanations would never be enough. He just settled for saying, “I’m sorry, Hermione. I truly am.” She gave him a small nod of acknowledgment, and he walked out of her flat, her building, and her life.
Outside, the birds had gathered on the doorway and the walls of the buildings opposite. He walked quickly, fear overtaking his whole body. And they followed him. He stumbled once, and he waited with bated breath for them to attack, but they just perched and flew over him. He rose unsteadily after a while, and made his way to his flat.
But finally arriving home safely did not leave him feeling relieved. He was afraid of what might happen in the dark, and so until the sun rose, he huddled under the covers, with all the lights in his flat turned on, never letting his eyes leave the ravens that still perched out there, watching him hungrily.
She had done it, and it was over.
Hermione felt rotten to the core, thinking about how much she had hurt Alun. But she could not keep lying to herself. She was tired of running, tired of denying. She could not promise to share the rest of her life with one man and still be in love with another. It was not fair to Alun. It was better to end things now, before it was too late to turn back.
She was tired. She had been feeling restless for the past few days, constantly plagued by dreams. She felt self-disgust mingling with all the pain. Why do I keep doing this to myself?
She stroked her left ring-finger. She didn’t miss Alun’s ring. Since he had given it to her, it had felt like a burden, a shackle. She was sorry she had hurt Alun, but a large part of her was rejoicing that she was free. Free to be with Ron again, free to set everything right.
Hermione sighed and burrowed deeper in her bed, closed her eyes to sleep the day away.
Ron had never dreamed again after that night two weeks ago. His dreams of Hermione and of heartbreak had been quenched after that languid voice spoke to him in his sleep, and he had allowed the speaker to take away the most important part of himself.
Now, he felt as though his soul was being pulled out of his body, a silver line still binding him to his corporeal form. He was sitting on his bed, but his body remained stretched out on it, still in a deep sleep. Ron saw the raven staring at him, sitting on top of the mirror in his dresser.
“Come with me,” commanded the black bird. “There is one who desires to speak with you.”
Ron felt something stir in him, something almost benign filling him as though he had
been granted the grace of a deity. “The Beast?” he whispered reverently.
“Yes. Follow me.” The raven flew up to the ceiling and circled down in a graceful arc to fly through the mirror. Ron rose from his bed and stared at the mirror-turned-doorway, and he went in after the raven.
On the other side of the mirror was a place he had not seen in three years. He walked through a forest of clawed trees, monochromatic gray reigning as the only colour from the sky to the ground. The raven guided him off the main road that led to the three women’s house, to a little worn path at the end of which was a mirror-like scrying pool, and there on one side of it reclining lazily was the creature to whom belonged the languorous voice from the dream that had changed him, the voice that had echoed through his whole being and touched his core.
It had a serene, beautifully androgynous face like a statue’s. Behind It was a bush of flowers which It touched lazily, and colour seemed to seep from Its hand to the flower, turning it fuchsia, stark and loud against the grayness of its environment. Which Ron thought odd because the figure Itself was almost colourless. The raven landed on a sharp branch and watched them dispassionately.
He wondered, vaguely, why he did not feel terrified of the Beast that lay before him.
“It’s because you’ve lost the only thing that can make you feel,” It remarked as though It had heard his thoughts. It looked at him with eyes that were a deep blood-red, with no pupils or iris, just the red void staring back at him. “I know more about you that you are aware of. You have always been mine.”
“You are the Beast.”
It smiled benignly, beautifully. Ron felt as though he was punched in the chest, something inside him overflowing when the Beast’s smile touched him.
“One of my names, yes.” It lifted a marble-white hand, veins of red and blue running beneath Its almost-transparent skin, to smooth Its long silver hair from Its forehead. The Beast lay on Its back, layers of gauzy fabric swirling around Its body in graceful disarray. The flower on Its side drooped on Its chest as though it were drawn to It and wanted to caress It. “Love lies bleeding,” said the Beast, giggling at Its own words as It stroked the flower.
Ron looked down at the pool between them, clear and glassy as mirror. He watched the inverted reflection of the Beast, seeing Its form shift and change into a Child with medium-length dark hair and great wings sprouting from Its shoulders.
“I’ve always loved you among all of those who belonged to me. It’s why you cannot help but feel isolated or dwarfed by the material greatness of others… because of me. Of all, you are the one who feels me the strongest. It’s exhilarating, intoxicating, like the finest ambrosia ever tasted.”
It closed Its eyes as though to savour the sensation, and giggled, pulling the flower over Its eyes. “Look, I’m blind.” The flower fell back over Its lips in a kiss as the Beast turned serious. “I am cruel, even to those that I favour. Even to you, my beloved. I’m indiscriminate as death… But you’ve always known that. Our friend, the raven there, is our soul, as I am its heart. As your psychopomp, it will guide you to me on your ten-thousandth day. Are you nervous?”
Ron shook his head.
“Your Gryffindor courage keeping you from becoming afraid of what’s to come?”
“No,” answered Ron. “As you’ve pointed out a while ago, I have nothing to feel it with. You took it from me.”
“You’ve wanted it gone for so long I just thought it was time to oblige you.” The Beast rolled back to Its side to stare at him. “Here, catch this.” And It threw an object at him that glittered gold and crimson and ice-blue.
He caught it in both hands, almost dropping it when he felt fire and ice burning simultaneously through his skin. He closed his fists against the pain and non-pain until the light disappeared. He opened his hands to find that he was holding nothing at all. Whatever it was had dissolved. “What was that?” asked Ron, in wonder and confusion.
“A fragment from a dead star,” responded the Beast sadly. “My gift for you, my beloved. Your love is free once more and she lives where you used to dwell with her. There are more fruitful ways to say farewell. I charge you to go to her.”
Ron sputtered. “How… what… wh- How do you know about that? Where she lives, I mean.” He chose to ignore the rest of what It said, no matter how much he wanted to believe that it was true.
“I know a great many things that are best left unquestioned.” Ron frowned, memory stirring at Its words, knowing he had heard them uttered before. “I give you my blessing to go to her.” It gathered the flower in Its fist and blew Ron a kiss, the petals of love-lies-bleeding flying to him like dark pink snowflakes, like the brush of a soft feather against his cheeks. He closed his eyes to delight in the caress.
He woke up to find the raven perched on his pillow beside him. “Good morning,” it greeted him, as the day began anew.
Ron could feel the warmth of the sun on his face as sleep and dream receded. The lumpy bed beneath him was familiar and comfortable; he smiled in contentment, knowing he was home. He inhaled deeply, the smell of his musty old bedroom filling him, evoking memories of childhood when everything was simple and predictable, before Harry and Hermione came into his life.
Ron sat up on his bed, turning to look at the raven. He reached out a hand and stroked its black feathers. “Thank you, my dear bloody bird.”
“For what, Master Weasley?”
“Just for being with me.”
The bird hopped onto his shoulder as Ron rose from the bed and went out of his room, not even acknowledging his rumpled appearance.
Interlude: Remus Lupin
The Burrow
Brunch at the Burrow was a cheerful affair. Everyone was out in the garden, five tables clumped together to make room for all the Weasleys and their friends. Children ran amok around them, noises of several different conversations filling the air. Remus Lupin sat with Nymphadora Tonks, conversing with Percy Weasley.
He saw Ron come out of the house and make his way to the tables, looking as though he hadn’t bothered to disrobe when he went to bed. Lupin was enthralled by the extraordinary bird on the younger man’s shoulder. He grinned. Younger man, he scoffed. I wonder how he came upon those white hairs at such an early age. He’s not even thirty yet!
“That’s quite an impressive familiar, Ron,” said Remus in greeting.
Ron turned his head to look at the raven. “Oh no, no, no. This is not a familiar. I think it’s a bit pissed you said that. This, Remus, is a psychopomp. At least, I think that’s the term.”
An incredulous expression came over Lupin’s face. “A psychopomp, you say?” he said almost reverentially. “Intriguing. A real one? Would it mind being studied?”
“Yes, I think it would, very much.”
“Oh, don’t be heartless, Ron,” interjected Tonks, ruffling Lupin’s hair. “What’s a pompous psycho-thingy anyway?”
“A ‘psychopomp’ means ‘soul guide,’ luv,” explained Remus. “They’re not really Dark Creatures, more like Trickster figures. They seldom show themselves to the living, since, for the most part, their function is to guide the souls of the dead into the next world. They are capable of moving between worlds, between time and place. And this,” he pointed to Ron’s raven, “is quite a rare thing that you see here… How did you come by this creature, Ron?”
The younger man with the premature strands of white hair mingling with the red shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Er… it found me, and sent me on a quest.”
The older man’s eyes brightened with curiosity. “A quest? What kind of a quest?”
“A search.” Ron stood up, clearly not at ease with the questioning, causing the black bird to jump from his shoulder to land on the back of the chair he had just vacated. “Well, I’m off. I have to take a shower. I’ll see you all later.”
Remus watched the raven with extreme interest. It was looking coyly at him, and suddenly flew to a tree at the edge of the cluster behind the Burrow, and eyed Lupin beckoningly.
He stared at the bird as it cocked its head to the side, saying to himself hypnotically, “You want me to follow.” He glanced behind him to the others, who seemed busy catching up with each other, eating and talking.
He stood and followed the raven, which led him deep into the forest behind the Burrow. The trees were positioned closer together as they moved further in, the black bird looking back once in a while to make sure the werewolf was following. Farther into the forest they went, until it seemed that the leaves up top were so thickly clumped together that the sunlight barely permeated through.
It was now dark and shadowy and all too quiet, and for once, Lupin realized that his heartbeat and his breathing were the only things to be heard. Even the swishing of the raven’s wings as it flew was silent. Remus stared as it circled overhead once, before finally landing on a gnarly branch of a murky tree.
“Master Lupin,” it greeted him with a sweep of night-dark wing, as though bowing to him.
“You can speak,” said Remus in amazement.
“But of course.”
“Is that possible?”
“For one such as I, you mean? But of course.”
“A psychopomp,” said the werewolf in wonder. A frown marred his face; confusing thoughts swirled in his mind, until he could finally voice what bothered him. “Why Ron?”
“Why not him?” countered the bird.
“Do you mean to harm him?”
“I am his guide and protector, Master Lupin. I mean no harm to him.”
“Who are you protecting him from? Or should I ask: who are you protecting him for?”
“You are a man of intelligence, Master Lupin. But though you ask the right questions, the answers are, regrettably and inevitably, not for you to know.”
“I just find it impossible to believe that psychopomps are capable, or even willing, to guide the living.”
“Impossible? Yes,” agreed the raven, “but not improbable. I am well aware of your interests in Dark Creatures, Master Lupin, but I can assure you that I am not one. I am merely a bird that once was a star, and I have functions to perform. There are actions that are expected of me, and I answer to no one but to myself and the Beast.”
“The Beast?” repeated Remus, his memory roused, and he distinctly recalled an obscure tale he had once read a long time ago. He opened his mouth to speak, his mind racing with thoughts; he knew he was close to the precipice of discovery. In front of him was one of the rarest and most ambiguous creatures ever known and forgotten.
The raven tilted its head to the side as though it knew the internal struggle that Remus was going through. “Will you be naming me, then, Master Lupin?”
He swallowed, afraid. There might be no cure for a Dementor’s kiss, and even less so from an encounter with the bird before him should he somehow offend it. “Soul-Gatherer, the Eater of Eyes,” he breathed out.
“Among other things. Very good, Master Lupin, I commend you. But you should know that I do not devour my charges. Only those still living who have displeased me have ever been the victims of my appetite.” It ruffled its wings as though ready to take flight. “I tire of you.”
“No, wait, please,” implored Lupin. “Just one more question. I need to know. Please? Is Ron in danger?”
The black bird stared pitilessly at him with its great dark eyes. A fine pinprick of light seemed to glow out of them as it croaked out a word that filled Remus with the most irrational fear. “Nevermore.” Its wingspan seemed to stretch and cloak the sky in black; its eyes were bright twin full moons calling for the wolf in him.
The werewolf watched, transfixed, as the white light in its eyes grew until all he could see were those silvery orbs, and he could not turn away from them.
He felt the change coming, his bones popping, sinews stretching. No! he screamed inside himself, willing his body to stop the inevitable change. This is impossible. The full moon is not for another three weeks-
He could hear the raven’s laughter echoing in his head.
“Master Lupin,” it said, “as you have pointed out, I can move between the worlds. How do you know I did not lead you to a time when night has fallen and the full moon risen?”
“No!” screamed Remus as he felt his scalp tightening, sensing each strand of hair on his body tingling and growing, shifting so that their primordial darkness reflected the moon. His blood boiled and burned for the change in anticipation, the heat of it enrapturing him in pain. He tasted the metallic flavour of blood in his mouth, dimly realizing that he had bitten his tongue with his elongating fangs, vaguely recognizing the snout extending from his face. His spine bowed back at a painful angle as he writhed, his bones accommodating the prevailing wolf-form. Nails stretched into claws, and an irrepressible howl came forth from deep within as he felt the cataclysmic completion of the change…
“Remus! Remus! Wake up!” cried a voice he recognized, but the fear interlaced through it was strange and unfamiliar to him.
Lupin opened his eyes, gasped heavily, patting his body for any telltale signs of the wolf.
It had been real, he was sure of it. He had undergone through the change, had completed it… But now, he could see strands of sunlight shining brightly through the gray gloom, and no full moon had come out of nowhere to haunt him.
The raven, he was unsurprised to see, had disappeared.
Tonks knelt beside him, hair gone white with worry, heaving deep sighs of relief. “Do you know how ridiculous you look, convulsing down there for all you’re worth, screaming out bloody murder to hell and back? You gave me quite a fright. What are you doing here anyway?”
“I followed Ron’s bird.”
Tonks frowned in confusion. “I thought you said it wasn’t a Dark Creature. What did you call it? Psychotic and pompous or something?”
“Psychopomp. Tonks, I need to go home. I need to find a book. It’s important.”
She looked at him questioningly, slowly nodding after her eyes roamed her lover’s face for any telltale sign of insanity. “All right. I’ll tell everyone we’re going. And then you tell me what the blazing hell is going on.”
There are more fruitful ways to say farewell… The thought kept echoing in his head as warm water blasted down his body.
He bowed his head under the spray, closed his eyes and let the water wash away his weariness. And why not? he thought. Why shouldn’t I indulge myself? I still love her and I want her so much… I don’t even know what’s really right anymore, so who’s to say that this is wrong? I haven’t finished this quest anyway, so there is absolutely no way that I’ll get my wish granted.
Besides, didn’t It say that she just broke off with what’s-that-git’s-name? Maybe she wants some comfort…? And she lives in my old flat. I wonder when she moved back in?
Ron shook his head to clear the thoughts off his mind. He shouldn’t allow himself to think such thoughts, shouldn’t allow such things to give him hope. He opened his eyes and gazed down at the flat expanse of his chest and belly, and down further to his manhood hanging half-erect at the thought of being with Hermione. He wondered which would win in the end, which would he follow: his mind, which told him, “no, he would just turn this into a meaningless one-night-stand”, or the one between his legs, almost too eager for what was to come when night fell.
Ron was still uncertain when he finished his shower.
Twilight
In a dream within a dream, Hermione walked in a white marble hall. Instead of a smooth floor, the ground was coarse white dust, glittering brightly, lighting up the room. This place was so different from the warm desert of her previous dreams.
She clutched herself protectively, hoping to give herself warmth through the thin nightgown that she wore. She passed through the white pillars that lined the hall, straight through an arched doorway. She stopped in her tracks.
On either side of her were mirrors, stretching into infinity ahead of her. A different, frightening coldness gripped her heart, chilled her spine. She didn’t want to move forward; she was afraid of what lay in the mirrors that reflected eternally.
She turned back to the hall of pillars, but there was just a great empty void beyond the archway. She turned again to face the hall of mirrors, trepidation filling her.
“Won’t you see what’s in front of you?” came a lilting voice, unfamiliar and androgynous, and Hermione found herself stepping forward and looking into a mirror. She gasped.
Her image was faint. She had a reflection, but she could see through herself.
“Losing your soul?” asked the voice. “What need you of eyes when you can’t see what’s been in front of you all along? What need you of your tongue when you couldn’t say the words that he longed for? It’ll be too late soon.”
“Who’s there?” she asked, voice echoing through the cavernous room. “Who are you?”
“In front of you.”
She turned from her reflection. Ahead of her stood a Child, cherubic, dark curling hair falling to Its shoulders. It stared at her languorously, Its eyes a gaping void of deep blood-red.
She was horrified at the sight, and yet there was something about It that hit her straight within her womb, and she felt arousal spreading through her. Great wings rose from Its shoulders, and Its arms were wrapped around Itself, mimicking her. There was something blatantly sexual in the way It held Itself.
“What-who are you?” she asked, voice gentle in the way she used when she was speaking to a child.
It smiled serenely at her. “I have a heart, but it’s not mine.” It clasped Its hands together, then tenderly drew them apart. It was cupping a heart made of dust, but soon the grains merged together, forming a heart of flesh, blood oozing into the Child’s hands. “A thing of beauty, isn’t it?”
She could do nothing but stare and nod, disgusted with the Child’s display.
It drew the heart to Its lips as though to kiss it, but the Child crooned a lullaby instead.
“Go and catch a falling star. Get with child a mandrake root. Tell me where all past years are, or who cleft the Devil’s foot. Teach me to hear the mermaids singing, or to keep off envy’s stinging,” at this, the Child clapped Its hands and the heart disappeared.
Hermione gasped, and Child looked at her, drew a finger to Its lips, gesturing for her to keep quiet. “I’m not finished my song. You must listen to it,” It said petulantly, reaching behind to pluck a raven-black feather from Its wing. “And find what wind serves to advance an honest mind. If thou beest born to strange sights, things invisible to see, ride ten-thousand days and nights, till age snow white hairs on thee. Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me all strange wonders that befell thee, and swear no where lives a woman true and fair.” At this line, the Child pointed at her, cackling madly.
“I beg your pardon!” she cried in indignation.
“Shh, you must keep your silence. The song isn’t over yet.” It raised the black plume as though It were a music conductor, and started swishing the feather about as It sang. “If thou find’st one, let me know, such a pilgrimage were sweet; yet do not, I would not go, though at next door we might meet; though she were true when you met her, and last till you write your letter-” out of the air, It produced a rolled scroll with red writing on the bottom that she couldn’t make out. The Child shook Its head at her, utter disappointment on Its face, accusation in Its horrific red eyes. “Yet she will be false, and ere I come, to two, or three.”
“Three what?” she asked out of curiosity.
“Years.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
It smiled sadly at her, and she was struck at how the Child seemed to resemble Ron at that moment.
“It has been three years since the seal of the raven. Hermione, it’s time to open your eyes. I am in front of you; I have ever and always been with you, even if you refuse to acknowledge me. It’s time to wake up.”
Hermione opened her eyes, a sense of dread settling over her. She whimpered and tears fell helplessly from her eyes.
She felt herself being gathered into strong arms, and dazed, allowed herself to be held, burrowing her head on the person’s neck. She encountered a scent that was at once strange and recognizable.
Ron, she thought. I must still be dreaming.
“Shh, I’m here, Hermione. It was just a dream, and you’re awake now. You’re safe,” he murmured in her ear softly.
Ron! She was overcome with relief and she tightened her arms around him. This is the way it should be. Us, together again. He’s come back to me.
And then she remembered. He had been gone for six years, and had recently just returned.
She pulled back a bit and regarded him by the light from the fireplace, which, she was surprised to find, was blazing with warmth. He probably put it on, she mused. “Ron. Ron, what are you doing here? How did you get in?”
He looked down, almost afraid to meet her gaze. “I Apparated,” he mumbled. “I used to live here, you know. This was my flat.”
Hermione wished he would look at her again. She ran her fingers over the white strands in his hair, took his chin and forced him to look at her. “What are you doing here?” she repeated.
Apprehension filled his eyes. “I couldn’t keep away. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be here. I’ll leave.” He rose but she tightened her grip on his arms.
“Why did you come back?”
A pained expression fleeted across his face for a millisecond before he composed his features. “I wanted to see yo-everyone. It was my parent’s anniversary, after all.”
“Oh.” She felt her shoulders slump in disappointment.
Ron reached out a hand and touched her cheek. It was a slight touch, barely there, just hovering over her skin. Hermione closed her eyes at the sensation and leaned her head against his hand, finally making contact with it.
He inhaled sharply, and caressed her face more boldly. He leaned over to place a gentle kiss on her lips, his own just a gossamer touch over hers. She pushed her lips firmly against his, and he finally deepened the kiss. She opened her mouth as he ran his tongue over her lips, and sucked him greedily. Her stomach jumped when she felt his hands caressing her thighs, as he moved the hem of her nightgown up to her hips. Her own hands roamed to his shirt, unbuttoning him in her haste to feel his skin. The shirt came off, and so did, she was surprised to discover, her nightgown.
She lay back on the bed, pulling him down to settle on top of her, their kisses growing more furious and heated, passion marking them with urgency, until they were both undressed and there was nothing but their skin touching, hands exploring places they hadn’t felt for six years. Somehow she ended up on top, and she proceeded to kiss and caress her way down his body.
Her tongue was a heart, was fire, licking a trail of flames down his belly, spiralling down to rest on his cock. Her hot mouth surrounded him, took him deeper down her throat, his flame-red hair meeting her rose-red lips. He grabbed her by her brown curls and gently drew her head away from his fiery shaft, which was ready and ripe to bursting.
He pulled her to him for a kiss, settling her over his body, rolling so that she lay beneath him. Their tongues mated; he could taste himself. He rained kisses down her cheeks, her neck, her chest. He drew a rosy nipple into his mouth, suckling and biting gently, and hand encasing her other breast, thumb and forefinger pinching her nipple in imitation of his mouth’s actions. He kissed his way down to her navel, to her triangle of brown curls. His hot breath mingled with her moist heat, his tongue licking and tasting and plunging in her.
Hermione moaned and mewed incoherently, legs holding tight to his shoulders, hands twined into his hair, keeping him in place. He sucked her clit and pushed two fingers inside her pussy. The sensation was too much for her. She wanted more of him, but she didn’t want him to stop. Her hips bucked against him as she reached her orgasm.
Ron rose and held her against him while she trembled from the force of her climax. She felt the head of his cock at her entrance, his hands holding on to her week knees, spreading her legs further apart. She gasped when he slowly entered her, closed her eyes at the sensation of him finally coming home after so long. Had he grown? she wondered. He seemed to stretch and fill her as never before, and she tried to reacquaint herself to being joined with him again.
“Are you all right?” he asked, almost drawing away. But she found strength and clamped her legs around his hips, hands grabbing his buttocks, keeping him within her tight body.
“Yes,” answered Hermione breathlessly when she heard him groan. “Never better.”
She undulated her hips to meet his thrusts, still holding on to him firmly, as if to never let go. His hands were on either side of her head, bracing his body while he plunged into her deeper and faster. He drew down to kiss her, swallowing her moans, one hand snaking around her head to her nape, fingers splaying in her hair, the other on her hip, pulling her closer to him.
“Yes,” she murmured against his mouth, their tongues imitating their dance. He moved his mouth to her cheek, her ear, burrowed his face into her neck. He whispered softly, “Love and Soul together had Pleasure. Heart and Mind together had Joy.”
But she scarcely heard. Her mind was reeling from the sensation of finally being reunited with him after so long. She surrounded him so completely; she felt him throbbing throughout her body. He was thrusting harder into her and she was close, she was rising and she cried his name out as she climaxed again. Her body tingled from the rush of pleasure, and felt his heat as he erupted inside her, his seed pouring into her womb, his sweat and tears dropping to her cheeks. She had never felt so whole.
He collapsed on top of her after he shuddered everything into her, his weight pressing her down on the bed. She marvelled at this reunion with him. What would tomorrow bring? she wondered through her daze. I wish the night would last forever.
Ron’s breathing returned to normal, and he started to pull out when she tightened herself around him, hands grabbing him close to her. “Not yet,” she implored.“Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he answered, blue eyes shining brightly through the mild darkness. “Not tonight. I love you, Hermione. I will always love you.”
She felt her heart expand when she heard his words and tears stung her eyes. Hermione felt as though what she was about to say was the answer to the inevitability, a chant to break a spell. “Ron, I lo-”
“Shh,” he placed a finger over mouth, stilling her words, swallowing them with a kiss. He stroked his nose against hers. “You don’t have to say anything, Hermione. Just know that, no matter what happens, I love you.” He wiped the fallen tears from her cheeks, then wrapped his arms around her and rolled so that they lay side by side, still joined.
She was hurt. Just when she felt the time had come at last for her to say what she should have said a long time ago, he had deprived her of the right. Their tears mingled with their sweat and their juices on the sheets. And sleep claimed them.
They reached for each other throughout the night, at some times making love hard, fast, and desperately, at others, slowly and languidly. In the early hours of the morning, Hermione lay on her stomach, thinking that she had never felt so sore and spent, but she had no regrets. They were together again and that was all that mattered.
She looked over to Ron, who slept on his back. He seemed cold and she wanted to warm him up. She moved towards him, pillowed her head on his chest, burrowing closer to him. She closed her eyes in contentment, on the brink of sleep. But there was a detail that bothered her… Was there something she’d forgotten? She frowned, shook her head against the nagging thoughts, and then suddenly it struck her.
She sat bolt upright, fear spreading its venom through her bloodstream, locking her in paralysis as she looked down on the man beside her.
She had neither felt nor heard his heartbeat beneath her ear.
There was nothing.
Nothing.
Acknowledgment: Child’s song is “Song” by John Donne (revised in prose format).
previous chapter | next chapter
author: caledon (the_tower_room)
pairing: Ron/Hermione
rating: M
summary: AU. Who will save whom in this quest for love?
words: 6831
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.
Remembrance of Embraces
Sunday, July 15, 2007
2 o’clock in the morning
Ron stood by his window, staring at the only woman who had the power to make him feel so vulnerable, so helpless. And he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop himself from falling in love with her again, even after all these years, even after that long ago time when he felt as though she had ripped out his heart when she’d left him for school, when she’d left him for Harry. And even then, he couldn’t bear to hurt her. He would have unmade himself.
Ron watched her fiancé hold her arm possessively as they made their rounds to say goodbye. Only his brothers, Ginny, and Harry were left out there. His parents and the other guests had already gone as the party dwindled to a close. His nephews and nieces were gone as well, ushered by their mothers to bed, while outside Fred and George’s fireworks still blew, half-heartedly bright and less loudly.
Ron watched Hermione turn back to stare at his darkened window, straight at him. He was grateful that he was shrouded and she could not fully see him. Even from this distance, he saw something in her eyes and he felt a pitch at the pit of his stomach; hope rose within him. Maybe there’s still a chance for us? he wondered.
But he deflated as she Disapparated with whatzisname. He knew rekindling the old flame would be fruitless, pointless. He would not be able to stay. He had pledged his life to a quest, and even though he had failed, he still had to finish it, see it through the end. And he didn’t know where he would be after then.
Sharing a couple of days of his life with Hermione wouldn’t be fair to her. But could he resist the desire? Was he strong enough not to give in to its seductive pull? His heart’s desire was her and for her to love him again, a wish that would remain unfulfilled by the end of his quest-curse.
Ron turned away from the window and went to his old bed, laid down on top of the covers, and tried to quell the thoughts that plagued him.
Interlude: Alun Fielding
past 2 a.m.
Alun and Hermione Apparated to her flat. It was not the first time he was here, and in those other times she had not allowed him to stay the night, or indeed, even for longer than a few minutes. They had never slept together in her bed.
And not for the first time he mourned that there was a part of her that he could not seem to reach. It was a wonder she had accepted his invitations to go out months before (after some time of pestering her until she gave in), and back then he had always known she was worth the patience. But even after a few months he had reached his limit, and had asked her to marry him.
At the Burrow, before they left, he had heard the graveness in her voice, and he knew the inevitable had come too soon. But he would not let her go willingly.
Hermione led him to the pristine kitchen where everything was in its precise and aligned order. The curtains, though, were pulled back from the opened windows. He leaned out, puzzled. He had never noticed before that a flock of black birds lived just outside her window. But then again, he was rarely in her flat. They intrigued him.
Alun rubbed his eyes, trying to see clearly. They perched out there, thirteen ravens in all, everyone at the ready as though to pounce at their prey. For a moment, he harboured the thought that he was their victim. He chuckled ruefully at his fancy.
Alun turned back to Hermione, who was supposed to be making tea for the both of them. He was startled to find her pulling his engagement ring off her finger and placing it on the table between them.
“It’s over, Alun,” she said sadly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t marry you.”
“Why?” asked Alun, aghast that she would actually go through with breaking their engagement.
“Because I realized that it wouldn’t be fair to you. It wouldn’t be right to marry you when I’m still in love with someone else.”
“It’s that Ron bloke, innit? I knew he was back; I saw him at the party. But did you really see him, Hermione? Really look? He can’t afford you, while I have a lot to offer you. I can give you so much more-”
“You don’t understand, Alun! It’s not a question of what he could give me. It’s a question of who he is and what he means to me.”
He shook his head. “You’re not thinking clearly, Hermione.” He walked to her, about to grab her by the arms to shake some sense into her, but she brandished her wand and pointed it straight at him.
“No, it’s over between us, Alun. I don’t love you. I never have. I can’t marry you.”
“No, Hermione, no. I’ve been good to you, and this is how you repay me?”
She heaved an exasperated sigh, and he couldn’t help but notice the bodice of her dress clinging to her breasts as she breathed. “Please leave.”
He shook his head, starting to feel enraged. He began to make his way towards her. She just couldn’t tease him like that! Who does she think she is?
For a moment, he thought he heard a rustle of great wings, flapping menacingly in warning. Hermione seemed oblivious to it as she eyed him warily. Alun thought he heard a voice inside his head that sounded very rough, as though the throat from whence it originated wasn’t meant for human speech. It said, “The lady said ‘leave,’ Master Fielding. She is not worth losing your soul over. But if need be, my companions are hungry and will not turn away from you.”
The implications of the words hit him, and he felt cold, sheer terror freezing him in place. He stopped, turned away from Hermione who still had her wand pointed at him, and looked out her window.
“We are ready and waiting to show you just how unkind we can be, Master Fielding,” continued the voice that only he could seem to hear. “Please take your ring and leave.”
It seemed that the birds had grown in number. Alun was besieged with the thought that the ravens had left the Tower of London just to have a piece of him.
He turned back to Hermione. He cautiously reached down to the table between them and took his ring. He looked at her, still tense as she watched his every move. He opened his mouth a few times, wanting to try to explain his previous actions, but he knew his explanations would never be enough. He just settled for saying, “I’m sorry, Hermione. I truly am.” She gave him a small nod of acknowledgment, and he walked out of her flat, her building, and her life.
Outside, the birds had gathered on the doorway and the walls of the buildings opposite. He walked quickly, fear overtaking his whole body. And they followed him. He stumbled once, and he waited with bated breath for them to attack, but they just perched and flew over him. He rose unsteadily after a while, and made his way to his flat.
But finally arriving home safely did not leave him feeling relieved. He was afraid of what might happen in the dark, and so until the sun rose, he huddled under the covers, with all the lights in his flat turned on, never letting his eyes leave the ravens that still perched out there, watching him hungrily.
She had done it, and it was over.
Hermione felt rotten to the core, thinking about how much she had hurt Alun. But she could not keep lying to herself. She was tired of running, tired of denying. She could not promise to share the rest of her life with one man and still be in love with another. It was not fair to Alun. It was better to end things now, before it was too late to turn back.
She was tired. She had been feeling restless for the past few days, constantly plagued by dreams. She felt self-disgust mingling with all the pain. Why do I keep doing this to myself?
She stroked her left ring-finger. She didn’t miss Alun’s ring. Since he had given it to her, it had felt like a burden, a shackle. She was sorry she had hurt Alun, but a large part of her was rejoicing that she was free. Free to be with Ron again, free to set everything right.
Hermione sighed and burrowed deeper in her bed, closed her eyes to sleep the day away.
Ron had never dreamed again after that night two weeks ago. His dreams of Hermione and of heartbreak had been quenched after that languid voice spoke to him in his sleep, and he had allowed the speaker to take away the most important part of himself.
Now, he felt as though his soul was being pulled out of his body, a silver line still binding him to his corporeal form. He was sitting on his bed, but his body remained stretched out on it, still in a deep sleep. Ron saw the raven staring at him, sitting on top of the mirror in his dresser.
“Come with me,” commanded the black bird. “There is one who desires to speak with you.”
Ron felt something stir in him, something almost benign filling him as though he had
been granted the grace of a deity. “The Beast?” he whispered reverently.
“Yes. Follow me.” The raven flew up to the ceiling and circled down in a graceful arc to fly through the mirror. Ron rose from his bed and stared at the mirror-turned-doorway, and he went in after the raven.
On the other side of the mirror was a place he had not seen in three years. He walked through a forest of clawed trees, monochromatic gray reigning as the only colour from the sky to the ground. The raven guided him off the main road that led to the three women’s house, to a little worn path at the end of which was a mirror-like scrying pool, and there on one side of it reclining lazily was the creature to whom belonged the languorous voice from the dream that had changed him, the voice that had echoed through his whole being and touched his core.
It had a serene, beautifully androgynous face like a statue’s. Behind It was a bush of flowers which It touched lazily, and colour seemed to seep from Its hand to the flower, turning it fuchsia, stark and loud against the grayness of its environment. Which Ron thought odd because the figure Itself was almost colourless. The raven landed on a sharp branch and watched them dispassionately.
He wondered, vaguely, why he did not feel terrified of the Beast that lay before him.
“It’s because you’ve lost the only thing that can make you feel,” It remarked as though It had heard his thoughts. It looked at him with eyes that were a deep blood-red, with no pupils or iris, just the red void staring back at him. “I know more about you that you are aware of. You have always been mine.”
“You are the Beast.”
It smiled benignly, beautifully. Ron felt as though he was punched in the chest, something inside him overflowing when the Beast’s smile touched him.
“One of my names, yes.” It lifted a marble-white hand, veins of red and blue running beneath Its almost-transparent skin, to smooth Its long silver hair from Its forehead. The Beast lay on Its back, layers of gauzy fabric swirling around Its body in graceful disarray. The flower on Its side drooped on Its chest as though it were drawn to It and wanted to caress It. “Love lies bleeding,” said the Beast, giggling at Its own words as It stroked the flower.
Ron looked down at the pool between them, clear and glassy as mirror. He watched the inverted reflection of the Beast, seeing Its form shift and change into a Child with medium-length dark hair and great wings sprouting from Its shoulders.
“I’ve always loved you among all of those who belonged to me. It’s why you cannot help but feel isolated or dwarfed by the material greatness of others… because of me. Of all, you are the one who feels me the strongest. It’s exhilarating, intoxicating, like the finest ambrosia ever tasted.”
It closed Its eyes as though to savour the sensation, and giggled, pulling the flower over Its eyes. “Look, I’m blind.” The flower fell back over Its lips in a kiss as the Beast turned serious. “I am cruel, even to those that I favour. Even to you, my beloved. I’m indiscriminate as death… But you’ve always known that. Our friend, the raven there, is our soul, as I am its heart. As your psychopomp, it will guide you to me on your ten-thousandth day. Are you nervous?”
Ron shook his head.
“Your Gryffindor courage keeping you from becoming afraid of what’s to come?”
“No,” answered Ron. “As you’ve pointed out a while ago, I have nothing to feel it with. You took it from me.”
“You’ve wanted it gone for so long I just thought it was time to oblige you.” The Beast rolled back to Its side to stare at him. “Here, catch this.” And It threw an object at him that glittered gold and crimson and ice-blue.
He caught it in both hands, almost dropping it when he felt fire and ice burning simultaneously through his skin. He closed his fists against the pain and non-pain until the light disappeared. He opened his hands to find that he was holding nothing at all. Whatever it was had dissolved. “What was that?” asked Ron, in wonder and confusion.
“A fragment from a dead star,” responded the Beast sadly. “My gift for you, my beloved. Your love is free once more and she lives where you used to dwell with her. There are more fruitful ways to say farewell. I charge you to go to her.”
Ron sputtered. “How… what… wh- How do you know about that? Where she lives, I mean.” He chose to ignore the rest of what It said, no matter how much he wanted to believe that it was true.
“I know a great many things that are best left unquestioned.” Ron frowned, memory stirring at Its words, knowing he had heard them uttered before. “I give you my blessing to go to her.” It gathered the flower in Its fist and blew Ron a kiss, the petals of love-lies-bleeding flying to him like dark pink snowflakes, like the brush of a soft feather against his cheeks. He closed his eyes to delight in the caress.
He woke up to find the raven perched on his pillow beside him. “Good morning,” it greeted him, as the day began anew.
Ron could feel the warmth of the sun on his face as sleep and dream receded. The lumpy bed beneath him was familiar and comfortable; he smiled in contentment, knowing he was home. He inhaled deeply, the smell of his musty old bedroom filling him, evoking memories of childhood when everything was simple and predictable, before Harry and Hermione came into his life.
Ron sat up on his bed, turning to look at the raven. He reached out a hand and stroked its black feathers. “Thank you, my dear bloody bird.”
“For what, Master Weasley?”
“Just for being with me.”
The bird hopped onto his shoulder as Ron rose from the bed and went out of his room, not even acknowledging his rumpled appearance.
Interlude: Remus Lupin
The Burrow
Brunch at the Burrow was a cheerful affair. Everyone was out in the garden, five tables clumped together to make room for all the Weasleys and their friends. Children ran amok around them, noises of several different conversations filling the air. Remus Lupin sat with Nymphadora Tonks, conversing with Percy Weasley.
He saw Ron come out of the house and make his way to the tables, looking as though he hadn’t bothered to disrobe when he went to bed. Lupin was enthralled by the extraordinary bird on the younger man’s shoulder. He grinned. Younger man, he scoffed. I wonder how he came upon those white hairs at such an early age. He’s not even thirty yet!
“That’s quite an impressive familiar, Ron,” said Remus in greeting.
Ron turned his head to look at the raven. “Oh no, no, no. This is not a familiar. I think it’s a bit pissed you said that. This, Remus, is a psychopomp. At least, I think that’s the term.”
An incredulous expression came over Lupin’s face. “A psychopomp, you say?” he said almost reverentially. “Intriguing. A real one? Would it mind being studied?”
“Yes, I think it would, very much.”
“Oh, don’t be heartless, Ron,” interjected Tonks, ruffling Lupin’s hair. “What’s a pompous psycho-thingy anyway?”
“A ‘psychopomp’ means ‘soul guide,’ luv,” explained Remus. “They’re not really Dark Creatures, more like Trickster figures. They seldom show themselves to the living, since, for the most part, their function is to guide the souls of the dead into the next world. They are capable of moving between worlds, between time and place. And this,” he pointed to Ron’s raven, “is quite a rare thing that you see here… How did you come by this creature, Ron?”
The younger man with the premature strands of white hair mingling with the red shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Er… it found me, and sent me on a quest.”
The older man’s eyes brightened with curiosity. “A quest? What kind of a quest?”
“A search.” Ron stood up, clearly not at ease with the questioning, causing the black bird to jump from his shoulder to land on the back of the chair he had just vacated. “Well, I’m off. I have to take a shower. I’ll see you all later.”
Remus watched the raven with extreme interest. It was looking coyly at him, and suddenly flew to a tree at the edge of the cluster behind the Burrow, and eyed Lupin beckoningly.
He stared at the bird as it cocked its head to the side, saying to himself hypnotically, “You want me to follow.” He glanced behind him to the others, who seemed busy catching up with each other, eating and talking.
He stood and followed the raven, which led him deep into the forest behind the Burrow. The trees were positioned closer together as they moved further in, the black bird looking back once in a while to make sure the werewolf was following. Farther into the forest they went, until it seemed that the leaves up top were so thickly clumped together that the sunlight barely permeated through.
It was now dark and shadowy and all too quiet, and for once, Lupin realized that his heartbeat and his breathing were the only things to be heard. Even the swishing of the raven’s wings as it flew was silent. Remus stared as it circled overhead once, before finally landing on a gnarly branch of a murky tree.
“Master Lupin,” it greeted him with a sweep of night-dark wing, as though bowing to him.
“You can speak,” said Remus in amazement.
“But of course.”
“Is that possible?”
“For one such as I, you mean? But of course.”
“A psychopomp,” said the werewolf in wonder. A frown marred his face; confusing thoughts swirled in his mind, until he could finally voice what bothered him. “Why Ron?”
“Why not him?” countered the bird.
“Do you mean to harm him?”
“I am his guide and protector, Master Lupin. I mean no harm to him.”
“Who are you protecting him from? Or should I ask: who are you protecting him for?”
“You are a man of intelligence, Master Lupin. But though you ask the right questions, the answers are, regrettably and inevitably, not for you to know.”
“I just find it impossible to believe that psychopomps are capable, or even willing, to guide the living.”
“Impossible? Yes,” agreed the raven, “but not improbable. I am well aware of your interests in Dark Creatures, Master Lupin, but I can assure you that I am not one. I am merely a bird that once was a star, and I have functions to perform. There are actions that are expected of me, and I answer to no one but to myself and the Beast.”
“The Beast?” repeated Remus, his memory roused, and he distinctly recalled an obscure tale he had once read a long time ago. He opened his mouth to speak, his mind racing with thoughts; he knew he was close to the precipice of discovery. In front of him was one of the rarest and most ambiguous creatures ever known and forgotten.
The raven tilted its head to the side as though it knew the internal struggle that Remus was going through. “Will you be naming me, then, Master Lupin?”
He swallowed, afraid. There might be no cure for a Dementor’s kiss, and even less so from an encounter with the bird before him should he somehow offend it. “Soul-Gatherer, the Eater of Eyes,” he breathed out.
“Among other things. Very good, Master Lupin, I commend you. But you should know that I do not devour my charges. Only those still living who have displeased me have ever been the victims of my appetite.” It ruffled its wings as though ready to take flight. “I tire of you.”
“No, wait, please,” implored Lupin. “Just one more question. I need to know. Please? Is Ron in danger?”
The black bird stared pitilessly at him with its great dark eyes. A fine pinprick of light seemed to glow out of them as it croaked out a word that filled Remus with the most irrational fear. “Nevermore.” Its wingspan seemed to stretch and cloak the sky in black; its eyes were bright twin full moons calling for the wolf in him.
The werewolf watched, transfixed, as the white light in its eyes grew until all he could see were those silvery orbs, and he could not turn away from them.
He felt the change coming, his bones popping, sinews stretching. No! he screamed inside himself, willing his body to stop the inevitable change. This is impossible. The full moon is not for another three weeks-
He could hear the raven’s laughter echoing in his head.
“Master Lupin,” it said, “as you have pointed out, I can move between the worlds. How do you know I did not lead you to a time when night has fallen and the full moon risen?”
“No!” screamed Remus as he felt his scalp tightening, sensing each strand of hair on his body tingling and growing, shifting so that their primordial darkness reflected the moon. His blood boiled and burned for the change in anticipation, the heat of it enrapturing him in pain. He tasted the metallic flavour of blood in his mouth, dimly realizing that he had bitten his tongue with his elongating fangs, vaguely recognizing the snout extending from his face. His spine bowed back at a painful angle as he writhed, his bones accommodating the prevailing wolf-form. Nails stretched into claws, and an irrepressible howl came forth from deep within as he felt the cataclysmic completion of the change…
“Remus! Remus! Wake up!” cried a voice he recognized, but the fear interlaced through it was strange and unfamiliar to him.
Lupin opened his eyes, gasped heavily, patting his body for any telltale signs of the wolf.
It had been real, he was sure of it. He had undergone through the change, had completed it… But now, he could see strands of sunlight shining brightly through the gray gloom, and no full moon had come out of nowhere to haunt him.
The raven, he was unsurprised to see, had disappeared.
Tonks knelt beside him, hair gone white with worry, heaving deep sighs of relief. “Do you know how ridiculous you look, convulsing down there for all you’re worth, screaming out bloody murder to hell and back? You gave me quite a fright. What are you doing here anyway?”
“I followed Ron’s bird.”
Tonks frowned in confusion. “I thought you said it wasn’t a Dark Creature. What did you call it? Psychotic and pompous or something?”
“Psychopomp. Tonks, I need to go home. I need to find a book. It’s important.”
She looked at him questioningly, slowly nodding after her eyes roamed her lover’s face for any telltale sign of insanity. “All right. I’ll tell everyone we’re going. And then you tell me what the blazing hell is going on.”
There are more fruitful ways to say farewell… The thought kept echoing in his head as warm water blasted down his body.
He bowed his head under the spray, closed his eyes and let the water wash away his weariness. And why not? he thought. Why shouldn’t I indulge myself? I still love her and I want her so much… I don’t even know what’s really right anymore, so who’s to say that this is wrong? I haven’t finished this quest anyway, so there is absolutely no way that I’ll get my wish granted.
Besides, didn’t It say that she just broke off with what’s-that-git’s-name? Maybe she wants some comfort…? And she lives in my old flat. I wonder when she moved back in?
Ron shook his head to clear the thoughts off his mind. He shouldn’t allow himself to think such thoughts, shouldn’t allow such things to give him hope. He opened his eyes and gazed down at the flat expanse of his chest and belly, and down further to his manhood hanging half-erect at the thought of being with Hermione. He wondered which would win in the end, which would he follow: his mind, which told him, “no, he would just turn this into a meaningless one-night-stand”, or the one between his legs, almost too eager for what was to come when night fell.
Ron was still uncertain when he finished his shower.
Twilight
In a dream within a dream, Hermione walked in a white marble hall. Instead of a smooth floor, the ground was coarse white dust, glittering brightly, lighting up the room. This place was so different from the warm desert of her previous dreams.
She clutched herself protectively, hoping to give herself warmth through the thin nightgown that she wore. She passed through the white pillars that lined the hall, straight through an arched doorway. She stopped in her tracks.
On either side of her were mirrors, stretching into infinity ahead of her. A different, frightening coldness gripped her heart, chilled her spine. She didn’t want to move forward; she was afraid of what lay in the mirrors that reflected eternally.
She turned back to the hall of pillars, but there was just a great empty void beyond the archway. She turned again to face the hall of mirrors, trepidation filling her.
“Won’t you see what’s in front of you?” came a lilting voice, unfamiliar and androgynous, and Hermione found herself stepping forward and looking into a mirror. She gasped.
Her image was faint. She had a reflection, but she could see through herself.
“Losing your soul?” asked the voice. “What need you of eyes when you can’t see what’s been in front of you all along? What need you of your tongue when you couldn’t say the words that he longed for? It’ll be too late soon.”
“Who’s there?” she asked, voice echoing through the cavernous room. “Who are you?”
“In front of you.”
She turned from her reflection. Ahead of her stood a Child, cherubic, dark curling hair falling to Its shoulders. It stared at her languorously, Its eyes a gaping void of deep blood-red.
She was horrified at the sight, and yet there was something about It that hit her straight within her womb, and she felt arousal spreading through her. Great wings rose from Its shoulders, and Its arms were wrapped around Itself, mimicking her. There was something blatantly sexual in the way It held Itself.
“What-who are you?” she asked, voice gentle in the way she used when she was speaking to a child.
It smiled serenely at her. “I have a heart, but it’s not mine.” It clasped Its hands together, then tenderly drew them apart. It was cupping a heart made of dust, but soon the grains merged together, forming a heart of flesh, blood oozing into the Child’s hands. “A thing of beauty, isn’t it?”
She could do nothing but stare and nod, disgusted with the Child’s display.
It drew the heart to Its lips as though to kiss it, but the Child crooned a lullaby instead.
“Go and catch a falling star. Get with child a mandrake root. Tell me where all past years are, or who cleft the Devil’s foot. Teach me to hear the mermaids singing, or to keep off envy’s stinging,” at this, the Child clapped Its hands and the heart disappeared.
Hermione gasped, and Child looked at her, drew a finger to Its lips, gesturing for her to keep quiet. “I’m not finished my song. You must listen to it,” It said petulantly, reaching behind to pluck a raven-black feather from Its wing. “And find what wind serves to advance an honest mind. If thou beest born to strange sights, things invisible to see, ride ten-thousand days and nights, till age snow white hairs on thee. Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me all strange wonders that befell thee, and swear no where lives a woman true and fair.” At this line, the Child pointed at her, cackling madly.
“I beg your pardon!” she cried in indignation.
“Shh, you must keep your silence. The song isn’t over yet.” It raised the black plume as though It were a music conductor, and started swishing the feather about as It sang. “If thou find’st one, let me know, such a pilgrimage were sweet; yet do not, I would not go, though at next door we might meet; though she were true when you met her, and last till you write your letter-” out of the air, It produced a rolled scroll with red writing on the bottom that she couldn’t make out. The Child shook Its head at her, utter disappointment on Its face, accusation in Its horrific red eyes. “Yet she will be false, and ere I come, to two, or three.”
“Three what?” she asked out of curiosity.
“Years.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
It smiled sadly at her, and she was struck at how the Child seemed to resemble Ron at that moment.
“It has been three years since the seal of the raven. Hermione, it’s time to open your eyes. I am in front of you; I have ever and always been with you, even if you refuse to acknowledge me. It’s time to wake up.”
Hermione opened her eyes, a sense of dread settling over her. She whimpered and tears fell helplessly from her eyes.
She felt herself being gathered into strong arms, and dazed, allowed herself to be held, burrowing her head on the person’s neck. She encountered a scent that was at once strange and recognizable.
Ron, she thought. I must still be dreaming.
“Shh, I’m here, Hermione. It was just a dream, and you’re awake now. You’re safe,” he murmured in her ear softly.
Ron! She was overcome with relief and she tightened her arms around him. This is the way it should be. Us, together again. He’s come back to me.
And then she remembered. He had been gone for six years, and had recently just returned.
She pulled back a bit and regarded him by the light from the fireplace, which, she was surprised to find, was blazing with warmth. He probably put it on, she mused. “Ron. Ron, what are you doing here? How did you get in?”
He looked down, almost afraid to meet her gaze. “I Apparated,” he mumbled. “I used to live here, you know. This was my flat.”
Hermione wished he would look at her again. She ran her fingers over the white strands in his hair, took his chin and forced him to look at her. “What are you doing here?” she repeated.
Apprehension filled his eyes. “I couldn’t keep away. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be here. I’ll leave.” He rose but she tightened her grip on his arms.
“Why did you come back?”
A pained expression fleeted across his face for a millisecond before he composed his features. “I wanted to see yo-everyone. It was my parent’s anniversary, after all.”
“Oh.” She felt her shoulders slump in disappointment.
Ron reached out a hand and touched her cheek. It was a slight touch, barely there, just hovering over her skin. Hermione closed her eyes at the sensation and leaned her head against his hand, finally making contact with it.
He inhaled sharply, and caressed her face more boldly. He leaned over to place a gentle kiss on her lips, his own just a gossamer touch over hers. She pushed her lips firmly against his, and he finally deepened the kiss. She opened her mouth as he ran his tongue over her lips, and sucked him greedily. Her stomach jumped when she felt his hands caressing her thighs, as he moved the hem of her nightgown up to her hips. Her own hands roamed to his shirt, unbuttoning him in her haste to feel his skin. The shirt came off, and so did, she was surprised to discover, her nightgown.
She lay back on the bed, pulling him down to settle on top of her, their kisses growing more furious and heated, passion marking them with urgency, until they were both undressed and there was nothing but their skin touching, hands exploring places they hadn’t felt for six years. Somehow she ended up on top, and she proceeded to kiss and caress her way down his body.
Her tongue was a heart, was fire, licking a trail of flames down his belly, spiralling down to rest on his cock. Her hot mouth surrounded him, took him deeper down her throat, his flame-red hair meeting her rose-red lips. He grabbed her by her brown curls and gently drew her head away from his fiery shaft, which was ready and ripe to bursting.
He pulled her to him for a kiss, settling her over his body, rolling so that she lay beneath him. Their tongues mated; he could taste himself. He rained kisses down her cheeks, her neck, her chest. He drew a rosy nipple into his mouth, suckling and biting gently, and hand encasing her other breast, thumb and forefinger pinching her nipple in imitation of his mouth’s actions. He kissed his way down to her navel, to her triangle of brown curls. His hot breath mingled with her moist heat, his tongue licking and tasting and plunging in her.
Hermione moaned and mewed incoherently, legs holding tight to his shoulders, hands twined into his hair, keeping him in place. He sucked her clit and pushed two fingers inside her pussy. The sensation was too much for her. She wanted more of him, but she didn’t want him to stop. Her hips bucked against him as she reached her orgasm.
Ron rose and held her against him while she trembled from the force of her climax. She felt the head of his cock at her entrance, his hands holding on to her week knees, spreading her legs further apart. She gasped when he slowly entered her, closed her eyes at the sensation of him finally coming home after so long. Had he grown? she wondered. He seemed to stretch and fill her as never before, and she tried to reacquaint herself to being joined with him again.
“Are you all right?” he asked, almost drawing away. But she found strength and clamped her legs around his hips, hands grabbing his buttocks, keeping him within her tight body.
“Yes,” answered Hermione breathlessly when she heard him groan. “Never better.”
She undulated her hips to meet his thrusts, still holding on to him firmly, as if to never let go. His hands were on either side of her head, bracing his body while he plunged into her deeper and faster. He drew down to kiss her, swallowing her moans, one hand snaking around her head to her nape, fingers splaying in her hair, the other on her hip, pulling her closer to him.
“Yes,” she murmured against his mouth, their tongues imitating their dance. He moved his mouth to her cheek, her ear, burrowed his face into her neck. He whispered softly, “Love and Soul together had Pleasure. Heart and Mind together had Joy.”
But she scarcely heard. Her mind was reeling from the sensation of finally being reunited with him after so long. She surrounded him so completely; she felt him throbbing throughout her body. He was thrusting harder into her and she was close, she was rising and she cried his name out as she climaxed again. Her body tingled from the rush of pleasure, and felt his heat as he erupted inside her, his seed pouring into her womb, his sweat and tears dropping to her cheeks. She had never felt so whole.
He collapsed on top of her after he shuddered everything into her, his weight pressing her down on the bed. She marvelled at this reunion with him. What would tomorrow bring? she wondered through her daze. I wish the night would last forever.
Ron’s breathing returned to normal, and he started to pull out when she tightened herself around him, hands grabbing him close to her. “Not yet,” she implored.“Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he answered, blue eyes shining brightly through the mild darkness. “Not tonight. I love you, Hermione. I will always love you.”
She felt her heart expand when she heard his words and tears stung her eyes. Hermione felt as though what she was about to say was the answer to the inevitability, a chant to break a spell. “Ron, I lo-”
“Shh,” he placed a finger over mouth, stilling her words, swallowing them with a kiss. He stroked his nose against hers. “You don’t have to say anything, Hermione. Just know that, no matter what happens, I love you.” He wiped the fallen tears from her cheeks, then wrapped his arms around her and rolled so that they lay side by side, still joined.
She was hurt. Just when she felt the time had come at last for her to say what she should have said a long time ago, he had deprived her of the right. Their tears mingled with their sweat and their juices on the sheets. And sleep claimed them.
They reached for each other throughout the night, at some times making love hard, fast, and desperately, at others, slowly and languidly. In the early hours of the morning, Hermione lay on her stomach, thinking that she had never felt so sore and spent, but she had no regrets. They were together again and that was all that mattered.
She looked over to Ron, who slept on his back. He seemed cold and she wanted to warm him up. She moved towards him, pillowed her head on his chest, burrowing closer to him. She closed her eyes in contentment, on the brink of sleep. But there was a detail that bothered her… Was there something she’d forgotten? She frowned, shook her head against the nagging thoughts, and then suddenly it struck her.
She sat bolt upright, fear spreading its venom through her bloodstream, locking her in paralysis as she looked down on the man beside her.
She had neither felt nor heard his heartbeat beneath her ear.
There was nothing.
Nothing.
Acknowledgment: Child’s song is “Song” by John Donne (revised in prose format).
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