Passion of the Phoenix
Title: Passion of the Phoenix
Author: evildamsel/ScarletDeva/Irina
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,278
Notes/Warning: Written for the Christmas Challenge at dramionedrabble. This is my second drabble for it and this time my quote was: “Better to pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.” - The Dead
A year and a half has passed since Harry Potter died and Voldemort stood triumphant over his body, lidless eyes slitted in savage joy.
A year and a quarter since Hermione Granger, a newly broken arm and a still broken heart, routed the scraggly remains of the Order and cobbled them together into something approximating a viable resistance force.
And an even year since Draco Malfoy came to stand at her side, silvery-blond hair too long to be neat and not long enough to be like Lucius.
It was Christmas back then. A bloody, tiring Christmas that they didn’t spend in front of a cozy fireplace singing carols, eating delicious treats and exchanging packages wrapped in shiny paper and adorned with bright ribbon flowers.
Instead, on that Christmas, the Slytherin Ferret-Prince showed Hermione and her rag-tag followers a secret way into Voldemort’s latest stronghold where they stole a few quite valuable items and then opened his own home to them.
No, not Malfoy Manor.
Lucius’ mother was a Summers, a minor but old pureblood family line, and the Acton Cottage was part of her small inheritance as the eldest daughter. It wasn’t much, not remotely as compared to the Manor, but it was isolated, hard to find and adaptable so it could fit everyone who needed to be there.
He opened up all the bedrooms, let Luna into the larder and said nothing when Fleur insisted they put up a tree. It was a day late and decorated with scraps, odds and ends, but there it was.
And so a year passed as they made the Cottage into a base and began their own quiet, deadly campaign of terror on Voldemort’s forces.
This Christmas was different. The last one was a beginning. Snow fell and hope rose with it as Draco Malfoy opened the door and, with it, a possibility of victory.
This one felt like an ending. Or just a pit-stop on an endless road to nowhere.
Most of the resistance fighters were out on missions, scouting, information gathering, and, in some cases, assassinating Death Eaters.
In the main study, Draco and Hermione were bent over a large map laid on a massive mahogany table, marking it up in anticipation of their next planned attacks. Although it didn’t feel much like anticipation, just like drudgery.
It was the same every time.
They took out a training center or a manufacturing facility.
Voldemort marshaled forces and killed a few thousand innocents.
But they couldn’t just give up. Hermione remembered Harry’s blank green eyes too well. And Draco… well Draco had his own reasons.
So there they were.
Hermione was scribbling notes on the spread-out pieces of parchment and Draco was tying them into spells on the geographic outline.
The room was dim, just enough light so they could see what they were doing. Fleur hung only a couple of candle laden holiday wreaths before a headache drove her back to bed and then George tried to finish what she started, but he got out of the way when they took over the room for strategy work.
Hermione paused, huffing a sigh, and then with utter calculation, ratcheted her quill into the wall. The tip sank into a tapestry and the red feather end bobbed. Draco didn’t look up, merely passed her another quill and patted her on the shoulder.
It could have been because he was cold, unmovable, uncaring even to anything past the mission.
More likely, it had something to do with the other half dozen discarded quills, some laying haphazardly on the floor and others stuck in their own spots in the wall.
The door opened quietly and Luna walked in, a bundle of papers in her arms that she deposited near Draco. He nodded at her and she left the way she came, pale and silent, more ghostly than the apparitions that haunted Hogwarts, only the soft jangle of her bell earrings announcing she was ever there. He set aside his wand, flipped through some of the documents, walked over to the wall, and started gathering the lost quills.
“It’s time,” he said quietly. He bent down and picked up the last few feathered utensils.
“Finish the spells,” Hermione replied. It was her turn to not look up from her work.
He strode over to her, one knee bent so his head was level with hers, and his long, pianist fingers gently cupped her chin, lifting it so their eyes would meet. His eyes were fire. Silver lava.
“It’s time,” he repeated. He put down the quills he was holding and then removed hers from her hand, setting it down to join the others. His gaze never left hers. “We have been a thorn in Voldemort’s side for a year, nipping at him like annoying, barely teethed puppies. No more. Gather the troops. Let’s make him bleed.”
“Malfoy,” she said and fell silent.
“We can do it,” he said and his voice was quiet but the words were leaden, falling to the ground between them with a clang of finality. “We can destroy him. We have the strength, the information and we want this. We need this.”
“I…”
“Listen to me, Granger. I am Draco Malfoy and I will not live like this. Like a rabid dog being hunted by his master. I am better than this.” He paused, drawing in air with a shudder as his head bent closer to hers, their faces just that single breath apart. “We,” the word fluttered from his lips to hers, “are better than this.” His fingers slid over her chin, slightly moist and warm, his palm grazed her cheek and then his hand tangled in her hair, not pulling, just resting, holding her frozen.
“We… Do you…” she muttered, unable to gather her thoughts. Her hands rose of their own accord, finding the front of his plain cotton shirt and gripping tight. Hanging on.
“Yes. Yes.” He answered the questions she asked and the ones she didn’t. “Let’s set the world on fire and let him perish in the inferno.”
She couldn’t speak for a moment, her throat prickly and dry and her tongue swollen inside her mouth. She swallowed, blinked, and then was lost. “The Order of the Phoenix is named for the Professor Dumbledore’s mystical bird,” she said slowly, every word forming behind her lips and then blooming forth in the inch of empty space in front of them. “A mystical bird that burns to ambers and then rises from the ashes into new life.”
“Yes,” he said again, his thumb stroking the shell of her ear.
“Tomorrow?” she breathed out, her curls bouncing around her face and brushing against his cheeks.
“Yes,” he repeated.
The silence between them was like a rubber-band, stretching tighter and tighter until it snapped and rebounded with the sound of her voice.
“Yes.”
The vacant space between them was gone as if it had never been, their lips taking it over, meeting in a touch that was light, tentative, and then aflame.
“We are the Phoenix.”
It was said between mouths melding, tongues rubbing and the very air mixing hot and wet. It was never clear who said it, whose voice gave those words life but it didn’t matter. When Prometheus brought fire to humans, he paid and he suffered, but all that counted was that they had fire.
And all that counted now was that they had hope.
Later, she used her secret signal coin to alert all their forces.
Later, he prepared potions and spells and amulets.
And, later, on that tomorrow, the Final Battle began.
How that ended is another story. This story, however, ended with rebirth.
Author: evildamsel/ScarletDeva/Irina
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,278
Notes/Warning: Written for the Christmas Challenge at dramionedrabble. This is my second drabble for it and this time my quote was: “Better to pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.” - The Dead
A year and a half has passed since Harry Potter died and Voldemort stood triumphant over his body, lidless eyes slitted in savage joy.
A year and a quarter since Hermione Granger, a newly broken arm and a still broken heart, routed the scraggly remains of the Order and cobbled them together into something approximating a viable resistance force.
And an even year since Draco Malfoy came to stand at her side, silvery-blond hair too long to be neat and not long enough to be like Lucius.
It was Christmas back then. A bloody, tiring Christmas that they didn’t spend in front of a cozy fireplace singing carols, eating delicious treats and exchanging packages wrapped in shiny paper and adorned with bright ribbon flowers.
Instead, on that Christmas, the Slytherin Ferret-Prince showed Hermione and her rag-tag followers a secret way into Voldemort’s latest stronghold where they stole a few quite valuable items and then opened his own home to them.
No, not Malfoy Manor.
Lucius’ mother was a Summers, a minor but old pureblood family line, and the Acton Cottage was part of her small inheritance as the eldest daughter. It wasn’t much, not remotely as compared to the Manor, but it was isolated, hard to find and adaptable so it could fit everyone who needed to be there.
He opened up all the bedrooms, let Luna into the larder and said nothing when Fleur insisted they put up a tree. It was a day late and decorated with scraps, odds and ends, but there it was.
And so a year passed as they made the Cottage into a base and began their own quiet, deadly campaign of terror on Voldemort’s forces.
This Christmas was different. The last one was a beginning. Snow fell and hope rose with it as Draco Malfoy opened the door and, with it, a possibility of victory.
This one felt like an ending. Or just a pit-stop on an endless road to nowhere.
Most of the resistance fighters were out on missions, scouting, information gathering, and, in some cases, assassinating Death Eaters.
In the main study, Draco and Hermione were bent over a large map laid on a massive mahogany table, marking it up in anticipation of their next planned attacks. Although it didn’t feel much like anticipation, just like drudgery.
It was the same every time.
They took out a training center or a manufacturing facility.
Voldemort marshaled forces and killed a few thousand innocents.
But they couldn’t just give up. Hermione remembered Harry’s blank green eyes too well. And Draco… well Draco had his own reasons.
So there they were.
Hermione was scribbling notes on the spread-out pieces of parchment and Draco was tying them into spells on the geographic outline.
The room was dim, just enough light so they could see what they were doing. Fleur hung only a couple of candle laden holiday wreaths before a headache drove her back to bed and then George tried to finish what she started, but he got out of the way when they took over the room for strategy work.
Hermione paused, huffing a sigh, and then with utter calculation, ratcheted her quill into the wall. The tip sank into a tapestry and the red feather end bobbed. Draco didn’t look up, merely passed her another quill and patted her on the shoulder.
It could have been because he was cold, unmovable, uncaring even to anything past the mission.
More likely, it had something to do with the other half dozen discarded quills, some laying haphazardly on the floor and others stuck in their own spots in the wall.
The door opened quietly and Luna walked in, a bundle of papers in her arms that she deposited near Draco. He nodded at her and she left the way she came, pale and silent, more ghostly than the apparitions that haunted Hogwarts, only the soft jangle of her bell earrings announcing she was ever there. He set aside his wand, flipped through some of the documents, walked over to the wall, and started gathering the lost quills.
“It’s time,” he said quietly. He bent down and picked up the last few feathered utensils.
“Finish the spells,” Hermione replied. It was her turn to not look up from her work.
He strode over to her, one knee bent so his head was level with hers, and his long, pianist fingers gently cupped her chin, lifting it so their eyes would meet. His eyes were fire. Silver lava.
“It’s time,” he repeated. He put down the quills he was holding and then removed hers from her hand, setting it down to join the others. His gaze never left hers. “We have been a thorn in Voldemort’s side for a year, nipping at him like annoying, barely teethed puppies. No more. Gather the troops. Let’s make him bleed.”
“Malfoy,” she said and fell silent.
“We can do it,” he said and his voice was quiet but the words were leaden, falling to the ground between them with a clang of finality. “We can destroy him. We have the strength, the information and we want this. We need this.”
“I…”
“Listen to me, Granger. I am Draco Malfoy and I will not live like this. Like a rabid dog being hunted by his master. I am better than this.” He paused, drawing in air with a shudder as his head bent closer to hers, their faces just that single breath apart. “We,” the word fluttered from his lips to hers, “are better than this.” His fingers slid over her chin, slightly moist and warm, his palm grazed her cheek and then his hand tangled in her hair, not pulling, just resting, holding her frozen.
“We… Do you…” she muttered, unable to gather her thoughts. Her hands rose of their own accord, finding the front of his plain cotton shirt and gripping tight. Hanging on.
“Yes. Yes.” He answered the questions she asked and the ones she didn’t. “Let’s set the world on fire and let him perish in the inferno.”
She couldn’t speak for a moment, her throat prickly and dry and her tongue swollen inside her mouth. She swallowed, blinked, and then was lost. “The Order of the Phoenix is named for the Professor Dumbledore’s mystical bird,” she said slowly, every word forming behind her lips and then blooming forth in the inch of empty space in front of them. “A mystical bird that burns to ambers and then rises from the ashes into new life.”
“Yes,” he said again, his thumb stroking the shell of her ear.
“Tomorrow?” she breathed out, her curls bouncing around her face and brushing against his cheeks.
“Yes,” he repeated.
The silence between them was like a rubber-band, stretching tighter and tighter until it snapped and rebounded with the sound of her voice.
“Yes.”
The vacant space between them was gone as if it had never been, their lips taking it over, meeting in a touch that was light, tentative, and then aflame.
“We are the Phoenix.”
It was said between mouths melding, tongues rubbing and the very air mixing hot and wet. It was never clear who said it, whose voice gave those words life but it didn’t matter. When Prometheus brought fire to humans, he paid and he suffered, but all that counted was that they had fire.
And all that counted now was that they had hope.
Later, she used her secret signal coin to alert all their forces.
Later, he prepared potions and spells and amulets.
And, later, on that tomorrow, the Final Battle began.
How that ended is another story. This story, however, ended with rebirth.