(no subject)
Title: Phoenix Heart (2/?)
Author: infusiion
Rating: G for now.
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairings: Hermione-centric, Draco/Hermione.
Notes: Originally a oneshot inspired by "The Charge of the Light Brigade", a poem by Alfred Tennyson.
I felt a huge compulsion to continue this whilst sitting at the dinner table at my boyfriend's house with his laptop. I have a good feeling about this. Let's all hope I can come up with a plot! And not ruin it...
(Oh, and as a sidenote - I like how bolded font appears green, but it's irritating when the italics in fanfic go green too. When I go home this weekend I will try revive my CSS skills and fix that.)
Chapter One.
Hermione felt the familiar cadence of routine, but did her best to ignore it. Even if it was terribly comforting. It wasn't as though what she was doing was bad, definitely not; it was who she was doing it with.
Draco Malfoy. A name that, even when considered purely in the letters' aesthetics when written on paper, just screamed evil. Heartless, rude, cold, cruel, prejudiced, she could go on and on. Hermione figured it had something to do with the sharp angles on the D, and the spikes on the M, and the stabby tail on the y. Or maybe that was just how she wrote it.
Blinking once or twice, Hermione noticed she was writing his name on the pre-draft of her Potions essay, trying different styles to see which fit the boy she had come to know, albeit silently, over the past few weeks.
How the hell did that happen? She wondered, scrubbing out the letters furiously.
- - -
He smelled of winter as she remembered it at home: of snap-frozen grass, and the musty breath of the earth that clung to her nostrils whenever her boots crunched on dead leaves.
He was as cold as winter, too. Not the steely hatred he used to direct at her, but just a state of frozenness that had nothing and everything to do with the atmosphere. Since the afternoon she had first seen him in the Forest, Hermione had progressed from watching him to folding herself beside him on the wet ground. She always knew he was aware of her presence, and his lack of action gave her confidence.
They never spoke. They simply sat, Hermione drowning in an ocean of ignorance, looking everywhere but the path ahead; Malfoy just breathing. Hermione pretended not to notice the tremors that sometimes radiated from his chest out through his shoulders. Just as he pretended not to notice she was there.
Fawkes never returned. One of the things Hermione thought about when she was carefully not thinking was the phoenix's appearance that day. It made no sense to her, but then neither did the behaviour of her once-nemesis.
Once-nemesis. She wasn't sure when she decided they were no longer enemies, only that she did. Something had changed - it was almost tangible. They had reached an unspoken agreement the day she offered him her hand; there were things bigger and deadlier than their teenage rivalry. And each day those things were drawing closer. Decisions had to be made, consequences lurked behind them, and Hermione spent her time trying not to choke on it.
The days were getting shorter, colder. She stopped lying to her friends; it was a testament to her defiance that they remained behind and allowed her to venture into the Forest alone. Perhaps it was because she was the smartest, most powerful witch in her year. Perhaps it was the darkness under her eyes, and the way her fingers clenched and unclenched until pink crescents blossomed on her palms. Harry was far from stupid, and Ron was increasingly interested in looking at her. They noticed how different she seemed when she returned from her little walks. Tired, yes, but slack, like all the tension was drained from her muscles and her mind. They discussed it quietly amongst themselves, but they never used relaxed as an adjective for her returning state. Whatever had left her body was still present in her wide, shadow-rimmed eyes.
Eyes that Hermione, on this deep orange evening, found were fluttering closed without her realising. Why was she so tired? Her studies, both necessary and otherwise, kept her up late, but no later than she usually stayed up on school nights.
She was indeed very comfortable here. It was easy to pretend nothing was wrong when she was curled against a hard, musty tree trunk on soil that warmed under her. The Forest's magic vibrated through her, lulling her like an infant, until her heavy lids slipped closed.
She was running, fleeing from the blackness that swelled and crackled with green fire, reaching its tendrils out to claim them one by one. She thought of hurricanes, and the people who tried to outrun them, tried to predict their moves and fooled themselves into believing they were faster. What chased them felt the same; a terrible force of nature that couldn't be stopped. Voldemort's voice rode on the wind that whipped her hair into her eyes, blinding her. She tried to rip it away from her face, stumbled and fell on the cold ground. The blackness drew nearer, the hissing grew triumphant. Her fate.
Suddenly a strong hand grabbed hers, and pulled her to her feet. Harry! He was alive! She finally pulled the hair from her face, to smile up at him as they began running.
Silver hair and storm cloud eyes replaced tousled black locks and piercing green. Hermione's eyes grew wide, and she tried to pull her hand from his.
"But you're my enemy!" She screamed.
His voice was calm. "I'm all you have now."
Hermione's lids snapped open to the Forest, and the nighttime that had almost completely blanketed them.
"Lumos" she heard to her right. Soft green light invaded her vision, reflected in the platinum irises that searched her face intently behind the wand. He usually left well before darkness fell, and she usually counted thirty hippopotamuses before following him to the castle.
"You fell asleep. We should go, it's getting late." He murmured. He stood and held out his hand. She hesitated, her nightmare fresh in her mind, before inwardly scolding her silliness and taking his hand. He pulled her to her feet a little easier than she would have expected, given his slight frame, and held her as she wobbled.
I don't know why I'm so exhausted." I don't know why I'm telling you, either.
"Everything comes at a price." He answered coolly, cryptically.
Looking around at the trees (invisible if not for lumos), and feeling the magic that crashed around now that the sun was gone, Hermione shuddered. She noticed her hand was still in Malfoy's, and looked down at it in surprise.
As if he just realized what he was doing, Malfoy dropped her like she was poison, and briskly began walking back through the trees toward the castle. It took only two hippopotamuses for Hermione to realize she didn't want to be alone, and she sprinted after him, glancing back every so often at the blackness.
Chapter Three.
Author: infusiion
Rating: G for now.
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairings: Hermione-centric, Draco/Hermione.
Notes: Originally a oneshot inspired by "The Charge of the Light Brigade", a poem by Alfred Tennyson.
I felt a huge compulsion to continue this whilst sitting at the dinner table at my boyfriend's house with his laptop. I have a good feeling about this. Let's all hope I can come up with a plot! And not ruin it...
(Oh, and as a sidenote - I like how bolded font appears green, but it's irritating when the italics in fanfic go green too. When I go home this weekend I will try revive my CSS skills and fix that.)
Chapter One.
Hermione felt the familiar cadence of routine, but did her best to ignore it. Even if it was terribly comforting. It wasn't as though what she was doing was bad, definitely not; it was who she was doing it with.
Draco Malfoy. A name that, even when considered purely in the letters' aesthetics when written on paper, just screamed evil. Heartless, rude, cold, cruel, prejudiced, she could go on and on. Hermione figured it had something to do with the sharp angles on the D, and the spikes on the M, and the stabby tail on the y. Or maybe that was just how she wrote it.
Blinking once or twice, Hermione noticed she was writing his name on the pre-draft of her Potions essay, trying different styles to see which fit the boy she had come to know, albeit silently, over the past few weeks.
How the hell did that happen? She wondered, scrubbing out the letters furiously.
- - -
He smelled of winter as she remembered it at home: of snap-frozen grass, and the musty breath of the earth that clung to her nostrils whenever her boots crunched on dead leaves.
He was as cold as winter, too. Not the steely hatred he used to direct at her, but just a state of frozenness that had nothing and everything to do with the atmosphere. Since the afternoon she had first seen him in the Forest, Hermione had progressed from watching him to folding herself beside him on the wet ground. She always knew he was aware of her presence, and his lack of action gave her confidence.
They never spoke. They simply sat, Hermione drowning in an ocean of ignorance, looking everywhere but the path ahead; Malfoy just breathing. Hermione pretended not to notice the tremors that sometimes radiated from his chest out through his shoulders. Just as he pretended not to notice she was there.
Fawkes never returned. One of the things Hermione thought about when she was carefully not thinking was the phoenix's appearance that day. It made no sense to her, but then neither did the behaviour of her once-nemesis.
Once-nemesis. She wasn't sure when she decided they were no longer enemies, only that she did. Something had changed - it was almost tangible. They had reached an unspoken agreement the day she offered him her hand; there were things bigger and deadlier than their teenage rivalry. And each day those things were drawing closer. Decisions had to be made, consequences lurked behind them, and Hermione spent her time trying not to choke on it.
The days were getting shorter, colder. She stopped lying to her friends; it was a testament to her defiance that they remained behind and allowed her to venture into the Forest alone. Perhaps it was because she was the smartest, most powerful witch in her year. Perhaps it was the darkness under her eyes, and the way her fingers clenched and unclenched until pink crescents blossomed on her palms. Harry was far from stupid, and Ron was increasingly interested in looking at her. They noticed how different she seemed when she returned from her little walks. Tired, yes, but slack, like all the tension was drained from her muscles and her mind. They discussed it quietly amongst themselves, but they never used relaxed as an adjective for her returning state. Whatever had left her body was still present in her wide, shadow-rimmed eyes.
Eyes that Hermione, on this deep orange evening, found were fluttering closed without her realising. Why was she so tired? Her studies, both necessary and otherwise, kept her up late, but no later than she usually stayed up on school nights.
She was indeed very comfortable here. It was easy to pretend nothing was wrong when she was curled against a hard, musty tree trunk on soil that warmed under her. The Forest's magic vibrated through her, lulling her like an infant, until her heavy lids slipped closed.
She was running, fleeing from the blackness that swelled and crackled with green fire, reaching its tendrils out to claim them one by one. She thought of hurricanes, and the people who tried to outrun them, tried to predict their moves and fooled themselves into believing they were faster. What chased them felt the same; a terrible force of nature that couldn't be stopped. Voldemort's voice rode on the wind that whipped her hair into her eyes, blinding her. She tried to rip it away from her face, stumbled and fell on the cold ground. The blackness drew nearer, the hissing grew triumphant. Her fate.
Suddenly a strong hand grabbed hers, and pulled her to her feet. Harry! He was alive! She finally pulled the hair from her face, to smile up at him as they began running.
Silver hair and storm cloud eyes replaced tousled black locks and piercing green. Hermione's eyes grew wide, and she tried to pull her hand from his.
"But you're my enemy!" She screamed.
His voice was calm. "I'm all you have now."
Hermione's lids snapped open to the Forest, and the nighttime that had almost completely blanketed them.
"Lumos" she heard to her right. Soft green light invaded her vision, reflected in the platinum irises that searched her face intently behind the wand. He usually left well before darkness fell, and she usually counted thirty hippopotamuses before following him to the castle.
"You fell asleep. We should go, it's getting late." He murmured. He stood and held out his hand. She hesitated, her nightmare fresh in her mind, before inwardly scolding her silliness and taking his hand. He pulled her to her feet a little easier than she would have expected, given his slight frame, and held her as she wobbled.
I don't know why I'm so exhausted." I don't know why I'm telling you, either.
"Everything comes at a price." He answered coolly, cryptically.
Looking around at the trees (invisible if not for lumos), and feeling the magic that crashed around now that the sun was gone, Hermione shuddered. She noticed her hand was still in Malfoy's, and looked down at it in surprise.
As if he just realized what he was doing, Malfoy dropped her like she was poison, and briskly began walking back through the trees toward the castle. It took only two hippopotamuses for Hermione to realize she didn't want to be alone, and she sprinted after him, glancing back every so often at the blackness.
Chapter Three.