Title: September Death
Author: Starcrossedgirl )
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Notes: here comes my first ever H/D fic: September Death. Please be kind... *wibbles* Couldn�t resist Aja�s seasonal challenge, somehow. So, here�s my little contribution to the party� Idea of Autumnal Equinox came from a BtVS fic I once read and is varied now, the last phrase is adapted from a German poem. Cookies to those, who manage to find out which. Thanks: To Milena, who betad this, then made Maya, whom I barely know, beta it and promise to advertise it. *schnoogles* To Maya, because she was so wonderful to beta a fic of someone she hasn�t even spoken a word to. Thanks so much!
I had always expected the war to end on a cold winter day. I don�t know why � maybe it was the image of the blood shed on virgin snow that got stuck in my head � maybe the wish to end it all before spring comes once again, fresh and young, with growing life everywhere. Whatever it was, the idea stayed with me as long as the war lasted - two years, or four?- and couldn�t be banished from my mind. In my dreams I always saw Voldemort dying on a field of pearly white snow. Or myself.
It�s autumn, now. The leaves have just started to fall, rotting away in cheerful colours on the dark soil. The night draws in earlier, these days, and with it comes the crisp chill you only experience when your body and mind are still heated from the long summer�s warmth behind. I huddle closer into my thick cloak, as I walk out into the dark. When I was still living with the Dursleys, as a child, who didn�t know he was The Boy Who Lived and would kill an evil wizard ten or more years later, I loved autumn. It all seems so distant now, like a faint echo of a dream long lost, but I still know that I�d creep out of the cupboard late at night, when Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were fast asleep and settle down on the terrace, feeling the cold night air seep through my overlarge pyjamas. It made me happier, somehow, more calm than I usually felt these days. I know everyone hated autumn, when it came, with rain and clouds, and that people ranted about wanting summer back. I liked the rain running down the windowpanes � when I watched the droplets falling I felt as if they were crying for me, letting the tears flow that I suppressed so desperately. Bad weather has always been a friend of mine since then, so maybe it is only fitting I killed Voldemort on a rainy September afternoon.
It�s not raining now. The rain died with Voldemort, and with it, it seems, my only friend. I�m numb inside and this feels wrong, I should feel something, shouldn�t I? Rage, or pain, or loss, or even happiness, now that everything�s over? It must be me, since Ron was clearly still feeling something, when we buried Hermione among the others a few hours ago. He was crying when they lowered her body into the muddy ground, and angry, because why couldn�t she have lasted one day longer? Why not, when like us she had lasted four years, longer than many wizards and witches? I couldn�t give him an answer, of course. I didn�t even see a point in asking the question. It had happened, hadn�t it? We had fought and bled and suffered and died and now it was over. No regrets, they say. It was a good fight, they say. I wonder if such a thing even exists. But no, there were no answers for me. And no tears. Though I took part in the burial, I�m not sure I was even there. Which, unfortunately, Ron noticed, too. �You�re bloody heartless!� he spat at me. �You�ve known her for ten years, too, it wouldn�t hurt to feel something!� I didn�t have an answer to that, either. I turned around and walked away beneath the cloudy autumn�s sky, and the remark didn�t hurt one bit. I wonder if he�s right about me. Have I lost my heart between all the blood and strategies and torture? Have I forgotten how to care?
The leaves rustle beneath my passing feet and though I can�t see them, I know they are gold and red. Colours from another life lost to me � did it matter whether we were Gryffindor, or Hufflepuff, or Ravenclaw, or, yes, even Slytherin, when we were out there together? All that mattered was the battle; and its colours are red and white, not gold, white like the pale faces of people fallen.
The thick sky has broken; there are only fleeting clouds wafting above it all, letting glittering moonbeams slide through them and to the ground. But in the forest where I�m heading for they too will be swallowed by the leaves that are still on the trees, drowned in the shadows of their trunks. The air is still fresh from the last downpour, making my skin tingle ever so slightly. It smells of moist soil and rotting leaves, and life. I remember how I used to love that scent, back then. Now I only recognize it, nothing more.
The forest is as dark as I�d hoped. For a while I walk on, only listening to the faint cracking of twigs breaking beneath my feet. But when I reach a clearing, I realize I�m not alone.
I almost didn�t notice the faint glow of his cigarette, and neither can I tell for sure how I know it is him and no other, but as I move closer, my suspicions are confirmed. Through the dim glow of the moonlight between the trees, I can make out the silhouette of the person I hated so fervently for long years and who then so unexpectedly became my ally.
�Potter.� His voice is neutral, none of the former mocking tone in it left, but no encouragement, either.
�You shouldn�t be out here alone.� I reply unthinkingly. �There could still be Death Eaters over the place. It�s too dangerous.�
�Speak for yourself.� I cannot see the smile forming on his face, but notice his eyes narrow a bit. When it�s dark enough, the one thing you can see of a human close to you is the glittering white of his eyes. It�s the most astonishing thing there is, like looking directly into the center of that person, because you�ve nothing else to concentrate on. Funny, now that I think about it, I�m almost certain I noticed it with Malfoy, too, when he was sitting across a died-down campfire sometime in the last year.
This thought moves something in me, though I couldn�t tell what, but suddenly I don�t feel the need to walk any more. I settle down next to him on the fallen trunk he�s sitting on and stare off into the blank darkness. For a while there is only the sound of the trees wafting in the wind and Malfoy pulling occasionally at his cigarette.
�Funny it would be today.� he comments languidly. I frown slightly. What�s so special about today? It�s just another dreary, rainy autumn�s day in September. Nothing special. Not even a deadly atmosphere, like there is sometimes in winter. Depressive to some people � yes, maybe, but final? Finishing?
�Why?�
�Well, as it�s Autumnal Equinox...�
Confusion, apparently, I can still feel. Not that I�m really interested, but...
�Autumnal Equinox,� he sighs and sounds as if he�s lecturing a small child � something which would once enrage me, while now I can�t bother to care � �is the seasonal date, where day and night are equal in length. From now on, nights will get longer. The same thing exists in spring, only that days keep on getting longer from there on. In many magical cultures this date holds a special significance, as it symbolises death � the day yielding to the night, the innocence yielding to the dark.�
�You�re right. It�s very fitting � depressing, final � but I still don�t really see how this goes in line with victory.�
A quick drag on his cigarette.
�It doesn�t necessarily hold a negative significance. The death of innocence doesn�t mean it�s replaced by something impure, it rather leads to a transition. Like when your childhood dies, you enter a new stage of life, but in order to do that, you have to undergo a changing process and must leave something behind. Death is often seen as rebirth, too.�
�That�s a comforting way of looking at it, I suppose.� I assume he�s nodding since I can feel the air shift a little bit. Or maybe I�m just imagining it. My thoughts wander back to Hermione, whose corpse is now lying deep beneath the ground, now. Hermione, whom I got to know so long ago and who always played such an important part in my life. Hermione whom I laughed with when things were still brighter and the war was just lurking on the fringes of everyone�s consciousness. Hermione, whom Ron and I fought with to the bone, because she was first to accept that Malfoy was for real, and not some spy. While I was getting used to having him around, she was already building something with him, a friendship based on a foundation I still don�t understand and probably never will. Maybe this is one thing that makes Ron so angry, because their distance grew a lot since then, and he�s berating himself for letting that happen over a stupid little thing like the man sitting next to me, now. Which makes me think...
�You weren�t at the burial.�
He turns around to me and fixes my gaze with his. Again, only that whiteness glaring into my eyes. It�s making me dizzy.
�No. Did I have to be?�
�I thought you considered yourself a friend of hers.�
�I do. That doesn�t mean I have to follow a common ritual to say goodbye properly. You�re not mourning together with Weasley, like I expected you to, either, are you?�
�Why would I do such a thing?�
�I don�t know. Maybe because it�s always been you three all along.�
Silence. My mind whirls, while I sink back against a branch behind me and stare up at the roof of leaves. Every once in a while, one begins to fall down slowly, and you only see it because of the moonbeams refracting in the rainwater on them. It looks like the stars are falling down from the sky. The quiet sounds of the night are surrounding us and they are different from the ones I know from nights on the terrace. The liquid and earthy smell of forest soil rises to my nose, only lightly tinged with the smoke of Draco�s long since discarded cigarette. I can feel the rough wood of the trunk beneath and against me, and his body warmth close to me. And all at once, the beauty of it all is overwhelming me, and I fear I can�t take it, my heart is constricting so much. I wait for the inevitable sob to escape, but it doesn�t come, only tranquillity, and peace, and yes, sadness, deep and longing.
�Why did you join us?� I suddenly ask, without knowing where the question has come from.
I turn to look at him � one of the branches had been blown aside by the wind, and his face is streaked by a clear ray of moonlight. Silvery hair matching silvery eyes and fine lips, curling in a wry, yet honest and somehow � tender? � smile.
�Does it really matter?� Calm, gentle, so very different from the spiteful person he used to be.
I suppose not. Maybe this is what Hermione meant, when she talked to me a while ago, when we were passing under a row of blooming trees this spring. �Sometimes Harry,� and her voice had been almost desperate, as she tried to explain to me, �you don�t have to look behind every curtain. Sometimes things are just the way they are, and if you look at them clearly enough, you�ll see it, too.�
Autumnal Equinox. Death and rebirth.
When I reach for his face I don�t care about these things. It�s much more simple. But I care.
And when his lips meet mine it�s like a silent affirmation of life. Like some blindfold I wore for so many years has been snatched away and buried away with Hermione.
The brown leaves are falling around us on a deserted clearing and we are falling with them. And yet there�s something that keeps this falling infinitely gentle.
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