A Face of Melting Snow by carondelet Rating: R Genres: Angst, Drama Relationships: Harry & Hermione Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5 Published: 08/01/2005 Last Updated: 08/01/2005 Status: Completed [completed] I’m not the same. I’ll never be the same again. There’s no hope for that. How do I get going again, now that I am standing still? How do I act like this, speak like that, look like this, sound like that? When I don’t know who or what I am anymore? How can I? After everything? How can it all feel so different? I’m already in my grave. I’m afraid I’ve lost my way. Hermione, what a fantastic death I missed... 1. A Face of Melting Snow ------------------------- **Rating:** R for language, angst, and adult themes. **Title:** A Face of Melting Snow **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. **Spoiler Alert:** Although a short one-off, this does contain some spoilers to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films...you know the drill. Please use your back button as a flotation device in the event of a water landing. **Summary:** *I’m not the same. I’ll never be the same again. There’s no hope for that. How do I get going again, now that I am standing still? How do I act like this, speak like that, look like this, sound like that? When I don’t know who or what I am anymore? How can I? After everything? How can it all feel so different?* *I’m already in my grave.* *I’m afraid I’ve lost my way.* *Hermione, what a fantastic death I missed…* **Pairings:** Harry/Hermione **Author's Notes:** This is just a one-off, something I came up with while polishing up Chapter Five of “Harry Potter and the Black Society”. I literally just wrote this a moment ago and posted it as is, a totally free form piece, even though I did rip myself off in places. I’d like to blame RONIN10 for this one… By the way, gentle reader, do you have an H/Hr aversion? Do you know someone with an H/Hr aversion? Please know that this fic is for all intents and purposes H/Hr and is likely to cause hives to the H/Hr sensitive. This ends our public service announcement to those allergic to H/Hr. Oh, and it’s also a cranky and downbeat piece, to put it mildly. And in first person, Harry’s POV. So, if you don’t like any of that…erm… And now, some angst, some swearing, and some unpleasant things for Mr. Potter. **Footnotes In Reverse:** 1this is from *Her Kind* by Anne Sexton (1928 - 1974); 2this is from *Sonnet 145* by William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616) **__________________________________________________________________________** **A FACE OF MELTING SNOW** [] OR, DON’T LET THE BASTARDS GRIND YOU DOWN **__________________________________________________________________________** I’m not the same. I’ll never be the same again. There’s no hope for that. How do I get going again, now that I am standing still? How do I act like this, speak like that, look like this, sound like that? When I don’t know who or what I am anymore? How can I? After everything? How can it all feel so different? I’m afraid I’ve lost my way. I’m already in my grave. Hermione, what a fantastic death I missed… ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It’s done now. I’m no longer The Boy-Who-Lived. Now I am The Boy-Who-Killed. Just what I always wanted. To be rid of that goddamn title. *The Boy-Who-Lived.* What bullshit. Hah, oops, I swore. So what. No, wait, so **fucking** what. Think I care about that now? I’m a murderer, not *The Boy-Who-Lived*. That was about as good as a title as *He Who Must Not Be Named*. An even bigger load of bullshit, *He Who Must Not Be Named*. Wait, what about *The Dark Lord*? Another favourite of mine. Ooh, now I am being sarcastic, too. Wotcher, I’ll be smoking a fag and downing a pint, maybe having a shag, too. I’ll be Harry Potter, that nasty boy. That dirty, nasty Potter boy. Oi, by the way, his name was Tom Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was named Tom, for fuck’s sake. *I Am Lord Voldemort*. Get over your-fucking-self. Guess you can’t now. Since you’re dead. Since I killed you. I fucking hate you for that. Sure, I hated you already, Tommy – mind if I call you Tommy? Not that I give a damn. ‘Sides, you’re dead. I keep forgetting. Actually, that’s not true. I can’t forget. Wish I could. But I can’t. I remember every detail. Every sight, every sound, every smell, everything right down to how the wand felt between my fingertips. I fucking hate you for that as well. But, I digress. I already hated you, Tommy, for murdering my parents. Ripping them from me over a fortune cookie prophecy. That must have been a proud moment for you there, Tom. But you couldn’t stop there. You had to add the insult to the injury by making it so the only place I could be safe was with the people who would hate me the most. Sending me to live in the shit hole underneath the stairs at Privet Drive. Didn’t get much better when I got that fat fuck’s second bedroom, but… …something good eventually did come of it… But don’t think I am about to thank you for any of it. You’re dead now, I killed you, and I am glad about that. See what you’ve done to me? I AM HAPPY THAT YOU ARE DEAD. I AM HAPPY THAT I KILLED YOU. You sick fuck. I can see the grin on your death’s head mask of a ruined face. You’re probably laughing amongst the flames, aren’t you? Laughing your arse off at me down in Hell. It would help if I believed in all that. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, whatnot. Not sure if I do. No, pretty sure I don’t, come to think of it. Haven’t seen much evidence of it, not during my time on this miserable mortal coil. I’d like to think that my mom and dad are someplace lovely, where they can do and go where ever and whenever they want to, where there is no pain, no suffering, where there is no sadness. I’d like to think that. But then, they would have been able to watch me from on high, right? They would be able to see me get my arse beat by Vernon, get my arse beat by Dudley, see me get more bitter and angrier with each passing year, until they could see me graduate from *The Boy-Who-Lived* to *The Boy-Who-Killed*. They could see me cock up and let the fucker who framed their best man, my godfather, get away. See me fuck up again and get Cedric murdered. See yet another fuck up as I get Sirius killed and as my friends are nearly killed…as Hermione…I thought…not her… Damn it. Damn it. **Damn it.** *Damn me.* No, I don’t mean that. I don’t know what I mean. I am changed. I am not the boy you once knew, Hermione. I am not a person you should want to know. I had a soul that was ripe for the taking…I’ve been rendered broken and breaking…oh, dear, now it sounds like I’ve really gone off my nut. Sorry, Hermione. I don’t mean to frighten you, love. Don’t let this foul mood of mine affect you. I know it’s been rather unfair of me, placing my mood swings on you and on Ron. You’ve carried the greater burden, though, Hermione. For that I am grateful, even though I have come off in the past as an unthankful bastard. But what have I told you, Hermione? Don’t let the bastards grind you down. *Nolite te bastardes carborundorum*. Okay, that was a pathetic attempt at Latin. Bet you never dreamt I would even come that close, did you? Then again, maybe you did. You always had more faith in me than I had more faith in me. Here, maybe this will surprise you. *I have gone out, a possessed witch,* *haunting the black air, braver at night;* *dreaming evil,1* For the longest time, my dreams had an element of pain. Everything in my life was tainted red by it, made the darkest shade of crimson. Everything except you, Hermione. You were the purest thing in my world. My humanity, my miracle, my North Star, my philosopher’s stone. That’s when I first loved you. When we went seeking the Philosopher’s Stone. You, me, and Ron. The Trio. God, we were so young. Children, doing the work of heroes. You, with your knowledge and early wisdom. Ron, with his loyalty and his bravery despite his fears. Me…with this stupid scar and little else. I wonder if I still have the scar, now that he’s dead. I killed him, you know. It’s not the way that I thought it would be. I don’t feel the way I thought I would feel. I don’t…feel. I don’t feel anything, Hermione. I’m scaring me. I dreamt that we have been to Heaven and to Hell and back again. That’s not just a dream, though, is it. We have been to Heaven and Hell. Heaven for so short a time. Hell… *Doth follow night, who like a fiend* *From heaven to hell is flown away.* *‘I hate’ from hate away she threw,* *And sav’d my life, saying -- ‘Not you.’2* That was Shakespeare. Pretty good, eh, Hermione? I can quote Shakespeare. Bet you’re proud of me. You always believed in me. You’ve not only saved my life, Hermione; you’ve saved my soul by believing in me. Saved my soul by smiling at me. God, I love you for that. I love you for so many things. If we had been given eternity I could not list them all. How could I, when I love something new about you every day? I can almost see your smile now. As long as you are smiling at me, Hermione, I am stronger than anyone or anything. I can withstand Hell just to see you smile. For you, I would be strong enough. I'd like to believe that. I really would. But I know the truth. I’m weak. Just a weak little boy who can’t see straight. If I were stronger, as strong as you, I wouldn’t have Tom Riddle’s blood on my hands. I know that I am weak. Actually...I don't know anything. Anything at all. I don't believe in anything. In anyone. In me. Especially in me. I hate...him. I'm sorry. Please forgive me for being what I’ve become. Forgive me for not being good enough. I'm so sorry. I want to believe again. I hate...me. I used to dream. I haven’t dreamt in a long time. I’ve been having nightmares for the past four years. I wonder now what it is like to dream. To sleep without intrusion, without waking up in a cold sweat, without my eyes burning from the sting of my tears. I can’t remember what it’s like to dream. My life…I’ve forgotten and it is death that I remember now. That’s all I can remember, Hermione. God, I can’t see your face. I try and I try and I just can’t see your face, Hermione. I try to make myself see you and it just slips away from me, fades away, melts from my memory like snow on a sunny day. Why? Is there a God after all? Is this his punishment? Okay, fine, you, up there, you know I didn’t have a fucking choice! Do you think I wanted to kill Riddle? Well, I bloody well didn’t! And I shouldn’t have to tell you that! You know I didn’t want to kill him! If there was another way, I would have taken it! You know that! …was there another way? Hermione, did I blind myself to the possibilities? Did I rush in, single-mindedly, stupidly, as I’ve done so many times in the past? Did I ignore your counsel, did I ignore Dumbledore, did I ignore Ron, did I ignore the beating of my own heart and kill a man when there was another way? It’s so cold…so fucking cold…I can’t feel anything… Maybe I can sleep now. Maybe I can dream now. What do you think, Hermione? I should like to dream. I should like to sleep. I’m so very tired. Maybe I could dream about you? I should like that very much, Hermione. I am changed, love. I am not the boy you once knew. I am not a man I would want to know. What a fantastic death I missed.