Eternity and a Day

carondelet

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 12/06/2005
Last Updated: 12/06/2005
Status: completed

[completed; non-canonical] We can hear its footsteps. Hear it creeping; hear the fall, the echo of it coming up the backstairs. Hear the groan as it draws closer still.

Chapters

1. Eternity and a Day

1. Eternity and a Day

Rating: PG for adult themes.

Title: Eternity and a Day

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. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.

Spoiler Alert: Books 1-5.

Summary: We can hear its footsteps. Hear it creeping; hear the fall, the echo of it coming up the backstairs. Hear the groan as it draws closer still.

Pairings: Harry/Hermione (directly stated)

Author’s Notes: This offers a different perspective on the Second Wizard War and some of its champions. No reviews or comments are necessary.

Omnes vulnerant, ultima necat.

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ETERNITY AND A DAY

[] PARS MAIOR LACRIMAS RIDET ET INTUS HABET

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Dissimilar in nature. Bound to each other by a common thread.

We watch them move, watch them speak.

We wonder, we postulate, we pontificate, we wait.

We know that it is coming for them.

That cruel, heartless thing.

We can hear its footsteps. Hear it creeping; hear the fall, the echo of it coming up the backstairs. Hear the groan as it draws closer still.

We know that it is slinking into frame.

The form, its true face, is shapeless, slumped beneath the weight of our collective imaginings.

Our furtive eyes watch, read, wonder.

What approaches them has many guises. We study, we discuss, we argue, we rage, as yet we wane. For we can do little more than watch. And wait.

We would do what they would have us do. But we cannot live on that hope.

We are playing dead.

We were surrendered to the grey. Bittersweet submission.

It was blurred, indistinct. We knew nothing of each other, of them, of the world of those who could move, act, speak, breathe. Then, on deadpan cue, we could see.

See my son/our son/my godson/his friends.

An existence of infinite jest.

We are trapped within the remains. There lies our life.

This doesn’t feel real.

We sit here in silence. Watching. Waiting.

We have no choice. He’ll never know how much he means to me/us.

We tell him.

But there’s no reply.

We watch them reach back, break free. Watch as our son/my godson grows from an infant to a young boy to a young man.

Watch as his best mate slowly, cautiously, unwillingly, shifts from quietly ordinary to plainly extraordinary.

Bear witness as his best friend becomes his greatest champion, the brightest witch of her age, his saving grace.

Our memories are strong. Our abilities are intact. Our capabilities restricted.

We are relegated to the fate of being spectators.

I was able/we were able to place my/our hands on my son/our son/my son, flaccid reflection.

When he turned away, I/we choked on dry tears.

Can you understand this?

We can see it coming, jeering at the light, revelling in the shadows, sneering behind what is left of a smile. Coming, approaching, using the faithless to cut and twist, to cajole and coerce, to perform their panto of deceit for the naïve, the beguiled.

Something strange is happening.

If we still had bones, they would ache. If we still shed tears, they would sting. The possibilities of what is to come to bear pull and tear at the fabric of what is left. If it could, the fearsome notions of what is/might/yet to come would pull and tear and break my/his/her/our skin

The muted light of this field, this plane, stutters, flickers.

We can hear it. Hear its hunger, this leviathan that approaches.

This beast that hunts my son/our son/my godson.

Hear it feed on the fear and the lives of others.

Hear its foul lips crack out for more.

We can see its attendants sneaking out the back door.

Vermin.

Rats.

Scuttling on all fours.

Fools enticed by the glitter of stones and the silver and gold. The pretty. The shiny. The promises of power and stature and subjugation of their fears.

For this we were sold into this voyeuristic purgatory.

We curdle into bitter tears for my son/our son/my godson that he is left to fend against Pettigrew. That our friend Lupin is alone. Tired, weary, stretched thin. That it falls to the last man standing to place his fatigued soul and tenuous flesh in the way of what lurches closer to Harry Potter. Of what lusts for the blood of Hermione Granger. Of what desires the pain of Ron Weasley.

Of what wishes to harm Harry the most deeply. Break him by destroying Hermione and Ron.

We hear it and see it and we want to scream.

If we could only take the pain, stay the tears.

Change the course of this. Instead of watching his life as it passes by.

We wish we could close our eyes.

There is no amount of whispering or pleading we can do. There is no door for us to scratch at to be let in.

Here in our reality the pain seems so much more that we can see...

We see Harry, his love, Hermione, his adopted brother, Ron; we see them from outside and from within. We see the blackness swell, we see those red eyes fixed upon them, and we can do nothing.

We cannot warn them. We cannot save them.

Voldemort’s malfeasance is on the wing, his wickedness fast approaching. The speed of it increases as though it is rushing on an evil wind

We can see the possibilities, of what is in store for Harry.

We can see into the hearts of those around him. We know what darkness is prowling outside of his door.

We’re trapped. Helpless in the undertow. The desperate quicksand of grey surrounded us and swallowed us whole.

We see Harry and Hermione’s love blossom, deepen. We rejoice, we exhale. She will save him. They will save each other.

We see the bonds of Harry and Ron’s friendship mature. We reminisce, we sigh. He will save him. They are like brothers.

But we know...something wicked this way comes.

It is just around the bend now.

Approaching.

Predacious.

Readying itself to strike.

It is flying towards him, rushing on the wind.

Does Harry see it?

Can any of them see it?

Does his love, his Hermione, know?

Will they be strong enough? When we weren’t?

I was the brightest witch of my age/I was accomplished and preternaturally gifted/I was the strongest and most powerful of us all.

Hold onto her, Harry. Hold onto her tightly. Don’t let go. Reach out for your best friend. Don’t turn away. Let Hermione in. She can save you. She will save you.

Don’t leave him, Harry. Value him above all others. Don’t ignore him. Stand with your best friend. Don’t walk away. Let Ron in. He can protect you. He will protect you.

You are not alone, my son.

You are not alone, Harry.

They are with you.

We never left you.

Dear Merlin, he’s coming.

I can’t/we can’t stop him.

Here it comes.

Hold on, Harry.

Here he comes.

†