It fell freely, like crystals under the scorching sunlight. It wrapped around her clothes, her hair, and her very flesh. She looked through the foggy windows of the mansion and into the living room, where the vision of Harry sleeping soundly by the couch remained. The vague sound of rain continued to reverberate, deafening her for a split second. She bid a soft goodbye, her hands marking through the mist as she longed to run a hand through his hair. He cried himself to sleep that night, and she had wished so much to wipe the tears away from his face. Yet, something stopped her. Something called out in rebuttal, causing her to erase such intentions and continue to watch him, helplessly calling out to the only family he had left. He sobbed against his rough, calloused palms, his shoulders racking violently. Yet she remained useless, and did nothing but watch him internally suffer.
She feared so much to leave him like that, and to know that he would wake up the next day alone once again, with no one to greet him and tell him that a new day has sprung.
But she had to, for his own safety.
If history threatened to repeat itself, she would merely loose the will to live.
"I don't want you to go." She whispered desperately into his ear, her breath tickling the bare skin on his neck. He traced small circles by her naked back, her arms tightly wrapped by his waist. The sun was rising fervently, filling their room with small rays of orange light.
"We don't always get what we want, Hermione." It was a cold morning, Hermione thought. A very cold one. Seemingly, every second was built with despair and fear. The paranoia of what was to come flooded her mind with thoughts completely malevolent.
"I don't just want you. I need you. Isn't that enough?" The kiss planted on her forehead eased the worry for just a while, before it made its reappearance, leaving her in the middle of dread once again. The small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips made her yearning grow, her desperation deepen, and her heart shatter.
"Nothing's ever enough for people, Hermione. That's the thing we've learned to accept." Pure and heartfelt tears fell onto his bare chest, soaking the soft skin of her cheeks. He wiped them away, grazing his thumb against her face. At that very moment, she'd wished for that position to linger forever.
"Well, I haven't. It's not fair for me." She held onto his hand and entwined it with her own. He looked down at them, unsure of the hurt that was about to come, not merely to him, but to her as well. "Don't go."
"Hermione, if I had a choice, I wouldn't go. But that's just it. I have no choice." He sat up, the hair by the back of his head standing uncharacteristically, unlike most days when it remained neat and groomed. His fingers rubbed against his temple, just as his face scrunched up in pure concentration.
"Don't let the government make the decisions for you!"
"Hermione, listen to yourself!" His flustered and most sincerely aggravated tone left Hermione confused, and possibly taken aback by the sudden force. She sat up, the sheets falling all the way down to her waist. Her sudden exposure startled him, yet she remained confident as she held onto his face and cupped it gently.
"I don't bloody care about any political decision, nor do I care about any government stand! The fact is that I love you, and they are not taking you away from me! Do you hear me?" His eyes shouted in reply, strongly just as it started to mystify.
"I need to go to this war, Hermione. I need to save all of us."
"You can't just go around saving people, Ronald!" He looked deep into her crystalline eyes, scared on ever gazing away. She held onto his face in desperation, clinging onto him as hard as she could. "You're not a superhero."
The silence that followed was deafening, just as the sun started to scorch their skin. It had fully risen, and both of them knew that it was time. Without a word, the sheets fell onto the carpeted floor, just as his figure wrapped around a robe and retreated to the door.
"Ronald-"
"I may not be a superhero Hermione, but at least give me a chance to try and be yours."
The foreboding memory traced every inch of her brain, clouding it with thoughts too sad to even take. She wished for all of it to go away, yet somehow she didn't find the courage to erase them. She hadn't found the heart to diminish them completely, and leave them with the other pile of memories that served as a useless pile of rubbish to her. Somehow, this seemed to be the last memory standing in her head that she could grasp tightly as an evidence of a life once worth living.
She walked hesitantly down the stone steps, refusing to look back and linger her gaze on what could've and what may have happened. She ran, amidst the pitter-patter on the sidewalk and the whooshing of the trees around her, to a place that she dreads the most.
--thepianist-
The Old Stallion was barely occupied. The lingering sound of soft, dragging music hovered around its walls, entertaining no one but the insects that clung onto it's webbed ceiling. Lockhart was seated by the far end of the bar, holding a single glass of brandy and displaying an utterly bored face. "One of those days." He whispered to himself. The band seemed to be a tad close to drowsy, as the music started to go softer and softer each second, and blatantly out of tune.
"Bloody mucks. Went somewhere else to party and left this shack to wither with rubbish they call music." He mumbled under his breath. Seamus, the bar tender, gave a small smile and tossed his boss another glass.
"It's a Monday, boss. No one has fun on Mondays. It's a written rule."
"Oh, the hell with Mondays! Weakest day of business. I hate it." He took a big gulp from his glass, blinking a few times in his tipsiness. Seamus gave an amused chuckle before heading out the back door, his apron hanging by the small stand visible by the wine shelf. In a sudden moment, the bar doors opened.
"Lockhart." Upon the sound of his name, the glass was left unfinished. Lockhart stood up, creases and folds by his blazer, and extended a hand at the silver-eyed stranger.
"Welcome sir to the Old Stallion. I'm-"
"I know who you are, Gregory." His deep voice certainly reverberated in his head, the familiarity sinking in. Yet, Lockhart still couldn't get a hold of his name. His hand, reluctantly shook, sank beneath his pockets as the gentleman took a seat by the farthest table from the right. He eyed the band in signage, causing a happy tune to play around the venue. The man offered him a seat, which Lockhart took with no resistance.
"You probably don't remember me." He stated.
"I regretfully say that you're right. Forgive me, but who are you?" He questioned. The man gave a smirk beneath his cap, shading a quarter of his face. Lockhart was sure that he'd seen the person before.
"I'm going to let you guess, Greg. You were always good at guessing and assuming. You know, the best battle points…battle plans…enemy strategies…" The deep voice trailed off, followed by a small chuckle that seemed too soft that Lockhart had thought he had just imagined it.
"I'm sorry, I still don't-"
"Spring of 1942, Greg. Or should I say Sergeant Lockhart?" The piercing eyes met his, and it was then that the horrid images filled his head. His pulse quickened in panic, just as his eyes bulged wide in fear.
"No…it-it can't be." The stuttering voice was drowned by the trombone that sounded by the stage, as the band played in full swing.
"It is, Greg. It is." His hand slowly grasped the cap before pulling it down. If Lockhart was holding his glass, it would've dropped in fear and anxiety. The brown hair was, in all its character, still there. The piercing eyes that manipulated thousands of men still remained. The cunning smile lingered.
"C-captain." The screeching laughter that came from him panicked even the band that played. It surprised Lockhart, making him jump momentarily on his seat.
"Aren't you happy to see me, Sergeant?" He said, a conniving smile forming on his face. Lockhart's face swelled, just as it flushed and turned a pale shade of white.
"But…you're dead! No, no…this is insane! This is just-I'm drunk. I am. Severely." He tried to stand, yet a force seemingly refused to let him. It was the manipulative stare that hypnotized him, and it seeped deep into his flesh that he couldn't let go of it.
"Where are you going? Stay! We have a whole lot to talk about."
"Who else knows?" Lockhart asked in a bare whisper.
"Knows that I'm alive? Oh, just you and White. No worries. My big debut is yet to come."
"White knows?"
"Of course. He did request for all of this." Lockhart was in a state of pure disbelief. The very thought of his captain's re-existence made him shiver inside. Had anyone knew of what this gentleman was capable of doing, it was him and his fellow soldiers. They had witnessed blood from him, and utter brutality. These factors made him witness the fear of turning his back and walking away.
"What is all of this?" he questioned meekly.
"Well, he told me that the boy's alive and well."
"I thought White refused to battle again?"
"Didn't you as well? You know, after you brutally murdered his parents?" The pumping of his heart by his ears heightened by this statement. The guilt rose again, and he had broke his own promise of trying not to remember. James and Lily Potter. He had murdered them in front of their son. Their son…the realization dawned on him. Their son was recently in his bar. Their son performed for him. Their son thought of him as a good man. An honest, civilized man…
"No. I refuse to do anything." He stated firmly.
"Oh, come on! It would be fun. It'll be World War III this time." The way he stated this made Lockhart uncomfortable. It seemed like such a relaxing idea for him, like it was something completely done out of a hobby.
"I will not kill the boy."
"Who says you have to do it? White will be responsible for that. However, I do remember James' big payments towards Europe's army."
"Payments?"
"Well, he did owe them a large sum of money. Their captain, I mean. Who was it…Pettigrew? Yes. I believe it was him. He built a mansion for his wife as a wedding present. Pity they didn't have much time to live in it." The cold mirth of his laughter angered Lockhart inwardly.
"What do you plan on doing? Raise another war from country to country?" He exclaimed. The gentleman remained unperturbed.
"Well, it's already starting actually. You see, after the little government scandal I started, Europe's bound to get a hold of the English once again." Lockhart started to palpitate in paranoia and anxiety. It was happening again.
"What do I need to do to make you stop bothering me?" He whispered fiercely. The gentleman put back his cap, once again covering a quarter of his face.
"Well, I'll need you to lure the boy into our clutches." A small grin played on his face. "By any means necessary." Lockhart gave a small gulp. The headache that crept onto his head was severe, making him clutch onto it tightly.
"…alright." He agreed weakly, the headache growing by each second.
"Perfect! I knew you couldn't resist!" He held out a hand at Lockhart, yet he refused to shake it. Nonplussed, he drew it back and gave one nod.
"Thank you for being cooperative, Greg. Right now though, I'm going to fulfill my promise."
"What promise?"
"The promise of my story. I'm pretty proud of it, actually. I call it: 'The re-birth of Tom Riddle.'"
By the far end, Seamus stood still and watched as the conversation progressed. He vowed that night to approach Harry the next day.
--thepianist-
Hours before…
Striding past the stone steps of her home, she opened the screen door slowly as to not awake her sleeping parents and her grandfather. Placing her soaked coat by the coat hanger, she made her way slowly to the spiral staircase. Yet, upon reaching the middle, she heard small muffled sounds echo from her grandfather's bedroom. Small flickering rays of light emitted from the door's small crevice, causing her to halt completely at a safe distance, yet close enough to hear the conversation.
A low voice was speaking, one with a certain huskiness that reminded her quickly of Harry. The other was her grandfather's. Yet, she furrowed her eyebrows upon hearing the sudden change in his tone. It seemed darker, heavier, and more determined that she sensed a fear grow inside of her. The small tenderness and softness to her grandfather's voice was gone.
"You're alive."
"Well, yes. Quite obviously, I am. Now, I sensed that you needed something?" This statement piqued Hermione's curiosity, causing her to lean in for a more widened opportunity to hear the conversation.
"Yes. Well, the boy's alive. Apparently. I assumed that we killed him that day due to brutality, but I guess the bastard remained alive and well."
"The son of Evans?"
"Yes."
"…well, this is interesting." The conniving tone that echoed through the walls rose goosebumps on Hermione's skin. It was beyond her knowledge on who the boy was, but the pity and worry in her started to rise.
"I need you to make a scandal, captain. Anything to raise another war. I know you have connections with people from the government."
"And what do you expect me to do?"
"Raise a controversy, lie! Steal! Whatever's going to give a proper excuse for a battle."
"It's not that easy to raise World War III, White. It needs to be something big."
"Then make it big! You're smart enough to make something up." There was a sudden silence. It was the kind that buzzed in your ears, causing Hermione to think that she had gone temporarily deaf.
"ha, if I were idiotic enough, I'd take that as a compliment."
"Please, Tom. Im asking this as a friend. I need an excuse to kill the boy, and this might be the only excuse reasonable enough." The words that came out of her grandfather's lips put Hermione into a complete state of shock. She was terrified right now, to the point of her whole body shivering in anxiety. The air was much colder that time, and she'd wished to have just kept her coat on.
"What makes this boy so special that the world has to go through World War III just for him to get killed?"
"…my granddaughter fancies the bastard." The small gasp that escaped from her lips might've been heard, for there was a total shift into silence once again. Hearing the footsteps towards the door, she hid herself beneath the impalpable darkness and prayed that she would not be seen. The door opened, and her grandfather emerged from it. Even through the darkness, she saw his outline and wondered if that was really him; the innocent old man she knew and loved. The fear inside of her now was completely different, and she had feared that she would never look at her grandfather the same again.
"Bloody rats!" She heard him exclaim, before hearing the door slam once more. She tried to close her eyes and extract all that she had heard to stop the worry from being implanted into her head. It was Harry, she thought. The poor boy was Harry. There was suddenly a protective sense inside of her, and she thought of nothing but going to him and shielding him from anything that threatened to harm him.
"So captain, do we have a deal?" Silence.
"…Oh yes. Expect that boy dead by Christmas day."
--thepianist-
A/N: I'm officially pathetic. I'm terribly sorry. You could poke me with a pitchfork now. It's been two weeks without an update, and I deserve to be called a lousy little psychopath (go ahead. I wont bite). XD Anyway, I just hope the wait wasn't as long as you hoped it would be. Again, I'm so terribly sorry. XD