The Passing of Plan A

littlebird

Rating: R
Genres: Angst, Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 07/03/2013
Last Updated: 07/03/2013
Status: completed

A rescue gone wrong. A revelation.

Chapters

1. The Passing of Plan A

1. The Passing of Plan A

Please see A/N at end.

I own nothing.

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Her fingers are violet.

Deep violet and wilted, and I’m hearing the toes of her trainers scrape the grit on the stone because she’s strung too high, and she’s dangling, turning, and I can’t see if her eyes are open, but the blood is glittering wet on her jumper, and her head is laid forward and the coils of her hair are swaying, and all I can see is the way she’s hanging, she’s hanging, and something shines on the bricks behind her, the lamplight bursting into a billion ruby shards, and one of Them is saying, “oooh, oooh,” raising one hand over his head like hers is now, mimicking, bobbing up and down, like a kid who knows the answer in class— and the amalgam of chewed beef and carrots and potatoes from earlier almost spills out onto the floor because, this bastard, he remembers what she was like, he knows her-- and They are laughing, The Fuckers are laughing, and another is moving toward her, grabbing her waist and twisting her around, and he’s saying, “I reckon she’s fit enough, now she’s shut up,” and his thumb is skimming her hip-bone, his fingers dipping inside her jeans, until the first curse cracks through the air and the one who’s touching her goes down, and suddenly no one’s laughing, and the room is all hisses and pops and splinters and dust, and I’m dodging, I’m Stunning and running, throwing curse after curse until there’s no one left between her and me, and I’m darting toward her, hoping, hoping I will feel her breathe, until the grey flash punches my neck, and I’m stumbling backward, something wet on my chin, something burning in the corner, something stuck in my throat, and They are leaving, all dragging each other away, except the one leering over me, the one kicking my wand into whatever’s burning in the corner, the one slashing the rope that holds her up so she’s collapsing against the bricks, and she slides, the bricks scraping her cheek and seizing her hair as she’s sliding, sliding, slumping, falling…

Face pressed to the stone. Still.

So still.

And going to her is like moving through dense, dark water, limbs all heavy and surface-cold. My lips and tongue form her name, but the only sounds coming from me are the rattle in my windpipe and the meat-bag smack of my knees hitting the stone beside her. I bury my fingers in the soft wool of her jumper and roll her onto her back. I run my fingertips into her hairline, hold her cheeks between my palms.

Blood down her neck, her fluttering eyes. I press my face to hers, trying to tell her it’s me.

Fingers tug my shirt and I move back to see her. She focuses, takes me in. I know it’s bad when her eyes are suddenly underwater. She reaches up, presses her hand against the place where the grey flash hit. Her fingers quiver along my jaw, then fall to swipe at the pink froth ringing the hole in her neck.

Something wet on my chin. Something stuck in my throat.

The mess They’ve made of us.

Her eyes cling to mine as my body sinks, settling beside her. And I can’t stand what I see, the I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry pouring out with her tears, so I turn my face up.

I look away.

I peer into the smoke eddying above, and then close my eyes. I take a moment, just one, to mourn the passing of Plan A. The career. The wife. The house full of ginger-haired babies I’ll never get to sire. I open my eyes and watch their pudgy, little faces roil across the air before they’re swallowed up in the grey billows. Smoke, and dust, and so much nothing.

I let it all go, breathe in through the hole in my neck, and turn back to She Who Has Always Been. Finding her eyes, I stare at my Scenario B. I watch her face and I breathe as she breathes, hoping that if we keep breathing together, our hearts will keep beating , keep pumping, pumping, until we’re both all spilled out onto the stone, together.

Simultaneous release.

Blood is pooling in my cheek and my legs have vanished. I imagine my feet tapping, waiting, impatient in the beyond. I wonder if her legs have vanished, too. I wonder if- wherever they are- our legs are dancing together.

A murmur in the space between us, then skin against my cheek. Her eyes, calm now, but bright . Three tips stroke my lips as her mouth moves, curves, shapes the words…

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Love you

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She can’t say it aloud, so it must be a secret. Our secret, fizzing through every nerve that still fires. A warm pulse around a still heart.

Grey static crowding in. Her hand on my cheek.

This girl.

She belonged to me.

I close my eyes. I remember.

Periwinkle silk, train whistles, and the thrust of beating wings. The smell of clean wool, hemlock, and dying, orange embers. Bright, blue flames. The thrashing of rain. A white stone and Silent Night.

I open my eyes when she brushes my lips, again. If I still had hands, I’d touch her fingers with mine.

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Gentle fingers on my lips.

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Her fingers-

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A/N: Bleak, yes? I wrote this a while ago. Personally , I sort of like it as is. Lately, though, I’m thinking maybe it could go on. One more scene-- repercussions, and … whatever else. I don’t know. What do you think?