soo. i wrote this without knowing what i intended to write, and... uh. here you go. hope you like. (:
“Hello, beautiful.” Those words always begin the ever familiar nightmare, the one that’s stuck with her through the past couple of years like a cough a smoker just can’t seem to shake, like a bad habit that’s unwilling to break. They’ve become less frequent in the past few weeks, or perhaps they’re occurring at the same pace, but now with Ron at her side in the night, he usually shakes her awake before her mind can reach the main event. And by the morning? Well, usually, by then she’s convinced herself she hasn’t seen his face again, that the brush of fingers she felt against her cheek (which doesn’t give her the same stark sensation of terror in her dream as they did on the night of the incident) was merely Ron trying to comfort her, and not some sick, desperate longing for the touch of a stranger.
Perhaps it’s something psychological, she muses over her tea as her fingers flip through the pages of an old book without giving herself the chance to really read its contents. Perhaps the reason that she has become so accustomed to his presence in the beginning of the nightmare, so accepting of their recalled closeness, is because his touch was tender in comparison to Bellatrix’s. Her mind could twist and construe his voice and his actions, and those fingers on her cheek, in her hair—they’re security, keeping her calm and safe and accepting of what will then proceed when things get blurry and she finds herself in Malfoy Manor.
She takes a sip from her lukewarm cup, finding that even above the buzz of the others within the coffee shop, she can still hear that echo—“Hello, beautiful.”—in her head with more clarity than in her sleep. With too much clarity. When that all-too-familiar stranger sinks down in the chair opposing hers, Hermione can’t breathe. She realizes, from his body language, that the power given to him by Snatching was not what gave him confidence; no, it’s obviously something innate, because his head is held high and he leans forward as though he has no concern that she will make a grab for her wand and hex him to hell and back. He peers down at her book and then glances up to her, leaning so far across the table that their faces are too close for comfort.
She cannot determine if she is terrified or thrilled, but if she put a hand over her heart, she is certain she’d feel it pound against her fingertips.
His haughty gaze flickers with momentary amusement before he leans back, raising his hands, palms towards her, as if to say look, I’m harmless. “Don’t look so frightened, lovey. You won, remember?”
Hermione clears her throat as though to speak, and he waits expectantly, but she can’t pry her lips apart and fight the right words to end her self-imposed silence. He shrugs, unconcerned, and reaches into the bag that he’d dropped down on the floor. “No matter, I just supposed I would return this—” he lays down the scarf in the center of the table, and its dingy and stained (probably with blood) from his days as a Snatcher “—to its rightful owner.” And as quick as he arrived, he’s standing again, though she feels his predatory, possessive gaze on her as he retreats. She doesn’t dare look up, her eyes trained on that long lost article of clothing. “I do hope to see you again, beautiful.”
He’s gone, and suddenly Ron is shaking her awake, and she sits up with the blanket s clenched so tightly in her fingers that it hurts to pry them off. Their bedroom is dark but her eyes stay open long after Ron is snoring again, wandering from the ceiling to the closet door, tracing over the barely seeable lines in the wood.
Just a dream. It was just a dream. With a mixture of disappointment and scorn, she rolls back over and curls into Ron’s side, not allowing her mind to register the sight of the scarf hanging from the doorknob.
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timeasmymeasure
scabior/hermione - your voice, it chased away all the sanity in me.
Date: 2010-11-30 10:18 pm (UTC)“Hello, beautiful.”
Those words always begin the ever familiar nightmare, the one that’s stuck with her through the past couple of years like a cough a smoker just can’t seem to shake, like a bad habit that’s unwilling to break. They’ve become less frequent in the past few weeks, or perhaps they’re occurring at the same pace, but now with Ron at her side in the night, he usually shakes her awake before her mind can reach the main event. And by the morning? Well, usually, by then she’s convinced herself she hasn’t seen his face again, that the brush of fingers she felt against her cheek (which doesn’t give her the same stark sensation of terror in her dream as they did on the night of the incident) was merely Ron trying to comfort her, and not some sick, desperate longing for the touch of a stranger.
Perhaps it’s something psychological, she muses over her tea as her fingers flip through the pages of an old book without giving herself the chance to really read its contents. Perhaps the reason that she has become so accustomed to his presence in the beginning of the nightmare, so accepting of their recalled closeness, is because his touch was tender in comparison to Bellatrix’s. Her mind could twist and construe his voice and his actions, and those fingers on her cheek, in her hair—they’re security, keeping her calm and safe and accepting of what will then proceed when things get blurry and she finds herself in Malfoy Manor.
She takes a sip from her lukewarm cup, finding that even above the buzz of the others within the coffee shop, she can still hear that echo—“Hello, beautiful.”—in her head with more clarity than in her sleep. With too much clarity.
When that all-too-familiar stranger sinks down in the chair opposing hers, Hermione can’t breathe. She realizes, from his body language, that the power given to him by Snatching was not what gave him confidence; no, it’s obviously something innate, because his head is held high and he leans forward as though he has no concern that she will make a grab for her wand and hex him to hell and back. He peers down at her book and then glances up to her, leaning so far across the table that their faces are too close for comfort.
She cannot determine if she is terrified or thrilled, but if she put a hand over her heart, she is certain she’d feel it pound against her fingertips.
His haughty gaze flickers with momentary amusement before he leans back, raising his hands, palms towards her, as if to say look, I’m harmless.
“Don’t look so frightened, lovey. You won, remember?”
Hermione clears her throat as though to speak, and he waits expectantly, but she can’t pry her lips apart and fight the right words to end her self-imposed silence. He shrugs, unconcerned, and reaches into the bag that he’d dropped down on the floor.
“No matter, I just supposed I would return this—” he lays down the scarf in the center of the table, and its dingy and stained (probably with blood) from his days as a Snatcher “—to its rightful owner.” And as quick as he arrived, he’s standing again, though she feels his predatory, possessive gaze on her as he retreats. She doesn’t dare look up, her eyes trained on that long lost article of clothing. “I do hope to see you again, beautiful.”
He’s gone, and suddenly Ron is shaking her awake, and she sits up with the blanket s clenched so tightly in her fingers that it hurts to pry them off. Their bedroom is dark but her eyes stay open long after Ron is snoring again, wandering from the ceiling to the closet door, tracing over the barely seeable lines in the wood.
Just a dream. It was just a dream. With a mixture of disappointment and scorn, she rolls back over and curls into Ron’s side, not allowing her mind to register the sight of the scarf hanging from the doorknob.