Once More

Once more

"Do it," he says, daring me. Taunting me. Tempting me. "Go ahead and say the Goddamn words," he continues. His eyes flash and his breath is coming out in short sharp gasps, punctuating the air, which is heavy with foreboding, betraying his indifferent demeanour. His brow is sheathed in a thin sheen of sweat, as is his upper lip, which he keeps licking, distracted to a point where I want to smack him or kiss him stupid, I'm not quite sure which.

My hand grips my trusty wand -12 and a half inches, cherry oak, one hair of Sphinx.-but it just shakes even more. I'm not sure if he notices but I pray with all my might that he doesn't. Somewhere in the background of my feeble state of mind, my head is pounding and my heart is trying to drill its way out of my chest.

Do you hear it?

"Why did you do it?" I ask. We both know I'm not going to do anything to him. In the meantime, he takes out a small box of cigarettes and lights up. He offers me one and I sneer, disgusted. It used to be one of the things he swore he'd never do and yet, here he is, the Wizarding world's most wanted, lighting up what will eventually give him lung cancer. It would be, you'd imagine, Voldemort, but is conveniently disposed of around fourteen hours previously. As a fully trained Auror, my job isn't finished until each and every one of those pitiful excuses for minions has faced justice.

And that is why I am standing in front of him, now, this exact moment, as time seems to slow down and each heart beat lasts for an eternity and I can notice the things around me. That is why I am passing judgment.

"Why, you ask. You want to know why? The truth?" he flicks his cigarette and the glowing ashes float to the ground and gently extinguish. I'm getting slightly irritated.

"Yes, why, the truth, why did you do it? The truth, right here, why?" I reason with myself that this behaviour is completely justified, having been woken up at five thirty by a rock on my window.

You're getting weak he had said as I screamed obscenities to his face. You used to wake up this time 3 times a week to watch the sunrise.

I had fumed, my whole body visibly trembling with rage. How dare he remember and get nostalgic?

His voice snaps me out of my reverie

"Well I would tell you love," I wince, "but I doubt you'd believe me. Besides, you can't handle the truth." His voice is thin and ragged and for a moment, I entertain the idea of offering him some tea. For a moment. But he seems to read my mind.

"A cup of tea would be nice," he offers, hopeful, and he exhales. I watch as smoke streams from his nose. Like a dragon. He drops half a cigarette and stands on it.

"Yes, I'm sure it would," I mutter, my wand still pointed to his heart. Why? I am not sure and after a pregnant pause, I drop it. In all honesty, I know this is a stupid move, but something tells me I won't be attacked.

You have an innocent sort of blind faith that's going to save us all one day I remembered you told me once.

"What do you mean, I can't handle the truth?" I turn and lead the way through my back door in into my living room. Assuming he will follow, like he always has. Perhaps..

"I mean exactly that," he supplies, sitting on the seat furthest for me. I note this and file it away at the back of my mind.

"I could tell you but you'd probably throw me out of your house before I could even say sorry."

I narrow my eyes at this last word and decide I must here on in chose my words carefully.

"Try me." My eyes are trained on his, and I feel a stab of regret and want and longing.

"Well, yes, naturally," his voice is still smooth and debonair and amused, just like I remember it, "but you see, it's a rather long story and I haven't got any tea to keep me wa-"

"Damn it you don't need a damn cup of tea to tell me a damn story!" I snap, eliciting a well-perfected sneer. I used to kiss that sneer away.

"I see you're still as easily agitated as ever," he comments, raising an eyebrow. I'm ready to lunge at him. In what fashion, I am not entirely sure - but I have no time to further liberate this thought because then the doorbell rings and I start.

"Get up," I order.

"What the - "

"I said get up!" I hiss, griping his arm, and I know it's not necessary. So does he, but it's one of those silent topics that will never be brought up but will forever hang between us. I push him in front of me and he falls to his knees. I drop with him, and we crawl through the door way and the hallway, towards the front door. Through the frosted glass, I see a familiar crop of hair. I used to run my fingers through that hair.

"Sweet mother of Jesus," I mutter, trying to blow my fringe out of the way, but it sticks to my clammy forehead, and I steadily become more and more agitated.

Guardedly, I grasp the brass door handle with my left hand while readjusting my hold on my wand with my other hand. I count to thee and swing the door open.

"Expelliarmus!" The body flies through the air, propelled by a blast of light and I wonder if the neighbors can here it thud against the tree. I hear a groan and pocket the second wand that night. In a flash, I am by the slowly reviving body and instead of offering a hand, I point my wand at the rapidly rising and falling chest.

"Move and I'll blow you to pieces" I breathe into the shell of the ear as my nails dig into a warm arm and devouring the pained wince.

I am aware that he is somewhere behind me, watching this scenario unfold with a calculated amount of amusement and a soft smile threaded into his gaunt features.

I march them both back into the house, letting a long-suffering sigh escape my chapped lips. I close the door slowly, wondering how many I will have to obliviate later. I lean back on it, mostly for support as they look at each other, their eyes tired and weary and glad to see a familiar smile. They embrace silently and again, I feel that niggling stab of longing.

"Well, I it isn't the Gryffindor Trio, united once more," I say, smirking and locking the door behind me.