Blue Shadows

Blue smoke curls before me in the orange glow of nine o clock slanted sunset. It's a beautiful sky, all filled with soft pastels and wispy little bits of cloud. It's a sin for me to sully it with smoke. I inhale deeply, and just like every time there's a heaviness under my ribs and a tug in my belly. Beneath the fire escape where I sit, the garden is wild and cool and over grown in shade, trampled and adored in sun. Rich honeysuckle and fragrant roses fall and fountain from every available surface and two old trees stand whispering below me. Beneath the trees and the south fence, there grow hundreds of shrubs and shade loving plants that will only ever be disturbed by bird or cat, or the occasional fox.

As I exhale, and sink down into my cold metal seat, the sky darkens into a blood red and strong, vibrant colours run rampant across it. It's a quick change, pleasing to the eye. I have a place to be tonight, and it is horrible compared to the beautiful sights and smells here. But I need to be there.

I drag again, and again, and with each drag a dozen more stars emerge and the sun sinks lower and lower in the sky. It's a deep, deep navy by the time I finish, but still light and comforting. The sickle of the moon could slice this sky apart, I think, and spill the true light of the stars into us here. Made more than just tiny defects in the warp and weft of the sky, it would be spectacular. My housemates are loud, suddenly, and I feel I need to move quickly, before they question my presence on the fire escape.

Tin and money and card and keys and a lighter, and I'm set. Down the fire escape, through the gate and out onto the street. The street lights aren't even turned on yet. The sun is red and bloated and cooled in the west, sinking down and hanging there promising a long dusk and an early dawn. It's nice out, calm and expectant in the fading warmth of the afternoon sun.

She wasn't hard to track down, not really. She has a unique name, and she's not exactly trying to hide. I don't blame her for trying to leave, I did the same for a long time. My world ground to a stop not long ago, and it's only just starting to move again. We met years ago, when we were just silly children, and again later. But she doesn't remember the second time. I hope.

So, down this terribly quaint street and onto a main road, light traffic trickling home. The sky's dark still, and the moon's still threatening to slice the sky open. Damned sky. It deserves whatever it gets, pressing against us here. It's too low and predatory for my liking, hulking just beyond the press of neon and haze and waiting to swallow us all. It'd be alright, I decide, if it would just open up and spill down because this town is uniquely designed for lurking and dark shadows. Trying to dispel these shadows for two useless stories all around town limits the sky, draws its attention. You never want to attract the attention of such a dangerous foe.

But she did. She and her two young friends. He was much more dangerous than a sky enraged by light pollution. But no, not tonight. Any more of these memories and I'll be just as insane as she is.

Down streets that should be spilling with students and all manner of university people, I'm alone. My shadows are the colour of the night sky, hideous against the orange light splashing everywhere. It's strange, that in this twilight and darkening, the only way to see any colour or shade that isn't this orange is to look in these shadows. I don't think I like that idea, and I'm not sure why. It niggles and demands attention, but my head's not fit to dissect itself now. It hasn't been for a long time.

The weed's gentle buzz is wearing off, and I'm maudlin and on edge walking through this strange town. It's jumpy stuff, damn that rat of a housemate who sold it to me. Weasel probably wanted to have a bit of a laugh. Quel con! Knew he wasn't to be trusted.

And then I'm here. From running a very simple line of inquiry around several of the largest and oldest institutions in this fine country, I found only one Hermione Granger. It took very little effort to get myself matriculated here, into her college. It took slightly more to poke around and find out that she frequents this bar, on Tuesday nights. So, I'm here. Walking down the steps of a trendy wine bar into a low ceilinged basement that's probably three hundred years old, if it's a day. But tonight it's filled with speakers and lights and throbbing, grinding bodies.

For fuck's sake. I hate places like this. I'm jostled at the bar and I'm leered at more than I can bear. Stupid boys and girls, trying to impress me. Up this close and personal, it's impossible to hide any kind of Veela heritage and I move as quickly as I can, to find her and get the hell out.

And there's a massive surge of panic and absolute loathing at these casual touches and bumps and grinds and I think I'm about to be violently ill. I don't want to be here, in this pit with these pathetic, inane pieces of amphetamine enhanced meat! This is the world that we all fought to protect? Forgive me if I wonder if I was on the right side. And the best part is that these tripping, trembling people are nearly the best their world has to offer. I admire their spiral out of this world. I admire the way they just excuse themselves from reality and float away into their own minds.

I think I'll be sick. I'm trembling inside and horrible, terrible memories are clawing and pulling at me. Maman et papa, Gabrielle and my grandmother cry out for me from the pits of my memories and it's just too much. The green light's too harsh and it doesn't hide a thing from me. I'm thinking that maybe, just maybe this time those memories will engulf me and I'm left wanting to scream and scream until they flow out of me or I suffocate, whichever. But no, don't draw attention to yourself in this place, imbécile!

I'm not well, I think, as I struggle for a dark corner, and I remember more and moreand I think this must be a bad flashback. It's that damn bad acid I had. I'm more and more unhinged by the second and why can I realise this? Why am I still aware of myself? Of my movements and thoughts and every beat of my heart? It would be so much easier if I wasn't. Merde, danger and fear seeping everywhere.

I'm in a seat in a dark corner now, and it seems to be the same dark corner occupied by the object of my search. Too twisted to notice she was there, I've just had to scrap all the plans for meeting her. No slinking out of the shadows or sidling up to her on the dance floor, no. Just collapsing down untidily with the shakes. It's not a flashback, it's just my own head.

"You're Fleur Delacour, aren't you?"

What, what? My name. She remembers, oh Gods and Goddesses, she remembers. But which Fleur Delacour? She has beautiful enunciation that the cigarettes are only just starting to lower into a rough growl. Which Fleur? The beautiful, sexy eighteen year old Champion of Beauxbatons or the one who was treated to the sight of her two years ago in a tiny little room, screaming and screaming until she collapsed? They told me that fucking window was one way.

Not good. This level of uncertainty is unacceptable and she's looking at me, more pink eyed than she really should be at ten on an autumn night. Looking right at me, piercing and extraordinarily intimidating in her emptiness. But there's an occasional flurry of motion behind her eyes, and maybe she's not quite as rat arsed as I thought she was. She's thinking, there's amazing processes going on in there and she's evaluating me. Silence, unacceptably silent in this tiny, hot space. Say something, you silly bint!

"Hermione Granger." Genius. "You were a friend of Potter's." Nobel Prize, Mlle Delacour. "I am sorry for your loss." That's it, no more drugs. Ever. I'm far too stupid at the minute, and hurtful.

She hands me a suspect cigarette and mumbles that she's sorry too. God forsaken dope fiends that we all are, I take a toke of her marijuana cigarette and sigh. Its numbness spreads all over me and causes my vision to fog for a second. We're sitting side by side, staring out at the crowd. They're actually quite wonderful now, not as dangerous as I thought. I must not judge people so harshly next time. I have Stella Artois with me and I sip it slowly. It's cool and manages to break through the cloying build up of smoke and tar at the back of my throat, always a bonus in such a situation.

I'm feeling calm, and I turn to watch her. She's why I'm in this country. Well, she's why I'm in this country rather than being in Italy or Spain or somewhere warm and inviting like that. When in exile, you should never forget the other refugees. Especially the ones who're still trapped in the worlds we're running from. I suspect she's very deeply mired in her own.

She's quite striking in this light, and she turns to look back at me. She's slim, but not under nourished. I suspect she's well looked after in her college dorm, by all accounts she's with good people, not landed with drug addled imbeciles like I myself am. Her hair is unruly and wild, and alluring around her heavily shadowed face. She straightens her back, and that dignity is breathtaking. After all she's been through, how can she have survived? I doubt I would have. I think I may have underestimated this young woman. She's quite magnificent in her courage. I am not surprised she survived it all, seeing her now. But there is a distance between our gazes that is not usually seen in the sound of mind. I wonder what thoughts are steaming there, underneath a scar over her eyebrow that extends nearly to her ear. They say she has much worse on her back. I shudder to think.

Mon Dieu doux saint! I leap out of my seat as two figures bump into me. What are these bastards doing? Sweet mother of mercy, people shouldn't be allowed to sneak around like that. I should butt these pigs out of here, disturbing a near perfect tableaux! Some people have no manners. Men! Stupid men. Baise-moi, I'm shaking. She's unnerved me so much that I can stop fucking shaking.

One of them turns around and smiles in apology, tapping my knee with a loose wristed nonchalance, his boyfriend smiling in greeting. No, not now. I will not deal with overly friendly members of the meet and greet committee when I'm in such an important part of my plan! I don't know how to deal with you, you bastards, but mark my words I'll have you out of here in seconds! They're all fucking against me, aren't they?

She then reaches forward and wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me back and I sit beside her, thankful for her intervention. I toss an apologetic look at the two boys, and they smile knowingly and wink, slinking off to find more talkative prey.

She won't look at my face, and I'm quite disappointed. She may be taken aback with her boldness, perhaps. She barely knows me. I barely know her. In fact, all I know is that she is the last witch in England and no member of the magical community has spoken to her for a year and a half. And she's like me, too. There were things we both did that were absolutely abhorrent and inexcusable, and yet we were praised as heroes for doing them. With that kind of praise always comes the horrible knowledge that people think you're a complete monster for what you did. Which is fair enough, really.

She's nervous, and I don't think she's been in close contact with anyone for a long time, somehow. She's smaller than me, much shorter and she fits into the curve of my arm comfortably. Tremulous eyes meet my own, and I trace light circles on her back. Her top is backless and her skin soft and warm, albeit slightly sweaty. She's so scared right now, licking her lips and her eyes darting for an exit. In the end, after a few seconds, I pull her in gently and she curls into me, still gazing up at me. She touches my face with a very unsteady hand and I think I'm just as unsteady looking back at her. I hate Him for doing this. But I think that I mostly hate Him for leaving a face to this horror, and every line and scar and twitch of this girl bring back every single person I lost. She is the face of every victim and of the hero who killed him.

"You were the one, in the end, that killed him," I ask, whispering close to her, suddenly worried by this club again. I'm on edge and pinned in by all this tom foolerly going on around me. She nods against me and I can feel my heart breaking at this horrible, terrible situation. Here we are, trapped in a bloody dangerous situation with no clear exit and a scene from any maudlin bodice ripper taking place. We need moonlight for this, and stars and a lake, or something. Her breathing's slower though, calmer, catching less in her throat, and I'm quite pleased.

Thoughts, hard and difficult and heavy thoughts are streaming through her head, and I watch the small movements of her face and throat and breast (oops, eyes up, up, up!). She's remembering something, and I hate that I was the one to make her do so. But it's not good to hold it all in. Especially not when I'm here to bring comfort and solace and hope to this girl's life. We'll be amazingly close friends, and soon she'll forget that the magical community are a load of absolute wankers and that we're quite possibly the last two people left who could ever understand each other. I won't be quite so lonely then, and we can talk about events in the past. We can mix those damn awful memories with pleasant ones.

But she's staring at me. Merde. Was I talking out loud again? The last time I fucking did that, I had all hell to pay. She's still stroking my hair, but that hand drops and falls to my waist. We're crushed closer than two people have any right to be, and she's nestled against my shoulder, her breath hot and tickling my cleavage. Close friends my arse. She's trembling against me, weeping brokenly and clutching me. I let her cry, it's best to get it all out. Yeah. Best to get it all out.

I haven't cried like this in years. Years and years and years. It goes on forever and bloody smegging bollocks if it isn't far too loud and annoying in this place! I'm crying for my dead family and all my friends and any shred of innocence I once had and it's all surpassed by the music and I'm distracted by the stupid notion that we should be somewhere peaceful. I give up, I've gone insane.

But when she looks up at me with a wobbly smile, maybe it's worth it. She certainly looks far more insane than myself, no harm though. Ah, her cheeks are warm and soft as I wipe away her tears. And her mouth is thrilling against my face as she kisses my tears away. Damn it I am not going to try anything with this girl! I am not here to seduce the poor thing after everything that's happened.

But then I'm kissing her, so maybe I am. But maybe I'm just comforting her.

But then I'm doing my country proud with the next kiss, so maybe I'm not.

It suddenly comes to me, with her tongue in my mouth and her hands pulling me to her and crushing our chests together. I came to find her for about fifty billion different reasons, and none of them matter a jot right now. Nothing really matters when you're (accidentally) slipping your hand under her top. Not my fault though, it's her own for wearing that skimpy thing in the first place. Who knows what attention she'll attract in it.

Attention! God damn it! There's too much attention here. What we're getting into is one of the most important nights of sex in the entire bloody world and it's not going to happen where there's so much attention! It's so essential to taste every inch of her so that we can remind ourselves again that we're alive and important and Merlin on a fucking bicycle, where did she learn to kiss like this? But motion is necessary immediately! This is going to be romantic and perfect and gentle and sweet and I'll save her this night, if we can get back to mine.

So what am I doing with my hand between her legs, then? Oops. Well, she is a good kisser. So good that she doesn't deserve these distractions in this place. Oh good gods and goddesses on high!

She's pulling back after an eternity, and I'm not happy. Such oral stimulation should not end so soon! And don't get me started on her hands. She's hot and clenching around my hand, her jeans very unnecessary but we'll get nowhere if she takes them off. I wiggle my fingers a bit and she seems to get the idea, standing and pulling me after her.

"Come back with me, Fleur?" she whispers and I nod, nipping her shoulder with little kisses. So much for my plan. There was a plan? I distinctly remember thinking of formulating a plan. I'm not sure how far I got, but this wasn't in it until at least day three. But she wants me, and no one's wanted me in years (or at least, not anyone who I wanted back). She knows all the stories and rumours and unpleasant things, and she's still holding my hand. I'm tight and damp and I'm absolutely unable to process any thoughts right now. She looks as if she's in a similar state.

We wander back, our shadows no longer blue under the faded sky. I'm disappointed. I think she would have appreciated the beauty of it. We amble back, twisted on weed and stumbling into bushes and hedges. The lavender and rosemary bushes, the honeysuckle and the wisteria are all fading to winter, but their scents still cling to us as we press against each other every few minutes on the way back. We get back to her corridor and I'm spinning. The world is about fifty feet below me, and I'm ten thousand miles above it all.

She pulls me in and we collapse onto her bed. And you'll forgive me if I don't see this as the best time to keep a full, coherent commentary. But it's beautiful as we move. She lets me kiss her and worship her and trace every one of her scars and run my lips over every part of her. She moves beneath my hands and lips and every movement I make, every breath is so close to her and so intimately mingled that I'm not sure I ever want this to end.

End it does, shuddering and gasping and moaning and kissing and messy and musky. She gathers me in her arms until she stops twitching and then ravishes me. I haven't been ravished anything like this before, and I adore it.

We sink in an untidy knot in her bed and I watch her eyes dart, her breath heavy. I cannot move. My body is paralysed and it's all I can do to kiss and nibble and lick her throat. Her breathing slows, but her heart is still thumping hard under my hand. Her eyes are brown, I realise. I never noticed before. The dawn light is good for something, I think. They're much more focused and less intimidating than last night.

"À quoi pensez-vous ?" I ask, mumbling in sex dulled tones.

She answers in French, my word, and tells me things. Lots of things. And I tell her things. We keep talking until the dawn is properly upon us. We fall deeply asleep and all the danger and paranoia seem so stupidly far away that they're hard to hold. A deep, deep melancholy in me surges up and threatens to engulf me, nd I realise with a certain degree of misery, that many hurtful memories will now have to be put to rest, after being so rudely awakened.

The next morning, I am alone in her bed, and that misery strangles me as I sit naked and covered in her sweat and her words. Stupid, stupid child that I am, I thought I could find answers to my questions here. I thought maybe we would understand each other, save each other. It's cold, and I'm sober and clear headed. It's all a bit too much. I really would love a cup of tea, I think, and I feel like I'm thirteen again and waddling painfully away from Henri Gauguin's bed after he fell asleep. A cup of tea? I have to laugh at that.

And then, the door opens and she walks in backwards, dressed in a battered cotton dressing gown, her hair a glorious, riotous mess on the top of her head. Two steaming mugs of tea follow her and she smiles brilliantly at me.