Ordinary Day

Ordinary Day

Across the world it was a normal May Day, little girls dressed as contemporary druids sprinting through fields hanging on to maypoles by bony little hands, hair flying out in circles as flowers twined themselves into further tangles.

There was one little girl though who wasn't merrily laughing as she allowed the burning whisky to momentarily spin her world around her head. The white roses at her right hand echoed her wilting demeanor of dull black jeans under a damask suit jacket she'd found to attempt the media precedent for dressed. Glumly the little girl rubbed her scuffed shoes together, feeling the way her bare feet slide around on the insides. She'd found the shoes that morning in her room, not even sure who'd they once belonged to.

Lavender, they'd been Lavender's favorite pair of shoes to wear on the weekends.

A memory flash like that deserved another shot, so she took one.

People walked past her personal pub on the stairs, carrying their own fistfuls of daisies, lilies, pansies, roses, marigolds, and the occasionally out of place tulip. Some of them looked at her sideways, but they didn't stop to ask her what they could do because they knew they to would resort to her alcoholic answer.

A bare breeze blew over the barren ruins of what had been a fortress. Now there were a handful of trees, two towers, a dining hall, and a lake painted gray. She could recall the adventures she'd participated in across this vast wasteland. There'd been werewolf tag, hide the troll, and walk the skrewt. She's danced in the rain, cried tears that froze to her face, and brimmed with happiness so surreal she'd known it was going to end.

Now why hadn't she taken Divination? It was at times when she answered her own questions that she seriously entertained the distinct possibility that she was now certifiably insane. Some had lost their heads, but her ailment was that she'd kept hers.

So she drank to loose her connection with reality. Reality sucked.

"This is the best breakfast I've had in weeks," said a voice from behind her. Hermione looked up darkly to see Fred holding her vice like the answer to all her questions. Okay fine, so it wasn't even her whisky, it was his, she'd borrowed the bottle that morning when she'd decided insomnia was an easier answer than nightmares.

The contents of the bottle were an added bonus. Shrugging Hermione held out a scarred palm, the images she witnessed when she looked a Fred merited a thrown back head and a good chug to rip down her spine and numb her toes.

You see, every time she saw Fred she saw Ron. She saw her best friend telling her he loved her as he died in her arms and all she could do was look back at him blankly, tears soaking down the dirt covered sides of her face, unable to respond because she didn't love him. She loved Harry. But she should have loved him, after all, they were meant to be together. At least that's what everybody had said.

Everybody is no longer a good example. Everybody is dead.

Fred sat down heavily on the stone step next to her and they vaguely passed the bottle between themselves. Trying not to look at each other even though they wanted to look into each other's eyes and make sure there was still a soul inside, just in case, you know, there wasn't.

Trying not to smell the soaps they'd scrubbed so vainly with in poor attempts to get that stench off themselves...that scent your skin reeked with, the odor of death and destruction and all the grief that followed in the wake. That heavy, choking perfume of guilt that you are still alive and your friends, your family, your lovers, and your prayers are dead. They're dead, gone, beheaded, unanswered, and you are still alive.

They try not to exhibit any of the five senses between them. They don't want to taste the lies of 'Everything will be alright', because its not alright now and now is all that matters because if war teaches anything at all its that you've only got this moment. One moment, a miniscule portion of this ordinary day with skewed workings, the inside of the clock, all the mechanisms have stalled permanently. Everyday after this will not be an ordinary day.

Taking the bottle from Fred Hermione feels the shock that passes up her arm when she touches his hand at the bottle's neck. The little thrill that trails up her is as intoxicating as the pot she bummed off Malfoy the night before; so mentally undermining that she just kind of floats there, releasing everything, including the bottle.

The bottle smashes, the whisky is gone. No more poison for her aching veins.

That shock came from the simple knowledge that she wasn't alone. She wants that again so she turns to make sure he's not a mirage and touches his face, runs her hands through hits shaggy hair, already graying from strain, absorbs the itch of his wool shirt, slightly too big for his concave stomach, and runs her delicate hands down the hem in his heavily patched jeans. "You're real," she breathes.

"Yep," he nods warmly, pulling her on to him, her head on his chest to listen to the steady drum running his blood though his warm body so full of...life.

Hermione experiences in awe as color explodes before her dull eyes. Fred sees her soul blooming again behind sad brown irises. Pulling her head back she continues to eagerly soak up the beat of his body operating in full under her ear. Fred hears her breath catch in excitement, a bit drunken, but so amazed she's near somber.

Like an ordinary little girl Hermione snuggles further into Fred's shoulder, her hair spiraling down into her face as he throws a second arm around her and gently rocks back and forth, a second rhythm for her to cling nimbly to.

With healed ears Hermione looks up when she hears footsteps approaching. Malfoy looks at the scene before him awkwardly before repairing the walls on his face. "Come on, people are waiting."

"Who?" asks Hermione innocently, sitting up completely, a hand falling behind her on the roses. Hissing in pain as one of the thorns pokes at her hand she grits her teeth and closes her eyes as she remembers all the strangers who want to proclaim their thanks today. "Them," she curses, answering her question again. So she's not only off the edge and round the twist but her memory is quickly leaving her in the pitch-black sun of high noon over May Day at Hogwarts.

Yesterday had been April thirtieth. Yesterday had not been good.

Fred stands easily, stretching a bit next to Malfoy. "Up," he commands, holding out a hand to her. Hesitantly Hermione takes the bridge offered her and stands, but doesn't let go.

Malfoy walks a step behind them, and Hermione's grateful. When she looks at Malfoy she gets the strangest sensation of wanting. Wanting to trust him even as she wonders how he could have possibly survived the wrath of a vengeful mother when she'd found out about her dishonest, treacherous, blood trading son. He doesn't look the same as he used to. This might be coincidence; they all look so changed. Fred's half the size around the middle as he used to be, she's still got an arm that needs to be in a sling, she just ignores this and sports an elbow at an interesting angel. She's keeping the pain in that bone as a reminder; she doesn't want to ever forget this time, no matter how lopsided her sanity becomes. Malfoy's hair hangs loose over his eyes, scars slash over his entire face, and he's got a pronounced limp. Vanity gets thrown into the woodpile when your life is at risk.

The gathered crowd is there. Right there. Waiting with bowed heads and whispers of speculation. They're curious to know what she's going to say to them. For that matter so is she. She's never done something so violently big, so impressive, no matter of research could have prepared her for the cold that clenched at her gut nearly crippling her over. Instead of stopping she leans harder on Fred and he takes her weight gladly.

Miles sprawl out around her, speckles over the rolling hills where trees had at one time been, in ever expanding circles around the lake, a devil's playground. She stops before the crowd of mourners and pilgrims who came to proclaim their thanks to the brave souls who made sure that this would be an ordinary day.

An ordinary day everywhere else in the world.

Standing between the two most important resting beds in this entire field she drops six white roses on each. Six roses for the man who was her destiny and six equally pure roses for the man she did love. Harry had been the most indescribable person for her, but she didn't love him anymore, he'd left her, his chapter in her life was closing steadily.

Hermione didn't say anything to the people facing her back, looking at her with questioning heads tilted to the left in misunderstanding. This couldn't be all there was for her to do? It wasn't all she was going to do. No, instead she crossed her arms under her tummy, turning blind nerves to the protests of her elbow, and watched the death valley before her. There weren't any ghosts rising or souls floating lazily toward heaven. In the place of these complacent ideas was the grass winking with dew and the marble headstones radiating a sense of arrogance and time cherished immortality.

Penelope's daughter ran up to Hermione and touched the back of her thigh curiously with the wide-eyed naivete disposition of an ordinary girl anxious to celebrate an ordinary May Day. Penelope gave chase to Perry, named for her father dead three years previous, at the very dawn of this perfect hell.

With people, some total strangers, and some well trusted guides like Ollivander, coming to touch her shoulder in condolence Hermione began to sample little motion picture fantasies of the future.

Leaving the people to their reading Hermione turned away and started walking strongly back toward the castle to figure out how to do things again...like live. Flanked by Fred and Malfoy Hermione scaled the stone steps, mashing stray flower petals under her feet. "It is May Day isn't it?" Hermione asked, stopping on the top step to look at Draco and Fred.

"Yes," answered Fred, clearly confused by this sudden question.

Nodding in thought Hermione blurted, "Well, ordinary people celebrate today."

Draco looked at her in disbelief. "And we're ordinary people."

"No," replied Hermione. "But that doesn't mean we can't have an ordinary day."