Before the Moon Rises

BEFORE THE MOON RISES

Prologue

"Every moment marked

With apparitions of your soul

I'm ever swiftly moving

Trying to escape this desire

The yearning to be near you

I do what I have to do

The yearning to be near you

I do what I have to do

But I have the sense to recognize

That I don't know how to let you go."--Sarah McLachlan

Early July 1998

Hermione sat rigidly on the stained black walnut pew, the unyielding wood cold against her skin. She leaned forward, resting her arms on the pew in front of her, and placed her head down.

Why in the hell had she come here--to this place of worship and shattered faith, where sinners spill over in hopes of forgiveness they don't sincerely ask for? She scoffed at her own childishness. She looked up in silence.

The entire place demanded reverence; she willingly obliged--anything for a small shred of peace. The cathedral's ceilings were high and foreboding, carved out of a pale white stone that had aged into something darker. The sun had set long before and the stained glass windows were shadowed but she could still make out colorful outlines of saints or apostles--she couldn't remember which--possibly both, but did it matter? Did anything matter?

Up near the front of the cathedral, down a long aisle stood an altar of some kind. A dark red cloth lay draped over the marble slab. At least twenty candles were lit and flickered in the darkness there. Perhaps they were all that remained of people's hopes; perhaps they lit the candles as a last resort, a final call for stillness from the broken soul. She didn't honestly know what the candles meant, but it seemed like a good enough guess to her.

Hermione wiped at a tear spilling down her cheek and swore. Feeling a strange eruption of guilt, she looked up into the high ceiling and apologized--surely the spirit in this place would forgive her--surely it was understood that her heart was battered and bruised, tattered and torn.

She stood weakly to her feet, her knees wobbly beneath her sorrow, and walked up the aisle; she somehow didn't feel so alone in this place. Standing in front of the altar, she pulled out her wand, and knowing she was completely alone, she conjured a candle beside the others. It wasn't worn down like the rest; there were no tale-tell signs of melted wax. Her candle was new and vibrant--the newly lit flame on the wick flickered brightly. It didn't seem to quite fit among the others.

Give it time--a little bit of this life will wear down the best of us.

She ran her trembling fingers along the scarlet cloth on the altar; it felt smooth and cool, much like silk. She wondered briefly what sorrows these candles were lit for. Were there other grieving hearts, other damaged spirits? She felt her head swim in a sea of sorrows, and try as she might, she could not get the image of his face to pass from beneath her eyelids.

Perhaps I should light two candles.

Not one for her and one for him, but both for her. Would that double the chance of comfort, double the chance of healing her heart? Tears dropped from her closed lids, slipping out even though they were not welcome. She would have allowed herself to sob, but somehow this place did not feel as though noise was received with open arms--the silence was all that was accepted, and she could be silent...it was always silent in the darkness, and she knew that was exactly where she was, still struggling to resurface and find the light--if ever again. And somehow, silent tears are far more painful.

Hermione turned away from the altar and began walking slowly up the long aisle. Her shoes clicked softly against the cold marble. She only wished the aisle would stretch on forever, because that would mean she would never reach the large heavy doors, she would never reach the outside world--a world where the harsh truth only succeeded in slicing at her fraying and frail emotions--and a world without him.