#180 in Fanfiction || #1 in Hermione ||
In the language of literature, there exists a seemingly-concrete, antonymous relationship between good and evil, light and dark, hero and monster. And yet, we often disregard the transition from one to anothe...
At least another ten minutes pass before either party--Tom or Hermione--thinks of breaking the silence. The previous Dark Lord is still trying to piece together the information he has of Harry and horcruxes, unable to further his suspicions into ideas and thenceforth. Hermione, on the other hand, is thinking of the past day--of the pain and the sacrifices made. And though she is silent in all these thoughts, Tom seems to sense them through his frustrated puzzling, become a louder buzz as ten minutes pass. It becomes too much to bear.
"I am sorry that I was unable to help you today," Tom almost whispers, not being capable of the talent given its gentle tendencies, but speaking softer than she's ever heard from him before. The tone reflects his genuine regret for the happenings of the day, although both parties know it was inevitable and probably for the best. But he promised to protect her. "Listening to your screams from downstairs, unable to help, is the most acute torture I have ever felt."
"I would do it all again if it meant protecting my friends," Hermione says, her eyes rising to his silhouetted profile in the flames, "you included."
The boy's eyes finally find hers after hours of meandering about, never quite contacting. A smile braces his face into gentle brackets, not like that nasty sneer or smirk, but of genuine good feelings towards the focus of his attention: Hermione. With the red behind him, Hermione can just perceive the green in his eyes, strongly outlined by his chiseled features and dark hair. He is a vision in the shadow of the light.
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And Hermione is a piece of war propaganda. A strong woman that ought to be photographed for the remnants of her struggles, strength of her character, and sheer beauty of her visage. She's lost weight in the war, but she's gained strength in her shoulders. Her eyes are duller with each passing day, but her inner warrior seems to exert itself with each hour passing. Her lips are chapped and skin is chafed, but she is strong in the straightness of her back. She is a vision in the line of the light.
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But it does not forsake all that she's been through, all that she's seen. Her beauty is more than skin-deep, her scars are more permeating of the soul than of the skin. And Tom sees it all, his smile falling into a melancholy glance, asking, "What did she do to you? Was it the Cruciatus?"
