Nightmares and Nocturnes

The Price of Beauty

Chapter 11: The Price of Beauty

For all that the night girl was troubled, in her wretched state, she was not unhappy. She knew nothing of the world except the tomb of night in which she dwelt, and being strong of mind and light of spirit, she took some pleasure in everything she did. But she desired, nevertheless, something different; something that she knew not how to name, certain only that she wished, somehow, for more.

Her ventures toward the light served partially to punish, for if ignorance is peaceful bliss, then knowledge is no prize; and the disquieted cry that curled inside her stomach soon pressed into her soul, until she could no longer be satisfied with the night. For indeed, once light had met her eyes, she could not close them and return to the dark; and for having felt the glow of the day boy, she could no longer deprive herself the sight. All the little life she had seemed to come from him, and him from her. If he were to move, she might move; so if he left, would she, too, leave? For if she were to be apart from him, she did not know how she could stagger through darkness again, having known the splendor of the day.

For indeed, where he gaped, she rose, and where she faltered, he gleamed; and when darkness fell around them, they staggered slowly forward, illuminated in the sharedness of their sight.

. . . . . . . .

2002

. . . . . . . .

"Ouch," Harry said loudly, hissing through his teeth as she applied the Dittany to his back. "Fuckers."

"Sit still," she told him, attempting to concentrate. The wound was deep and there wasn't enough Dittany to cover the extent of the damage they'd both suffered; she was having to alternately drip the potion and use her wand stitch up the wound, using a spell she wasn't totally convinced would work for human skin. It was a repairing spell Molly had taught her for dressing up old throw pillows, but she figured it couldn't have been worse than muggle stitches. Magic, at least, was sterile.

"What's back there?" Harry asked sullenly, glancing over his shoulder at her. "Glass?"

"A bit," Hermione confirmed, hoping she'd gotten out the biggest shards. She ran her finger over his skin, testing for roughness; her glance shifted to the phoenix tattoo on his back and she sighed.

"What's it doing?" Harry asked quietly. "Dead, is it?"

"Worse," Hermione remarked, grimacing as the wings of the rampant phoenix shimmered in the dim light of their makeshift camp. "I think it's preening."

"Optimism," Harry scoffed. "Intolerable."

"Sort of your thing, though," Hermione reminded him. "It knows better than to assume you're out just because you're down."

"It's a tattoo," Harry retorted miserably. "It doesn't know anything." Despite this, he twisted uncomfortably to look at her. "Let me see yours."

She put down her wand and turned, nudging the tattered sleeve from her shoulder. "Dead, is it?" she asked faintly, echoing his phrasing. It was something they always asked each other, though she wasn't sure what she would do if either of them ever said yes.

"No," Harry said quietly, running his fingers over it.

"Preening?" she asked, half-jokingly.

"Not really," he said, frowning. "It looks a bit . . . disheveled."

"Ah, imminent death," Hermione concluded grumpily. "Excellent."

She shrugged the remains of what was once a garment back over her shoulder, trying not to let herself look as discouraged as she felt. She rubbed her eyes wearily, knowing she should begin work on her own cuts and bruises.