How Our Heart Lies
by Losselen


Rise and fall, the tide beneath the all

When winter passes through the sky

While the spring still would not nigh

It is hard to breathe, hard to do anything. She thinks she is choked by the darkness (or redness, you can't know, can you) that is all around, everywhere, everything. If she is to kill anyone, she would do it like this. Make them mad with the shadows, stuff them down their own throat and stomach until they're nothing.

She knows what they're doing, of course.

It is hard to see, hard to move, hard to think. She is gathering, with a fist full of hay, all that is left of herself, not only her body but the dark around her, the truths around her, the night. It is no longer of use in trying to tell the difference between night and day.

She knows what they are doing.

They're changing the utter workings of her mind. They're taking away the underlying structures, that's what they're doing. They're changing her thoughts, changing her sight, changing everything she knew to be true and making it untrue because they have control over her and they have power. They're trying to fuck with her mind. No, if it were only as easy as that, they are trying to fuck with her memories. For all logic they should've killed her already, by a simple Avada Kedavra or slow torture, she should already be decaying and rotting away; but no, they do not abide her logic. They have their own.

And they are the real and she is not. They are the shapers and she is the doomed.

It is hard to breathe, hard to do anything. Hard to distinguish what she remembers and what she imagines-she doesn't dream anymore when she sleeps, because they had woken memories from long ago that did not settle like dusts would, but stayed in the air, thick and disgusting.

(then don't breathe my dear and let yourself die into the earth and rot there and never come back)

It is hard to breathe.



Would memories befall like the vain recall

And time goes passing like water of stream

Like dreamy wound of purl or seam.

Hermione almost fell asleep on the sofa. Ginny was beside her, she could still feel her, her foot was touching Hermione's leg and Hermione was falling asleep reading her book. The embers gave off a crackled and she startled a little, only to fall slowly and lazily back into her doze.



Someone's hand was on her hand, tugging gently, almost pleadingly. She opened her eyes.


"You're sleeping on my foot."

"Oh! Sorry."

Hermione moved and woke, and she blushed because of what she dreamt. It was something vague, something precious and intimate. She couldn't remember what happened, but remembered exactly how it felt, with a warm, almost electric sort of buzz. And she was aroused, somewhat, by this thing that she was dreaming about-a faceless but real thing-that she couldn't remember. She thought it strange.

The common room was nearly empty except for a few scattered, disinterested people here and there. It was a fallish time, when night came slowly but painfully, when her own gaze would wander from her mind-perhaps sideways, perhaps to the girlish figure beside her. And there Ginny was, with the mass of ginger hair that perched on her shoulders, almost glistening in the fire, almost lovely.

Then Hermione had the strangest need to kiss her.

It was harmless fancy, she thought, because she's not going to actually do it, but just wanted to imagine (fun game it is, imagining) the way those lips would feel, the general softness of the hair against her fingers and the vague but comfortable warmth against her breast. And she thought about it, with her eyes coming to a close.

But the next thing she knew she was doing it, doing exactly what she'd planned out in her head, in the same languid speed and motion; turning Ginny's face and the pressing of mouth against mouth, skin against skin, hand into hair and hand into cloth. When they came apart and Hermione let go, she couldn't understand what she'd done and hoped that no one saw them behind the shadows.

"I'm sorry.I shouldn't have done that."

And the funniest thing was that Ginny leaned back, grabbing at Hermione's shirt collars and tie, shoulder and shoulder, neck and hair.



When mocks even the air that once scented so fair

When light comes through barbs and wires

From the brethren of ghosts and fires

Sometimes, she remembers random things; sometimes, she remembers nothing at all; other times, she remembers everything. And this word is true and real. She seems to remember all the human emotions at times, when the darkness still would grow murkier, all the anger and joy and sorrow and confusion and chaos and fear and all the shades in between. She thinks she remembers hope, too, a sweet but bitter thing at the tip of her tongue, but she cannot tell if it is false or real, if she should really despair.

No, despair is for the fools, she tells herself daily-or nightly-when there is nothing in the air but a scent of salt and nothing on the ground but bitter water. And she cannot reason out why they are doing this. She is to die in their hands anyway, why on earth should they rape her so slowly, rape her so casually, fuck with her head like it was some sort of entertainment. (but it is an entertainment, dear, they're death eaters, don't forget)

There are ghosts in the air, breathing things sucking the oxygen away from her.


Ginny was smiling at her, in between kisses, in between breaths. Hermione couldn't remember if she loved her at that moment (you think you love her), when Ginny would sweetly curve her mouth and her lips would part.

The leaves were falling, the sun was falling, the grass was long and so were their shadows. They lazed before the lake, languorous because the air was passing warm about them. Afternoon was drawing to an end-and so was autumn. Hermione fell back onto Ginny's shoulders, with something bitter-tasting in her eyes.

"Are you scared?" Hermione asked and she thought her voice was shaking.

She couldn't see if Ginny nodded or shook her head but she felt Ginny's cold fingertips touch her burning cheeks, lifting her head up, lifting her world up.

"Don't cry."

Her eyes were chocolate and strong, her brows were fixed in a resonant lock that was both piteous and fierce; Hermione could almost see the searing fire behind them and the courage or hope that burnt. (but you never knew what hope it was, what hope it wasn't that burnt in her eyes) And Hermione nodded and respired into the kisses.

Wan was the face of the moon that rose up later, wan was the face of the lake, but not hers. Hers was cherry-hued and bright, earthly, gentle; her eyes were brown and soft and aglow.

But this face, this face she knows. This face-that of a ghost-is white and young. Its eyes are cold and dead, but she looks into them anyway.



There are doves whose white wings and gloves

Flap and beat and skywards call

Until downward she drops by the squall

Time doesn't pass, time falls. It falls like snow, wet about your feet and slippery when you try to walk over it. Sometimes it falls softly, sometimes cruelly, sometimes almost not there at all-sometimes everywhere. You can't feel it at first, but in the long run, it will hurt you and it will kill you.

(showered gifts from the blue-black-empty sky)

There is grime in her hair, grime under her nails, grime in the cracks of her skin; she can't see but she feels how dirty she is, how dry the knobs about her knees are. She smells awkward, foul, and fetid. It is only a matter of time until she would hear the heavy footfalls of boots resonating within the stones and through the metal bars; they would come bearing light-held high above their heads so that their hoods would cast deep, impenetrable shadows that shield their faces-they would come with searing silence.

And she hates them, for ignoring her like the way they do, for being her only human contact, for making her long for their arrival. It is a grisly thought, that she would break even at the sight of their shadowy figures, when she tries to push herself into the dark corner so they can't see her. (you can only assume) Maybe this is why, this is precisely why they're doing this.

She must remember the ones she love, the ones that matter and might even come one day to save her.

She loved her father, whose nose and eyes and diligence she inherited, who told her stories and bought her soda pop when she was little. She loved her mother, whose intelligence, knowledge, strength she loved, who always knew that there was something magical about the little girl.

She loved Harry and Ron and their brashness, their loyalty and courage. She loved Harry's dark hair and Ron's bright eyes.

She loved Ginny, she loved the way she smelled and the way she walked in her peculiar gait and shoes that fit awkwardly. She loved every little freckles on her face and the way she looked whenever she blushed. They would be walking and laughing about the skirts of the Forbidden Forest, and it would be a mild and sun-soaked day when all the warmth of a season would flood at them all torrent-like; all love-like.

Hermione loved the way Ginny isn't quite beautiful, but sometimes, when you sneak a view at her from an anonymous angle, she is the prettiest girl you know.



When hope withers, surety dithers

It would seem that the world thus ends

With no heroes, no defends

They were kissing. They were struggling against the bonds of each other's body, tugging at the hairs and limbs. It was lust (or love that it was) that Hermione felt at her breast, when everything about her came undone as Ginny's hands worked them loose, stripping them down, pulling them apart. And suddenly, she was powerless to stop the runaway train.

They were feeling up each other's thighs-chest-arms while their tongues went everywhere. Everywhere was wet and rewet, everywhere smelt of saliva and sweat-even their hairs were damp and messy. There was no sound other than the faint dripping of water somewhere, and the soft rustles of fabrics against skin, soft mumbles of human contentment.

They've almost forgot that they were in a castle, in a dungeon, and the dungeon had its own textures-she pressed her back against it as her lips came onto Ginny's neck, almost predatory, licking on the throat as if there was blood there-that was stony and cold. There were no ties that bound them to each other, save for the lacing moisture between their mouths and their strong gazes.

They fucked with pace this time-rather unwonted of them, but they did anyway. Their clothes were still on their bodies as Hermione's hand met between Ginny's yielding thighs, a damp piece of flesh that was readily eager, readily hungry.

It was all a matter of time now, a matter of skills. It was all about pressure and pace, rhythm and imagination. When Hermione turned to look, she saw the want in Ginny's eyes, in its most intimate, most intense form.

It was skin, friction, tastes in mouths. It was heat, body, and clothing. It was lust at its sheerest.

"Oh, oh," Ginny groaned sometimes after, clutching desperately at Hermione's hair while her toes curled her eyelashes flicked, she looked terribly guilty. Then Ginny's moan ceased, and she came with quieted scream as a gush of fluid came trickling down Hermione's hand. That was the only sound in the soaring shadows, between the flickering flames and cold stones. And it is the only sound Hermione can think of every time she brings her feet down that cool set of flying stairs, down that mold-smelling, damp-feeling set of stairs, down to the night-cold dungeon.

Like the one she is in right now, just like this one with the stinging walls and moldy floors. But this one is colder, this one rips open her skins, the stones that lined these walls are not smoothed but have rough edges that would cut her because she cannot see.

(you'll never know that it is the same dungeon)

She is crying right now. She thought that she had cried out long ago, but she's doing it again, clutching her own knees and rocking in the straws; a silent, pathetic little thing.



And thus would cage all lands in rage

By the sea of fire and wind's wars

On the sands of time and distant shores

She think she should be claustrophobic, all trapped between the walls, all caged, but she isn't, strangely. Maybe it's just because she can't see the boundaries-neither the stones nor the bars. (but there's some else constraint here other than the stone and metal, you can see, you can feel)

She feels dirty, she feels cold. Her lips are soft in the sores and hard in the chapped skin. She rather prefers the dark now, because if it were bright, she would be able to see what she's become. (or what you were all along) And she would wonder, not without thoughts of regret, whether the know-it-all schoolgirl-uniform was the cover, and this was what was really underneath-this besmirched, filthy, grated little Mudblood girl. (and you don't even realize you're using their words)

It wasn't that they would do anything to her bodily, in fact, they've done nothing but put her there in that unlighted cell; and she wonders why they've not come yet to torture her, or at least interrogate her.

She can't understand.

But she lets her hand wander this time, meandering camber-like downwards to a familiar warmth, (what are you doing) caressing there, trying to stop, trying not to give in to the body.

She can't do it, she can't. She wants to though.

You can see it, her teeth are clenched and her skin is stretched, her eyes are hard and so are the muscles about her feet-her toes-her fingers moving gently between her thighs, soft and slow. (no you can't stop, you will-less worthless) Because she was remembering now the auburn hair and oval face, brownish eyes and fingers that seemed delicate-too delicate-and the soft, curving back and the legs; and she cannot think so she tries to focus on the sick moon outside (you're only remembering, there's no moon here), looking for her lover in her pale-green and self-abasing light-and she tried to distract herself from the anger and the fear-and she realized that it the windowpane's fault (although it is dark all around and you can't see anything), for being so grimy, for being so riddling-

She comes, hot and frenzied, lasting for the long and thoughtless seconds, silent and still with memories behind her eyes.

It is only afterwards that she allows herself to cry.


They're coming.

She can hear them clearly now, along with the muted echoes of their boot-clinking. They come with rhythm, they come with light.



Rise and fall, the tide beneath the all

Since the when does the strong so cry

When met with the knives of betrayal and lie

It is dark and it is hard to breathe.

They've done something to her, she can feel it in her bones-they are weak and empty as she slumps against the ice-bound stonewalls. She's shaking between the damp hay, the damp cracks between stoned edges, she is trembling like a madwoman and mumbling like a child.

They've done something to her, with their harsh wands and pelting voices, something profoundly changing, something that should destroy her once her head clears and she remembers.

The air is ashy, her head is spinning-spiraling-falling downwards into the dust. She sees colors at the edges of her eyes and they're laughing at her, ridiculing her incompetence to remember, at her incompetence to keep a secret.

The ghosts are whispering too, things that she fears the most, things that she doesn't want to hear.

She cries.

(i'm sorry, i'm sorry)

She remembers now, how she'd betrayed the Order. How she'd screamed and screamed and screamed in a dark place somewhere under their cold mutters of "Cruicio!" and how she'd screamed out everything that she knew, without even trying to resist because her brain was trying to survive. It wasn't even because of the pain, but it was because of the fear, the fear for something else, something more horrible than this, something so incredibly terrifying. It was a childish and girlish panic that chased through her blood when she saw through blurry eyes the tips of their pitiless wands pointing at her, making her unthink, making her unfeel, making her cold and cruel and hard inside. And she would cry all over again, after they're through, with unshed (and unsought) tears all the while hearing the quiet scratch of a quill somewhere writing down everything she'd said.

She realizes now, on the deep floor of the swirling Sea, that the stories lied. (they're always lying, don't listen to them) People always break; there is no such a thing as unbreakable. Everyone betrays everyone-not because they're not willed enough, but because it's the way human body is made. In the end, not even love is stronger.

It isn't fair.

(it hardly ever is)



Cry, my tear, when true comes all that you fear

Cry, my love, when all the world of a girl

Wraps around your eyes and whirl.

She doesn't understand. She doesn't understand any of this, how she had failed to remember love when it mattered the most, when she needed its power the most. And after all the false faith, false chance, all she can do is to give up when concerning the truth there is none left to remember, none left to think about. Yet so would come winter, come summer, come the fall of the worlds, come the end and she would still be there. (not even alive)

The brightest hope is a fool's hope; the sweetest dream is that of his. (so harken to him)

There are no heroes in humanity.

(laugh, laugh at me and you)


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