Word Count: 941


Fire and Ice by biggerstaffbunch
Warning: Extremely angst-ridden and a bit violent.

the rain comes fast and steady and he asks if i'm ready and i say
bring it on baby im ready to take it on baby
and he says good girl and holds my little hand
im just a shy girl in the arms of a fighting man

"Hold on," he smiles at her, the rain slamming down and soaking their hair down in thick, sopping mats upon their heads. "It's about to all blow up."

She wants to say that she hates explosions and that fire scares her, but it's so wet and she can't see anything so she just holds his hand and nods and then the lightning comes.

It's bright and impressive and he gives a shout as red electricity hums through the air and sizzles to a stop at their feet. Wide silver eyes staring in shock at the hole that has been made in the ground and she vaguely is aware that she can't feel her legs.

"The lights," she says. "They're so very pretty."

They dance and they flit and there are stars in her eyes, as the sky darkens to night and the sparks swim. She's hot and cold and her body thrums and hums and she looks up at his white hair and says, "Why aren't we moving?"

He's all fire and ice against the blood and grass of the Quidditch field- because that's where death has come to play, the Quidditch pitch. She laughed when they told her and then shivered in fear when she saw the sheer blanket of grey and green and glinting silver. There are people in black robes fighting furiously in a flurry of sticks and stones as hooded spectrals float lazily here and there. Blood is crimson and black and it seeps deep into the dark brown earth, littering the bodies that scatter the field and spattering messily onto his open eyes.

She wonders why he hasn't screamed yet.

There is blood everywhere everywhere everywhere, all over her feet and her robes and her fingers and it mats her hair and runs with the rain making her hair and skin pink. Everything is pink. Harry is pink, his glasses askew and hair wild. Hermione is pink, her fingers frozen as they reach out in silent plea for him. Ron's hair has been scorched off and her brother screams himelf hoarse as the heat and stench of burning flesh mingles with the tears and sweat and rain and blood.

There is blood on her lover's hair. On his white hair, as it floats lazily against the darkened backdrop, as night descends and the moon bleeds a bright red, his hair is splattered with the blood and guts of his peers and his teachers and his enemies, and there is no way to figure out who's blood is on your hands so there's nothing to be guilty about later on. She reaches up and tries to touch him with her sticky hands but there is nothing to touch.

He's too far away and he's not moving. Stock still staring at her, his hands outstreched and mouth open.

She tries to walk closer and then looks down. There is so much blood. All over the ground. Dark like chocolate, angry brown against earth. Like candy...she tastes the ground and it tastes like metal and then she sobs, because he isn't moving or holding her hand and she can't walk because she hasn't any legs.

the battle rages on and the moon grows bright
and the cries grow louder in the fire-light
there's death and there's pain and there's tears set to fall
and all i can do is bleed with love for it all

He used to quote a muggle book, saying "wild nights are my glory." and it was true. He'd take her by her hand and lead her out of the dormitory and kiss her hard as the night sparkled and the fires raged to life. Their glory, it was.Tthe glory made just for them, the two of them, and he said after 'this blasted war', he'd take her to Paris and they'd set the cities aflame. He said that he'd hold her hand, in that condescending, tender way of his, and she agreed.

She held tightly to his hand as the night sky rained fire and the grass froze over and the bodies grew cold as ice.Sshe didn't speak unless someone wandered by and tried to help bandage the jagged ends of skin and scorched heat of torn flesh that adorned her legs. And even then she'd just shoo them away, murmering something about Fizzing Whizbees and how they tasted of the blood on her lips.

There were people she knew lying near him, Hermione's blood-matted hair swimming in the puddles as rain splashed gainst her open, unseeing eyes. Ron lay over her body, his own face turned down into the mud and trickles of black guck crowding his ears, a slight girl with pale blonde hair tucked in his arms. It was all very dismal and depressing, and she reckoned she saw Harry Potter stand in the middle of it all, and walk into the forest. She wagers that was when he disappeared because he never came back and there's always news of some green flashes and little children being eaten.

All she saw was him, his eyes silver and cold and empty like crystals and his mouth slightly agape and his skin as smooth and unmarred as silk. She touches it and marvelled at how cold it must be outside. She shivers and huddles up next to him, burying her tear-stained and bloody face in the hollow of his neck, dragging her useless legs along with her.

it rains fire that night and all day long.

Wow.

Just wow.

It's confusing, but it's engaging and the imagery is wonderful, the kind of fic that wouldn't be the same if it wasn't confusing.

Wonderful.


Welcome to PK, btw.



MOD NOTE: I edited the subtitle to include a warning. --Crystal 7/8


Crystal