Maybe we'll learn to fly

Author's notes: I would like to thank my reviewers PROFUSELY, you don't know how happy you've made me...*drinks all around, except those of you who don't have fake IDs...hehe*
I have NO IDEA where this comes from...ye gods, I make it sound like they've upset the universe or something! Melodrama for you.
I really hope the epilogue doesn't tear down the story. If it does, tell me to remove it.
Now I leave you to read this last installment with a piece of advice: REVIEW!!!!!

Love and angst,
Vivica

5. Soar: Epilogue

Darkness falls and consumes the sky with the swiftness and deftness that comes with an eternity of practice. The air still hangs heavy with the moisture of dawn's storm. The scream which ripped through the sky mere hours ago still vibrates through the night air, is still captured in every droplet of water and every blade of grass. Blood still glistens in the invisible moonlight, although the source of the blood is long gone. Perhaps the lavenders in their crystal vase feel silent sympathy for the flowers that lay on the floor of the Gryffindor common room, moaning in pain in a frequency unheard in human ears.

Any of this could be happening, but the four teenagers - still children in their uncertainty and fatal innocence - would not understand. Their minds can barely touch upon the workings of the world around them. Mother Nature herself weeps today for the change these four have the power to make in the world, for the way human nature has destroyed the fragile balance of an enigmatic force. Four teenagers who are insignificant in the scope of this world, but have such influence on their surroundings as they proceed with their lives unwittingly altering the patterns of those around them.

Some cosmic force in a palace of cloud and rainbow may be asking why humans give others of their species more power to affect, change, influence, and manipulate. But alas, there is no answer, and some will have the power to make everyone weep with a single word, while others will go unheeded until they die.

* * * * *

The scene, to any bystander, would be nothing short of ironic. Two figures, once united, heads bent and eyes averting the other, stand at opposite ends of the gloomy chamber that smells unpleasantly of disinfectant and lost hope. The one that these two were once united against now comforts the boy who embodies night. This boy's emerald eyes flash with the brilliance of a sunrise, sliding first to the silver eyes of the boy comforting him, then to the murky brown of his former ally and companion.

When the redhead's eyes refuse to respond and the crimson lips curl into an uncharacteristic sneer, Harry Potter's shining eyes move slowly the girl that acts as a barrier between them.

Stark white sheets cover her broken body up to the neck. Her skin looks tan in comparison to the shadeless sheets, but the three boys plagued by guilt, fatigue, and deep sadness, know that her pallor is that of death; there is no pallor that can compare. Dark lashes cover clouded brown eyes, dull and lifeless. Her hair is matted; blood and sweat mingle to darken her natural color. Now she looks dark and tormented, as if the darkness which must have been hiding deep in the recesses of her soul and destroying her internally has finally released itself - too late.

The boy with the most to offer to the world does not believe it. His mind reasons, rationalizes, tries to no avail to convince him that her soul is no longer part of this frame of life. His eyes remain focused now on her closed eyes, waiting for them to open once more. All he hopes for is one more word, one word to appease the guilt and self-loathing that consumes his being.

But there is none; how can these boys know that an ethereal Hermione Granger now soars in a dreamscape far from the human perception of reality?

How can they know that, at great cost, she soars?

All three watch impassively as the body of Hermione Granger is slowly lifted and carried away to be prepared for a funeral that will make many girls cry as they wished they had been that much kinder to the tormented soul. Tears leak from emerald and silver eyes; the boy with the silver orbs has finally unleashed his humanity upon learning the consequences of hidden emotion.

Is that a victory?

The redhead with murky brown eyes looks up as he sees a silvery tear splatter, crystalline, to the tiled floor. The eyes flash with controlled rage; he, on the other hand, has learned that stifling emotion may be the only thing to do.

And is that defeat?

Fists clench and unclench slowly, anger sends painful trembles through his body. He feels no pity for the two boys that he adheres to loving. Is it love, or is it simply a wish for the unpossessable? Whatever it may be, the boy inwardly imagines how much pain they must be feeling - then he stomps on the image, crushes it into the ground, remembers that it is their fault and they deserve no pity.

Ron Weasley's mouth opens, his dry throat rasps and vocal cords protest but he speaks nonetheless; it is Malfoy who can hide emotion, not him.

You don't - he searches for the right words. He succeeds masterfully in pushing his former friend further away, as opposed to his intention of comfort and perhaps, a truce.

You sit there crying like there was nothing that you could have done, he begins softly, but not gently, But you - it's you that did this to her. To us. To me, he thinks. His voice rises and his tone adopts a poison that may be the cause for the fresh bout of tears coursing down Harry's cheeks, I hope you can live with yourselves, Harry, Malfoy, because you killed your best friend. They won't know you did it, but you will. And I will. And that's all that matters. You killed Hermione, and you have to live with it. I hope you enjoy it, you deserve this.

Tattered black robe twirled as the redhead stalked out, mischief managed. His hand patted the parchment still concealed within his robe.

But there would not be another physical death tonight; each of them was already dead inside.

The two boys watch soundlessly as the angry teenager, the third member of their shattered dream-team, storms out. They have no desire nor strength to follow.

* * * * * * *

Something broke in the heart and mind of every student the next day. It was not only that tangible sense of death and loss that tore into their souls, it was the three students that swirled in the mists of that deep darkness. Something cold and vicious awoke in each of them, instilling in all nameless fear that something had changed, something was viciously wrong, someone was inexorably altered, and they would all suffer for it.

There was nothing to do but comfort the deathly silent boy with the luminescent eyes sparkling with unshed tears; and Draco comforted him in the only way he knew how. But there was a loss inside both boys that nothing could comfort, for they knew, they knew what it was that aroused the apprehension of the students. Draco and Harry were murderers. The students could sense it in their eyes, in their minds and on their voices if they tried to speak lightly. They had killed her, and while Draco may deny it, the raven-haired boy could not. They had killed not only her, but their friendship, and the spirit of every child fortunate enough to know the girl. They were responsible for so much unhappiness, and although for years this was the plight of Harry Potter, he had never been able to handle it, nor should he be expected to.

One day, this twisted guilt would end for the two boys. But for now, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were murderers in their own minds.

Ron Weasley sat indifferently on his bed, wondering tiredly if Harry and Draco would break up over this. Perhaps his lack of worry for the friend he lost was because he simply didn't believe that Hermione was gone, perhaps he didn't care. The two lovers, in the Slytherin dormitories tonight, would never know. And perhaps they, feeling far guiltier than they should, didn't care either.

* * * * * * *

I wish I could be back with them now, if only to tell them not to worry. But how can I? They could never understand that I, the ethereal form of she who was once Hermione Granger, am free. They could never understand how beautiful it was to break through the barriers of light and shadow and become more than I could ever be there. It was insanity that brought me here, but it is clarity that makes me happy that I did.

I revel in this private utopia; a golden forest, where the knowledge of the ages grows in each velvety leaf and blooms as I drift past.

I feel no regret.

I only wish I could tell them this. But I watch over them.

The one I confided in even more than Harry is bitter. I see and feel all that he does now. And he is in pain. He doesn't understand the depth of his own emotion, but he shall. He is earning his wings, and he will live and grow stronger.

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, my once-love and once-nemesis, are guilty and ashamed. I cannot tell them not to be, but their pain will pass. They are learning to fly on wings that only I can see, and they will be saviors of my world and theirs one day.

And I soar.