A/N: So...I've never written in this style before. I've seen it done before, of course, but I've never written it myself. And I didn't really intend to write it, but it just sort of came out. I'm not sure if it entirely makes sense, but I like it. This is Dramione, just in case anyone doesn't pick up on it. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I always forget these things. Are they really necessary? I think that the entire world knows I don't own Harry Potter.

The Futility of Fighting

She has always known that when it comes to the war

(war, war like a cloud, a black cloud, a maelstrom)

they will be on different sides of the battlefield. She has always known that one day she will raise her wand and her lips will form words

(green words, killing words, green, green light like envy)

and her breath will catch, because the eyes of her opponent will be gray

(storm gray, like clouds, like fog, like mist, like rain, like).

She has always known that this would be true, yet when it happens, when fate pulls her gaze up and she meets that sharp gray

(like clouds, like storms, like ice, like)

she falters, breath catching in her throat. Her wand is at her side, held in a death-grip

(white-knuckles, death, yes, death-grip is accurate, irony, oh the irony)

and she can't bring herself to raise her wand. Her heart clenches—it's a physical pain, but one that shudders though the entirety of her existence. In the middle of the mayhem

(war is chaos, war is mayhem, war is a storm that swirls and they are the eye)

they pause, staring at each other. Through the slits of the bone-white mask his eyes stare at her, and she can see the churning in them. She can read him, even if his face is hidden behind bone. She knows that she needs to focus—that this is war and she has to focus or die

(clarity, clear and sharp and death is like a mirror shard, bright and sharp and reflective)

but she can't. All that rolls through her mind is the single thought, that she can't raise her wand against him, that she won't. She doesn't care that he is supposed to be the enemy. She won't.

He stares at her, and then his hand rises, his wand points at her, aimed straight for her heart

(her heart, it's his and he knows it, and that wand is an arrow, and he wouldn't, he wouldn't, he)

and her automatic response is to raise her wand, to let her training wash over her, to be defensive, to strike before he can. But she won't. She suppresses the instincts, keeps her wand at her side, keeps her back straight and still, and she won't look away from him. She

(won't).

His eyes glare, and his mouth snarls, and his eyes

(gray, gray, gray, she could drown)

plead, and his mouth forms words

(green words, death words, green like envy, green like hate)

and she won't look away.

The spell flies towards her

(death, palpable, tangible, burning like fire, green)

and passes over her shoulder, missing her by inches, striking the man sneaking up behind her square in the chest. Still staring at him

(drowning, really)

she smoothly raises an eyebrow, as though completely unfazed

(but she's trembling, she's shaking, because death was so)

and he shakes his head

(close).

In a fluid motion

(like water, he's always fluid like that, like mercury, silver, silver, gray)

he pushes his hood back, revealing the shock of his bright silver-blonde hair. He pulls the bone-mask from his face and tosses it to the side, eyes never leaving her.

"No more." He says, and those words

(I love you)

are the only ones she needs. She knows. And there are no more words. They turn, pressing their backs to each other

(heat through fabric, heat, burning, life, red)

and they fire off a volley of spells. They see the bewildered looks of their allies, the shocked, nasty looks of those who realize the betrayal. They fight

(as war, war spins madly around them, the eye moving away, the wall of clouds bearing down)

to survive.

Trying to fight each other

(magnetism)

always was futile.

(Red green life death love hate

futility)


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