This is the story of what would have been, if Harry Potter hadn’t shot that jet of green light, illuminating the battlefield, that jet of light that told everyone in the world his story. That one stream of light, of concentrated energy, power, and magic…that ended it all.
But he didn’t, he shot a red light, a Stunner, one not meant to kill. And it didn’t.
Hermione Jane Granger pulled her black cloak tighter around her. The cold wind whipped through the trees, chilling her to the bone. But it wasn’t just the cold that froze, there were Dementors in this town. There were Dementors everywhere nowadays.
When she reached her black, stone house, she stood and stared at it for
a moment before shaking her head and walking silently inside. She normally hated dark, cold colors, but she just didn’t have the strength to fight against the cold anymore. Hermione’s fire had gone out. It had been flickering for a very long time, since her love, Ron Weasley, had been shot down with three killers all at once. At least he would have been proud, she knew she was, it had taken five Death Eaters to take him down, killing two before he died, the others following soon after, from wounds he inflicted.
She sighed, looking at the pale figure of Ginny Weasley lying on her couch, asleep. That was the only way to escape, through sleep. She feared that her friend would soon follow her brother and boyfriend, to meet them again. They all wished they could.
She lit a candle, sighing over its cold, blue light that wasn’t light. A small tear rolled down her face, dowsing the flame. She longed for a candle that drove away the dark, like a song her friend had once written.
Candle
Candle in the window
Candle
Throwing back the dark
Candle
Cutting through the shadows
Candle
Candle in the night
She lit another, knocking over one of the others that she had placed around her house, in the hopes that enough of them would at least brighten a gloom a bit. It didn’t matter. The flames hadn’t been warm enough to burn a piece of paper dry as the desert, much less her house, wet from the cold, steady fog that only added to the horrors of this world. All knocking one over meant was that the shadows deepened, and the dark got darker.
She longed for the times when the trio, who had become a quartet, with the addition of Ginny, could sit by the lake, and talk about life. Often the subject of fears came up. It was a large subject, and could be talked about for hours on end without reaching the last word spoken about it. Hermione would usually talk about the dark, and how what she feared about it, and what most people feared about it, was the unknown. In the dark, you didn’t know what you were touching, what you were walking towards, who you were fighting. And Ron would usually say something funny like, “People fear the unknown? So THAT’S why muggles don’t like algebra!”
Hermione didn’t fear the dark anymore. It was everywhere, all around her, even inside her. Darkness had filled her, and now it was the only thing she knew, for everything she had once loved was now bathed in a darkness that deepened with every passing moment. And with no ‘chosen one’ to push back the night, no candle to cut through the shadows, giving in was the only way to survive. Not that surviving meant living. This was not living. Surviving was to keep your soul intact, so that one day you might meet those that you once loved in death, and hanging onto a single thread of who you once were, so that when you did, you could still be alive, at least your soul.
She was having trouble with that last part. She didn’t know if she still had that string of who she had once been, or if she had lost her grip on it a long time ago. Everyone was having trouble remembering the light. It was like warmth, after you’ve been in the cold for so long, you forget what warmth feels like. You forget how it feels to sit in front of a roaring fire and read a book, as the waves of light and warmth and security wash over you, bathing you in a steady stream of happiness. And that was the problem, everyone’s, not just Hermione’s, fire had burned out. Like cold lake water on a campfire, the darkness had taken command of them, covering the last ashes with sand, the last coals with rain. And now even a candle burned cold.
As the night went on, there was no way to tell how much time had passed. There were no shadows to lengthen, no sun to go down, just darkness, day and night. But for one moment, those who still believed enough, hoped enough, to keep all those candles lit, they got to see something. For a moment, so quick they thought they imagined it, the flames burned higher, brighter. They could see their house! But then it was over, much too fast. They never gave up hope though, and once, it paid off.
One night, on the anniversary of the end of the war, Hermione and Ginny had lit as many candles as they could find, and were sitting up, celebrating, in their own way, the death of their loved ones. The candles helped, their bluish light filling the air and lifting the gloom just a bit. Just before midnight, half the candles sputtered out, but they were glad of it a moment later, when all the remaining candles burst into life, real life, revealing two figures. They were both the pearly white that told the girls they were ghosts. Nothing unusual about that, a lot of ghosts haunted the towns now, that what happened if your soul wasn’t alive when you died. The truly extraordinary thing about these men was the flaming red hair of one, and the brilliant green eyes of the other. They matched, perfectly, down to the last cut and scrape, the men that now lay beneath the cold, rock hard July ground. Except for one thing. These two were smiling. They started chanting together,
When flames burn cold
And times of old
Are resurrected
None will be as we suspected
They walked over to the girls, Harry putting his surprisingly solid arm around Ginny, Ron matching his gesture with Hermione. They leaned close, and whispered, You are the last link to the past, and to the future. You will push back the shadows; you will bring back the light. Only then can we, and you, rest.
Then they were gone. But Hermione and Ginny never forgot. They cut through the shadows, threw back the dark. They became candles in the window, candles in the night. And then they rested. But they did not burn cold.
When Flames Burn Cold by alisonlynn
Chapter Notes: A/N- so... what did you think!? You have to tell me! Please? By the way, this might be posted on harrypotterfanfiction.com under the name shadows123, that’s me, so I didn’t steal it.