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Red Summer of 19	By : bk11 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 2142 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Red Summer of 19
- 2-part 2
- 3-part 3
- 4-part 4
- 5-part 5
- 6-part 6
- 7-part 7
- 8-part 8
- 9-part 9
- 1
- 2
- 3
Disclaimer: Don't own them. J. K. Rowling does.

Title: Red Summer of 19

Email: bkeleven11@yahoo.com

Rating: R

Spoilers: Anything. Everything.

Summary: Boy meets Girl again during the summer of twenty-three. And they remember the summer of nineteen.
Notes:Thought I should clear something up about the title. It partly refers to the America�s Red Summer, in 1919. Look it up, if you�re interested enough--maybe you�ll get some sort of clue what the story�s about.

And the beta who rocks: Meggie.

- - - - -

Part 2

- - - - -

She had hit him:

What kind of person hits her father?

(Better than the kind of person that kills his father, she would later be told.)

Fist connecting to jawbone.

The crack of her knuckles.

Her eyes flew open, and she cried. It felt as if all she had been doing for weeks and months and years was crying. Hot water trickled into her hair, the bright sun outlined his head and it all looked inverted. Dark face. Shadowed nosed. Open mouth. Confused eyes.

The sunlight glinted off of his glasses and obscured his eyes, made him look like a very concerned bug.

"I'm sorry."

I�m sorry, Daddy.

I�m so sorry.

It seemed as if she had been saying that to him for weeks, months, and years. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "God, are you okay, Dad?"

"I'm fine." His hands met his chin. Her own white hand rested on top of his tan one. He moved his jaw around experimentally, unhinging it and sliding it side to side. And then with measured words, he said, "You were dreaming."

Of yellow daffodils in the sun?

Of peaches in soft cream?

Of blue silk in the white desert?

She remembered black mud and dirt in her face, tasting like bitter coffee grounds. She remembered dark nights and shiny rained-on streets. She remembered blood on pavement and she remembers a voice.

Death becomes you.

"I was?"

He nodded, taking a strand of her hair and tucking it cautiously behind her ear. "Yeah. It looked like a bad dream, honey."

�Oh.�

�Do you want to . . . talk about it?�

He sounded hopeful. Too hopeful. Too soft and susceptible of putting his heart out there for her to squash. Again and again.

I�m sorry, Daddy.

I�m so sorry.

She shook her head, eyes closing and squeezing out remnants of tears before pushing herself off the hammock. Her fingers absently brushed against his arm as she dodged around him. She felt like crying all over again. "It was nothing. I'll go get you some ice."

And she exited into his living room.

- - - - -

She pays the man at the front desk:

He gives her change for her hundred-dollar bill, but tries to coax her into buying cigarettes.

Instead of scrunching up her nose and telling him that the whole place stank enough of stale tobacco and the acidic twang of spilt beer--instead of showing him the dark brown stain next to her feet, she shakes her head.

"I don't smoke. Sorry."

He drops the Marlboros back under the counter and locks them back up. Then he takes his black flashlight and leads her to her room. There are no hallways in this motel. All the doors are exposed to the outside and you have to enter through rain and leave through a blanket of sunlight.

It isn�t safe, she tells herself

Safe?

Safe? Really?

She thanks him, and puts five dollars into his itchy fingers. He leaves, muttering.

In the small motel room, she feels exhaustion seep into her open pores. Funny how exhaustion doesn�t feel like car exhaust (like she used to think). It�s oily and filmy. It smears and it doesn�t come off. It�s like a virus. Like herpes. She grins quietly to herself.

She doesn't have time to weigh out any expectations before she�s faced with her immediate future. And it�s disappointing, to say the least. She sees a neatly made bed, striped lavender sheets stained with grease, frayed at the ends. The grease reminds her of dark bruises under translucent skin.

Normal people don't think that, you know. They think dirty onion ring coated sheets, you know. Not bruises.

She moves away from the bed. At her dad's house, she had slept in her hammock. The air was warm enough that she hadn't needed a blanket. And she hadn't wanted to invade his space and his living room and his life and his new wife.

She closes clay brown shutters and locks them.

Her breath catches, and she almost spills wetness over the smooth sheets. She grabs some money and runs out the door with her silver room key clenched in her fist.

- - - - -

A few days later:

�Heya, Sal?� Bouncy red hair with freckles has been attempting to take Sally under her wing, show her the little tricks of waitressing. So far, Sally has learned how to pick up forks off the ground without flashing her knickers in the air. And she has also mastered the art of the smile-sigh-headshake mechanism. Mastery of the smile-sigh-headshake gives her more tips.

When a guy--middle aged, rough, single, shiny with sweat--comes in and starts calling her �sweetheart,� as in sweetheart, gimme another bottle of beer, or sweetheart, be a doll and fetch that fork, will ya? I dropped it, clumsy me--she pulls off a smile-sigh-headshake and he�d get a look in his eye.

When did I become the resident whore?

This is very different from what she�s used to.

And Sally would flirtatiously prod his shoulder and heave a long sigh before grinning and shaking her head in feigned skepticism before bending down to retrieve it.

She turns to bouncy red hair and freckles. �Yeah?� she says.

Bouncy red hair with freckles grins. �You like it here?�

Sally scratches a bump on the back of her neck (a bug bite, so many bug bites) and shrugs. �Besides being too hot, it�s not bad.�

�Give it a while,� red hair with freckles says knowingly. �When I first moved down here, I was afraid to even play a pick up game unless it was at night. Just a little bit of exertion and my shirt was damp with sweat. You get over it though.�

Sally nods and smiles. �That�s something that�s been bothering me. I wonder how come I�m sweating buckets over here and the rest of you don�t even feel it?�

And red hair with freckles will look at her evenly, mustard tray balanced against her hip, quietly murmuring, �People build up tolerance for all sorts of things. Even heat,� before she gives Sally an apologetic look and starts her rounds.

- - - - -

He had never meant for this:

She was sitting.

Humming. In a half asleep, murmuring kind of way.

He watched.

He already knew that he was selfish and cruel. He had to have been. He couldn't reconcile between her hurt and his pain. And when forced to choose . . . he ultimately chose his own. Or at least he wanted her to think so. Tough Love, they called it. The kind of love where you threw your baby out of the nest yourself so that she could fly--soar. The kind where you told her that she couldn't go out past eleven anymore, in light of the recent crazies wandering the streets at night. The kind where you told her that you'll protect her no matter what--the kind where you lied and told her that reality would look better once you took a temporary holiday from it.

What a crock of shit.

She had slept in that hammock. She didn't snore. When you closed your eyes, soft wind touched the edge of your ears and dust flew around in waves, and it was almost as if she was not there, like it was before. And when you opened your eyes, you saw unruly brown hair, spilling over the cream twines of the hammock.

You remember walking out to the goddamn hammock. The one she hung up after her birthday because Cathy from work thought it'd be a fun present. And all of a sudden, that hideous thing was hanging on the back of your porch. It still is. You remember that dead feeling that sat still and heavy, spanning from the tops of your shoulders to the very tips of your toes. You had swallowed. "Hermione, babe?" Dark brown eyes look at you, and you almost lost grasp of that thing that they called Tough Love.

"Yeah, Daddy?"

"Um. How about you go on out tonight? Ring up Ginny?"

She had grimaced. "I'm a bit tired."

"Babe, you can't keep going on like this," you had said softly.

She had flinched. "I would ask what you're talking about . . . but--" she gestured to the green grass in the backyard vaguely. "Redundant."

"Maybe a vacation would do you some good. You know, get away from it all. Go to Florence, you've always wanted to go to Florence. Or Paris. Or maybe even go back to the States, to San Diego, like we did a few years ago."

You had expected her to protest. You expected her to give you the reasons why she had to stay. Her job. Her apartment. Her life. The impracticality of it all. And after that, you had planned on suggesting therapy again; see if she was more receptive to it.

You had tried to manipulate her, but you should've known better.

It hadn�t worked. "That's not a bad idea. San Diego." She had nodded. "Wow. San Diego." She had brushed her hair away from her eyes and quickly picked up her duffle bag (the one that had been sitting next to your potted plant for twelve days now, because she couldn't stand to stay at her place anymore). "I better get started." And there had been something in her eyes that you didn't like.

And then she was gone before you could stop her.

Tough Love, they called it. The kind of love where you threw your baby out of the nest yourself so that she could fly--soar. The kind where you told her that she couldn't go out past eleven anymore, in light of the recent crazies wandering the streets at night. The kind where you told her that you'll protect her no matter what--the kind where you lied and told her that reality would look better once you took a temporary break from it.

What a crock of shit.

- - - - -

Sally sticks out her tongue:

A tiny four-year-old Joey laughs and laughs. He reaches out and grabs Sally's messy curls in a vice grip and laughs. Sally smiles back and Joey's mother extracts Sally's hair from Joey's fingers.

Sally turns back to the counter as Joey's mom pays for their meal and drags Joey home to George Jetson and Scooby Doo cartoons. Ask Sally why she's smiling and she wouldn't have a real answer. Sure, she'll fake-answer you with a fake-smile and say that she's happy to be working for adorable little Joeys and for generous tips. But the real truth is that adorable little Joey's young mom dislikes Sally for her smoky eyes and her high breasts and her foreign accent. She doesn�t like the way all the young boys and older men look at Sally. The real truth is that Sally hates it when some bloke touches her rear as she passes, and hates that the harsh truth of the matter is that when she bends a bit further over in her short skirt, she gets a better tip. Ask Sally why she's really smiling, and she'll finally say that she's really smiling to keep from crying.

A month later, after a long distressed call from her father (You're never coming back? I don't understand. Hell, you have to come back!) Sally can be seen wiping down counters and closing up the place every night at midnight. She has no obligations, no child to feed, see, so she can stand to stay a little longer than everybody else. And in the spotlight cast over the countertop, ask her what had happened to her, and maybe, perhaps maybe, Sally will be tired enough not to fight the question.

She'll say, "What would you think if someone told you that death becomes you? What would you say? What would you do? Would you hit them? Would you prove them right?�

"What if I told you that I did both of those? Would you see me differently? Would you be scared of me? Would I cease being Sally? See, what if I wasn't ever Sally? What would you think of me, then?�

"Maybe one day, I'll tell you about flying. Midair, past the initial climb with stomach in throat, past the initial descent with stomach plummeting back down, down, down. Now freefall, exhilaration whipping past you, blanketing wind all around. Landing on a slicked-with-rain-rooftop. Relishing in the crunch of friction beneath the soles of your feet. No slips. No falters. The surety in your movements. You knew you were finally getting good at it. And then you fell. You fell like a dead weight."

boom

"Maybe one day, I'll tell you about how you were stupid."

Sally'll idly twist the edges of the green sponge, and with a sad smile, "Ask me again later . . . about flying. But for now, let's talk about the weather."

- - - - -

Here's the first story:

/The Beginning/

Summer of Fifteen. Of tiny yellow halter-tops and freefalling, unclipped hair. Pretty picture-perfect palm trees with sun kissed edges. The rented house was too small, too crowded with too many heated bodies without any air conditioning. She found her escape five blocks away, in the corner gas station and convenient store. She met him on a stool, behind a high counter, during a purchase of Wrigley's gum and Coca Cola.

/Girl meets Boy/

"Hi."

Hazel eyes peered over a glossy magazine, "Hey." Upon a second glance, "Oh. Hiii. What's your name?"

"Hermione."

"Her-miine-e? That's a pretty name. Where're you from?"

/Boy chases Girl/

"You wanna do something tonight? A movie?"

/Girl runs/

"Tonight, we're eating out, my family, that is. Sorry."

/Boy sprints/

"Then tomorrow? It'll be fun. I'll show you how to surf."

"Surf?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

/Girl slows down . . ./

"Dance with me."

"After you kiss me."

/. . . And allows herself to be caught/

"You're so beautiful."

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Hermy, I think I love you."

/The Ending/

"I'm going back home tomorrow."

"I know."

"I'll write you. And I'll ring you."

"I'll be waiting by the mailbox and the phone."

And that is the end of that. She wonders from time to time where blond hair and straight teeth is. She wonders if he's still in San Diego, and whether she should've gone there instead of Australia. Perhaps she would've walked into a grocery store and gone to the produce section, and perhaps she would've reached for the carrots at exactly the same time a blond haired, hazel eyed, straight teethed man did. And maybe he'll smile and say, "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?"

And he'll make her forget the world.

- - - - -

There�s a reason:

Perhaps if you ask him about it. Ask him very nicely and very quietly and so unassumingly--ask him in that perfect way--in a way that doesn�t result with your skull making a dent in the off-white sheetrock wall. You have to ask it in a way that doesn�t get him mad enough to hurt you.

With a bit of sensitivity, and lots more bits of luck, maybe you won�t get smashed into the wall. Maybe he�ll stare back mutinously, with a tense jaw and his eyes unwavering in a glare that makes you want to spontaneously combust into ash. Maybe he�ll ask, �What does it matter to you?�

Suppose he answers your question in a roundabout way.

�There�s something about those Unforgivable Curses.�

�Imperio,� he�ll whisper. And your cheeks feel a bit warm.

�Crucio,� he�ll whisper. And you repress a shudder.

�Avada Kedevra,� he�ll say with a dangerous gentleness. And you gasp.

�There�s something about them,� he�ll say reflectively. �I prefer them, actually. I prefer staring down the prey and watching it squirm and squeal like a little worm. Or I prefer being that prey, on my knees and trembling like a little worm.�

�I didn�t say I liked using them!� he�ll suddenly snap. �You misunderstood. I said I prefer them.�

�I prefer them because there�s something deeply personal about staring into the eyes of your captor, your master, the winner--the victor. War and battles have rules, then. It�s a gentleman�s game. Hell, I even prefer one of those 9-mm Glock 17s. Do you realize that pistols only have effective ranges of about thirty meters? You�d have to look your opponent in the face, then.�

�There�s something about finally staring into those eyes and making them see, for the last time, what they are destroying. I want that image to burn forever in their skulls. God knows I have too many such faces floating in my own head. And that�s okay. It�s better than the other way, you know.�

�Dichloroethylsulphide,� he�ll whisper.

�Uranium,� he�ll whisper.

�boom,� he�ll say with a dangerous gentleness.

�Avada Kedevra is far better than a weapon that can wipe out a sea of a million faceless faces. There�s nothing personal about pushing a button and signaling the end of all life, without even getting a fucking chance to stare your prey in the face before you burned her to nothing. How does that make any fucking sense? Tell me. Tell me that!�

�There�s no glory in any of it, you know.� He�ll shake his head, break eye contact, and stare down at the ground. �It�s rather . . . sad.�

�Impersonal. An impersonal War. Doesn�t that take the fucking cake?�

cold cold cold war

�Is redemption even possible? For someone like me?� he�ll ask bitterly. �Does it matter? Do I get to tick off my name under the �Good guys� column, now? What does it matter if the ones that stand to judge me are the ones that are dead because of me? Tell me! Tell me redemption matters, then!�

�I couldn�t give less of a fuck what you think of me. What that girl down the street thinks of me. I just don�t care. It�s done and gone and I�m just trying to move the hell on with myself in a way that doesn�t make me want to hurl myself off a fucking cliff every day. So spare me your foolish questions. Go write your fucking sonnets, your empty tragedies, and your vapid epic poems somewhere else! If you really wanted to hear my story, you wouldn�t have phrased your question that way.�

�Don�t you realize? How can I make you realize? It�s just a label. There�s no �reformed Draco� staring back at you. There�s no �traitorous Git� standing here, either. There�s just some stupid shit that was stupid enough to not die when he had his fucking chance. There�s just a stupid idiot that trapped himself into living in his aftermath day after day. There are no good and bad people. How can I make you understand this?�

�It�s just not right.�

�How can I make you realize this?�

boom

�Does that answer your question?�

You had asked him why he betrayed them (and his father--I'm sorry, Father. I�m so sorry).

- - - - -

She drops her keys:

Exhaustion comes from lack of something. Lack of sleep most likely. Sometimes it's from lack of food. Or exhaustion comes from too much of something. Too much exertion. Too much food (funnily enough). Too much sleep, like when that three-hour nap spanned eight hours and suddenly, four in the afternoon seemed like such a lazy time.

Sally finds exhaustion in too much of nothing.

She had broken the exhaustion rule. Or maybe she had doubly reinforced it.

On a Tuesday, a very hot Tuesday (all of them are hot), she stumbles back to her motel room in the dark, after midnight. Of course in the dark, hot weather is called balmy, she tells herself. Loose fingers accidentally let go of a near bare key ring. Gravity takes it to the ground and nestles it in between some dozen blades of grass. Sally swears, and then kneels down in the dark to search for the lost key ring.

The sour smell of applesauce, syrup, pancakes, and stomach acid waft up from her apron and she resists the urge to gag. Little Joey, apparently, had a stomach virus and threw up on her today. Joey's mom had smirked and then offered pithy apologies.

Sally grasps around in the wet grass for her silver key.

And for some reason, an '87 blue Corolla drives by in time to see her dark head poke from in between two bushes.

- - - - -

She lives with a twisted kind of guilt:

That day. The day she looked up at those familiar (horrified) green eyes from her spot on the floor. The day the whole world drowned in a pit of flames and rain.

That was the day it all ended.

It was a bit ironic, though she didn�t want to see it at the time. If only (if only if only if only) she had held her tongue for another minute; then he would�ve told her it was done. And she wouldn�t have told him that she quit (you can�t quit after it�s over).

When she looked up at horrified green eyes, feeling so scared and so so tired and so dead, and told him she was out, for good. I can�t do this anymore. She couldn�t take it anymore. She couldn�t get up to fight the good fight another fucking day because . . . she had nothing left to fight with.

And when she told him, �I�m out. For good,� in a scratchy voice, with hot tears blurring her eyes so badly that she couldn�t even see him kneel down the pick up her broken body. His callous hands touched her face with heartbreaking gentleness as he softly murmured something about it being all over, he�s dead. It�s okay, Hermione. It�s okay. It�s over.

What?

And she pushed him away. She pushed him away and started screaming. She didn�t know how she got any of it out because she couldn�t even feel herself breathe. She just opened her mouth and it all came. She didn�t scream anything, no coherent words or curses, just long tortured sounds--echoing against cold unhearing cement walls.

And while she was screaming, his gaze had wandered to the far end of the room, where two bodies lay. And with a sharp gasp, he fell to the ground and grabbed her, grabbed her so tight that he might�ve made the hairline cracks in her ribs into fractures, grabbed her so tight she had no air left in her lungs to scream with.

He clasped the back of her head tightly, so that she couldn�t turn around to look again. And she heard him attempt to mutter, �I�m sorry� but he couldn�t get it past his tongue.

He would be sorry. He would think this was somehow his fault, not being fast enough, not getting there in time. That was so typical of him.

And you know what? At dark dark moments in her life. When she�s crouched over onion ring sheets, sobbing silently, she accuses him. She accuses him for being too fucking slow. For taking too fucking long in saving the world.

- - - - -

(06-16-04)
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Red Summer of 19