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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
- 3
- 4
- 5
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: Yo. I'd like to say that this part took a while cuz I tried to fire my beta, but that would only be half true. This part took forever because I'm sorta a bitch. And to that foxxglove girl: that inadvertant masturbation reference still cracks me up every single time. I really WAS walking my DOG. Arf arf! I stole the name "Cassie" from a character named "Cassandra Cain." No real correlation between the two, but mad props to whomever gets the reference. If the lovely Miss Odyssey ever stumbles upon this fic: Oh you know. You know, baby.

Read the fic! Review! For the love of God, feedback me! Puh-lease. And then go read the other fic--Sags.

And the sweetest, most supergluey beta: Meggie

- - - - -

Part 4

- - - - -

She was such an unreasonable bitch sometimes:

There had been a time where they had been sitting at a patio table. The air had a tint of that twangy methane gas that came from the table next to them. The people were oohing and ahhing over flaming bananas. He really didn�t see the novelty in flaming bananas. Flaming bananas, flaming penguins, and flaming hair--douse anything with alcohol on it and throw in a match. It burns!

Big fat duh.

There was also a green and white striped canvas umbrella serving as an inept canopy. Try as the umbrella had, the sun still stung their backs and made beads of sweat drop onto the plastic table. The sharp heat must have melted it a bit, because under his heavy elbow, the table practically swayed and warped to adjust to the uneven weight.

He drank coffee, just to be contradictory to her iced tea. She had immediately noticed when the order came. She didn�t see the sense in that--to be purposely contradictory just for the sake of being contradictory. She rolled her eyes and watched with a vague sort of horror as he started dumping in heaps of sugar and nearly a whole carton of cream.

�Would you like--"

�Granger, if that�s the beginning of some lame joke about coffee in my milk, you can spare yourself the trouble. Heard it before.� He pulled his gaze away from the coffee long enough to grin up at her, his face half in shadow, half reflecting back white light from underneath their canopy.

She smiled back tiredly, idly thinking that such a face could be symbolic. But many things could be symbolic. She swallowed toothpaste that morning and it left an odd sweet taste in her mouth. Crookshanks swiped her ankle accidentally and now there was a cut there. Her mum and dad called about the water heater, and whether it was electric or gas, and did she know? As she was thinking all of this over, he grimaced as the right side of his face got too red and shifted his chair so that he was completely in the shadow. If that was symbolic, then they were all so incredibly screwed.

�Right. I�d probably be more efficient in coming up with original material if I had more sleep.� She yawned. �Anyways, your status?�

Stirring his coffee with a tiny red straw, he watched the two colors swirl for a bit before saying, �Bulstrode has been having significant problems with his squads. I watched them drill today and the formations are as tight as ever--�

She waved her hand. �Of course.�

�But,� he threw her a look for interrupting, �I�ve noticed that there�s a significant hiccup of sorts when they�re made to adjust bits of their patterns. The troop leaders are too slow in reacting to new commands. Don�t you see? After last week�s loss, morale is waning. They can�t adapt efficiently. Potter will have a definite advantage because he improvises--"

�Malfoy, shut up.� She smiled, oddly exhilarated to see his enthusiasm surface unexpectedly. �I know. We got your drop, you know. We got the prints, the charts, the diagrams, and we got your dissertation.� She laughed. Upon his sour look, she said, �I had meant . . . how are you? Mental fatigue?�

She had been too . . . well . . . scared to work farther away from home. Harry Apparated all over the world. Ron always beside him to lend support. She let them have their adventures. She purposely broke up the musketeers because she had been too afraid. Scared that her daddy wouldn�t understand. He worried enough as it was. Always asked her to �quit her job� and �do something worthwhile.�

She used to look at him darkly, wishing so hard that he�d understand, find some little part deep inside that understood why there was such a gap between them, why she hated it when he showed her books with the words, �old money� and �nouveau riche� and �aristocratic� in them. Later, swinging on a twine hammock, she had looked past the grimace, past the glasses with the light smattering of sawdust, and had seen that he had really understood. The whole time he knew his little girl.

And that was why there was such a gap.

And why she was afraid to leave British soil. Afraid to see the rest of the world. Afraid to pop her little rose-colored bubble. So she stayed and took notes and had weekly meetings with one of the �bad guys� who claimed post-war immunity in exchange for ratting out his own family. She had a job. She had a family. She had a purpose. Life was okay.

As Harry and Ron battled evil, she sat a plastic table with one of the bad guys. Asking him about mental fatigue.

He looked confused for a bit because he realized what she had asked. He raised his cup and took three long gulps before replacing it on the plastic table. �I�m fine,� he said plainly. �You look like hell, though.� He raised his cup to her before taking another sip.

�Thanks.� She lifted her hand to pat her hair, but when he started smiling all ferrety-like, she immediately shot it down and resentfully sipped her tea. She must�ve done that too effectively, if there was such a thing, because she started choking. Long (and loud) hacking coughs.

He stared skeptically at a bit of drool dribbling down her chin before he sighed and threw her one of his napkins. It probably came from the bit of pity he had managed to dredge up out of his wittle bitty heart. �That�s really not making you more attractive.�

She glowered.

And he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. �When was the last time you slept?�

She shrugged, clearing her throat one last time before she started edging towards tea again. �I could ask you the same question.�

�You should sleep. Let the rest of them do something, for once. You should eat, too.�

�Don�t tell me what to do,� she snapped.

�Don�t butt into my business, then,� he retorted.

�It�s my job to �butt� in, genius.�

�Eat shit, and die.�

�You�re so witty.�

He finished off his coffee before he said, �Fuck it.� Then he stood up. �I�m not in the mood for you to psychoanalyze me, you nut.� His fingers absently climbed across the back of the chair before he realized he hadn�t brought a jacket. It was too hot for a jacket.

To his retreating back, she merrily said, �See you next week! Dip neuf, Malfoy!� (drop point nine--garbage can on the corner of Beacon and 160th Street, don�t forget the concealing charm, imb�cile).

And he grinned into the sidewalk.

- - - - -

And now, back at table seven:

Sometimes, things don�t really make sense unless you trace it back to the beginning. Start at the ending, crawl your way past the climax, and slide back to the setting. Then take a good look.

For instance, the way Macmillan stares at you with squinty eyes doesn�t make sense unless you go back to the moment you were running down the halls and your skirt flipped up because of that draft from the door. The way Snape runs out of the room at the sight of hamburgers doesn�t make sense unless you recall all those times he had to watch people get systematically cut up into pieces. The way Neville religiously slides his hands down his thighs every time the word �Fudge� comes up in conversation doesn�t make sense unless you were there when he stood in a cold cold corridor. Dean, well, all of Dean�s bitterness doesn�t make much sense unless you looked back and saw an eight-year-old boy.

The War didn�t make sense unless you traced it back through history. Relive that one war that was fought to stop a red ideology. Relive another war that was fought to stop another kind of genocide. Go back to that one war that was fought so that a man could call himself a man (not an animal, no longer, not anymore . . . right). The War didn�t make sense unless you see that this is a repeating pattern, an explosion that is the result of the differences that people refuse to see--also the differences that people draw out and exploit. There must have been a reason why they hated the giants. There must have been a reason why they hated the house-elves. There must have been a reason why they hated the inbetweens. There had to have been a reason. Maybe they stunk like dung. Maybe they�re ugly. Maybe they�re too stupid. Maybe they don�t look flattering in blue. Or else it just doesn�t make sense.

"Hi."

"Your hair," she blurts, "It's--"

"Yeah, I know."

She does something unexpected. She sets the mustard colored tray down on the table and takes the booth opposite of him. And then begins an odd conversation.

He does not pick up where he left off, boiling anger spilling all over. Instead there's a detached interest in his manner. He slings his arm casually over the back of the booth and asks inquisitive, yet general, questions. And in all fairness, she doesn't ask the hard questions either.

Why are you here? What has happened to lead you here? What is wrong with you? When did you get to Sydney? Are you okay? Is the weather always this hot? Why do I care? What else can I get for you today? Do you hate me still?

They sit for fifteen minutes as she takes her break. After small little conversation tidbits like, "You're tan," or "I've been keeping busy," or "Can you believe we ran into each other?" (even though they both know it was completely deliberate on his part) he begins to fire off his questions. And she faithfully answers them. He just needs to learn to ask the right ones.

"What are you doing here?"

"My idea of a long holiday."

�You look . . .different.�

�So do you.�

�What are you doing in a place like this?�

�What�s a girl like me doing in a place like this?�

�Whatever. Sure.�

�Why aren�t I spending my time working towards world peace? That�s a good question.�

"When are you going back? To London, I mean."

"I don't really know. When I feel like it, I suppose. But I'm starting to get used to the climate."

�You never get used to the climate. I haven�t.�

�Is that a fact?�

�An observation.�

�Do you realize we�re talking about the weather?�

"Is everything okay, Granger? With you?"

"Sally Hayes. And everything is okay, as far as I know. So far."

"I'm not calling you Hayes.�

�I�d--"

�And everything is not okay when you need some alias."

"It's nice to have one."

�Why? I�ve never had an urge to play some pretend game.�

�Then you wouldn�t understand why.�

"Is it so Potter and Weasley don�t find you?"

"No."

"Why, then?"

�Because it�s nice to be somebody else."

If you were to ask him why the War began, he would tell you, Because someone else threw the first punch. Always someone else. And he�d smile ironically.

�What?�

�Honestly.�

"Really?"

"It's that simple."

�Granger--"

�Stop it. Please.�

"Look. Are you comfortable where you're staying?"

"It's kinda hot right now. You know where I'm staying?"

"Yes.�

�How?�

�I asked around.�

�Why did you, anyways?�

�Curiosity, I suppose.�

�Malfoy--"

�Who knows you're here?"

"Nobody."

"Not even Potter and Weasley?"

"No."

"Did you call them? Do you talk to them?"

"Doesn't matter. And my father knows that I left. He just isn't sure where. He thinks San Diego. He already put some of my things in storage for me."

�Doesn�t this seem strange to you?�

�What does it matter to you?�

"Gra--are you okay?"

"Sally. And I already told you. Besides, what does it matter?"

�Make some sense, Granger.�

�Sally.�

�Stop.�

�You stop.�

"What are you doing here?"

And it starts all over until. . . .

"Hold on." She holds her hand up and halts the barrage of questions, pausing, gauging his reaction carefully.

"What?"

So she goes on, leaning in, "Listen," she whispers over the plastic marble-patterned tabletop, "I know you're here because you're curious, but let's not kid ourselves. I know that you probably have a whole life here, and I don't expect to really see you after today. And that's fine. I'm fine and sane and whatever else have you." She leans back at a more reasonable distance and turns her head to meet Cassie's inquisitive glance. "So there's your answer, Malfoy. Now, you can get up and leave on your broom and forget you ever saw me." She gets up with her mustard tray, leaving behind his burger and fries, and disappears into the kitchen.

Again. "What?"

If you were to ask her why that War began--why any of them existed in the first place, she�d tell you, I don�t know.

- - - - -

The truth:

The truth?

Maybe she never expected him to be more than he seemed (sure, she used to hope, but it was a fool�s hope). Death Eater?

Suuure.

Fiiine.

Hopefully he�ll just end up in the growing pile of the dead.

Towards the end, she didn�t have time to spare to think about redemptions and about-faces. The whole world was falling and she only had time to think of what it meant to her. Forget Draco Malfoy. Maybe redemption wasn�t possible. Maybe people just don�t change. Deal with it, Hermione. Move on.

Towards the end, she stopped being a girl of lost causes. Forget Africa. Forget South America. Forget the giants (they�re nearly extinct anyways). Forget the house-elves. Forget slavery. Forget racism. Just concentrate on killing as many of them as possible. Kill them faster than they were killing us. Survival of the fittest. That was the new plan.

Towards the end, it had taken away too much from her. It ached and clenched her chest, and it made her face burn with hot angry tears, and fingers clawing into her skin.

Ron used to constantly watch her for signs of self-abuse, but little fingernails cuts on her hands were nothing. (And she had seen the way he had thrown himself at a metal door--too angry to Apparate, or to perform a simple unlocking charm--just slammed his body against an unmoving door until his arm was one big purple bruise, until Harry had come to throw him to the ground). Sometimes you just don�t care. You stop yourself from caring because it will drive you insane to care about every little injustice.

She didn�t know Malfoy anymore. She didn�t feel any kinship for him. He wasn�t an old classmate. Wasn�t a rival. Maybe just another faceless killer. Maybe she didn�t believe he was simply misunderstood--never known a kind word in his life.

Or maybe he was indoctrinated.

Maybe he could�ve been �cured.�

But she didn�t think so. And she sure as hell wasn�t planning on being the one to �save� him. She was too busy worrying about real problems. The giants and the house-elves and the cruel genocide.

Save yourself, you asshole.

I�m done with lost causes.

It wasn�t cold. It was practicality. And she knew he felt exactly the same way. She didn�t mean much to him, either.

Towards the end, she was never the kind of girl that could look up at him, high up on his pedestal as he was, and tell him, �It could�ve been happily ever after, you know.�

�If only (if only if only if only) you weren�t pure evil.�

�If only you weren�t a racist fucker.�

�If only you had one redeeming quality in that cold cold heart of yours.�

�If only you looked at me as if I was a human being (ha ha ha).�

�If only the promise of happily-ever-after can make you change your ways. I want to be the kind of girl who makes you change your ways. Look at me. Look, and see a girl who can make you be a �better� person. We�ll share little dinners. We�ll nap in the afternoon sun. We�ll purge the world of Satan together (not add to it, oh no, never add to it). We�ll make love and everything will be okay.�

You can�t change people, stupid stupid girl.

As she watches him get up, after having cleaned his plate of all the grease and salt on it, he grins a sickening grin at Cassie, who laughs and flirtatiously does that smile-sigh-headshake thing that she taught Sally. He smiles at Cassie, with all of his teeth and his head tilted slightly to the right side. He waves Cassie an unused napkin before muttering something. From Sally�s vantage point, she sees Cassie smile back brilliantly as she pulls out a pen from her apron and gives it to him (for him to write down his number, no doubt). He does so, then hands both the pen and the napkin to Cassie. His hand lingers on her elbow as he passes by.

As he leaves, Sally stares at the back of his head.

He doesn�t even look at Sally before taking off.

And she thinks this:

That�s right. Leave, Draco Malfoy. Some of us don�t need an apparition to remind us of our yesterdays. I remember fine on my own. I hope you have a safe trip home, and I hope you have a decent rest-of-your-life. I hope you�re happy.

Sally shakes her head.

Upon Cassie sly smile as she returns to the kitchen, Sally shrugs and resumes unloading the sink. Cassie nods at Sally�s wet hands and waves the napkin with his number tauntingly under Sally�s nose, daring her to look. She sneaks a glance. He had written his address on it, also.

�Guess what?�

�Hmm?� Sally splashes the water with a bit more force than warranted. �Gotta date?�

Cassie scoffs. �Not even close.� Then she slides the napkin into a dry, empty pocket of Sally�s apron. �For you, sweetie. He was really just. . . .� Cassie smiles into the air all dreamily. Sally wants dunk her head in the scalding water. �So adorable. Asked if you seemed happy. Asked if you always look like you do today. Also asked if you were seeing anyone.� Cassie sighs distractedly.

And Sally turns to her, eyes wide and nose crinkled in suspicion. �Are you joking?�

What Cassie doesn�t realize is that he had asked all those questions to see if Hermione was depressed, if she was losing it, if she was truly as alone and isolated as she looks. Hermione hasn�t forgotten how good he used to be at extracting information (how good he still is).

- - - - -

Potter used to ask him this question a lot:

�Why are you doing this, Malfoy?�

Draco looked down at the white knuckles half buried in the sleeve of his jacket. And then he reached down and calmly pried Potter�s insanity off of him. He didn�t want to look and see some unsettling green-colored kind of desperation stare back at him, so he spun on his heel and started walking away.

�Malfoy!� The sound echoed against the walls. �Why are you doing this?�

�I don�t have time for this, Potter,� he said politely. �Got errands to run. Property to seize. People to kill. You know the drill.�

�Stop!� Harry cried. �Who are you fooling, for Christ�s sake? I just need to know why.�

�Leave it alone, Potter. You�re better off where you are.�

- - - - -

Sir Larry wags his tail and starts squawking the moment he gets home:

His arms are full of groceries (his favorite Muggle appliance is the microwave). The keys are still in his hands, and the stupid dog (a yellow Labrador) is jumping on top of him as if he was a juicy red piece of walking steak.

He gets teased about Sir Larry on a weekly basis by some stupid scarhead with a sadistic habit of dredging up the past.

It all started the day that Draco was set to permanently take over Karen�s shift (preggers, taking off a few months). He had never worked nights before. He always had happy hour, with the bored retires with their pensions and the unemployed drunkards with their . . . girlfriends� money?

Working nights was a whole other experience. He found himself moving faster and pouring more and ultimately getting more cash in his pockets. It wasn�t bad. And it saved him the trouble of sleeping at night. It also helped with the headaches when he took little naps instead of sleeping through eight hours.

On a Friday, he thinks it was, a guy with a wool cap comes in and ordered a straight scotch on the rocks. He had dark purple circles under his eyes and his hadn�t shave for a few days. Draco quickly poured the drink and pushed it in front of the man, sliding the bills he got into the pocket of his apron (yes, fucking Joe makes them all wear green aprons with his emblem on it).

�Bad day, mate?� he asked. Some nights, the shift is long and dull, and he indulges in idle chatter to make it whiz by a bit faster.

The man�s head snapped up, surprised. And Draco wondered how long it�s been since he has slept. �Try bad month!�

Draco hmmm�ed appropriately, as if he was saying, man, I hear ya. �Cept mine�s a bad life.

�My kids� dog had puppies a few weeks back. And every friggin� time I come home from the work, the place stinks of urine and stale food.�

�A dog?� For a moment, he looked as if he�s not even familiar with the concept of a �pet.� For a moment, he flashbacked to dozens of moist crawly worms weaving in between his chubby baby fingers.

The man squinted. �Yeah. A dog.� Then he coughed. �You interested? There�s only one left. The runt of the litter. I wouldn�t say that no one wanted him--�

�But that�s exactly it, isn�t it?�

�Are you interested?� the man repeated.

Draco blinked. �In a dog?�

He nodded enthusiastically. �Sure, a dog.�

�I don�t know, mate. Isn�t it hard to take care of . . . an animal?�

The man scoffed. �Hell, yeah. But they�re cute when they�re pups. And they�re not bad if you live alone.� He took a long gulp from his drink. �Your girlfriend would mind?�

�She�s non-existent,� Draco said quietly, mindful of the scary magenta haired lady�s amorous glances a few stools down.

�You want a dog, man?�

Draco had never thought about this before. A dog? Really? What would he do with one?

�You�d have my eternal gratitude if you took the little ankle biter.�

�I don�t know,� Draco said slowly.

�Come �round and just look, then,� the man said urgently, perhaps a bit desperately. �I only live a few blocks from here. Couldn�t hurt to look. I�ll be home all day tomorrow. Got the day off.� He smiled.

Draco sighed. �Sure. Couldn�t hurt. But uh . . . my shift�s over in twenty minutes . . . if you want.�

The man was seriously considering this, though he knew that he wife was in bed and his girls were having a slumber party. He idly wondered how embarrassing it would be to your friends to have your father smelling of scotch come in the house with a strange man, both looking like rather inept burglars. Then he remembered the brown yellow spot on their new beige carpet. He remembered how it still stank. He decided it was worth it. �Okay!� he finally said. �Say, what�s your name? Didn�t catch it.�

�Uh . . . Drake Malfoy. Yours?�

�Allen Crawford.�

Thirty minutes later, Draco slammed the door of his Corolla and followed Allen up the steps of a two-story house. �Is this alright?� he asked. �Isn�t it a bit late?�

�My kids are up. It�s Friday night, man. You know kids.�

Draco cringed. He really didn�t know kids. He hadn�t really spent much time as one. What he did remember were disgusting snotty noses. He also remembered that they like to touch everything, liked to smear their grubby hands all over. They also liked to pull at the seat of their trousers . . . liked to wail long and loud like a bunch of banshees. Draco didn�t have time to get apprehensive before he was led into Allen�s living room. There was a wire pen in the middle with a yellow sloppy fur-thing, on its back. Apparently it was a neat trick because there was also a crowd of little girls in their pajamas squealing over how �cute� the puppy was.

And then, a few minutes later, there was a fat fur-thing squirming around in his hands as seven girls of thirteen and one of seven stared up at him as if he was extremely stupid and was supposed to be handled with extreme caution.

�You�re gonna drop him!� one of them squealed.

�I�m not,� Draco said mildly. �What do you feed it?�

�My gosh! He doesn�t know?� one of the whispered.

�Dog food!� one of them yelled, irately.

�Shut it, smart mouth,� Allen said. �Well? What do you think?�

�Why wasn�t this one picked?�

Allen glanced around nervously. �There really isn�t a reason, exactly. I suppose it�s because he�s a bit slow. Stumbles a bit when he walks?�

�It�s . . . mental?�

�Don�t call him that!� one of the voices snapped.

�What? Mental?�

�It,� she squawked indignantly. Draco swiveled his head around to look at a little girl with frumpy hair, clutching her brown stuffed bear with football socks on his paws. She wore the same type of socks on her feet. Her eyes were wide and brown, and if looks could kill, he�d be a carbon puddle in the middle of the living room. �He,� she said coldly. �It . . . is . . . a . . . he.�

Draco shrugged and turned back to the puppy, stared back in large dark eyes and saw himself reflected back, upside down. He saw a pink-brown tiny tiny nose, and he felt baby soft fur. And hell, he really was cute. �What�s the lifespan of one of these things?�

One of the girl squeaked in horror. �Mr. Crawford! You can�t!�

�Ten, fifteen years,� Allen said.

�Okay.�

Ten minutes later, Draco was signing papers and Allen stared down at the signature. �Draco?�

�My mother was unconscious. My father was sloshed. That�s the story I go by.�

Allen grinned. �Gotcha.�

�What did you name him?� peeped a little girl voice. It was the same frumpy haired, football socked girl that had chastised him for calling the dog �it.� When she saw his face, she haughtily said, �They don�t come with names, you know.� And he was half tempted to glare back at her and ask if they had met in a previous life.

Instead, he said, �You name him, then.�

She pursed her lips and crossed her arms, deep in thought. Finally, she said, �You should call him Sir Laurence Olivier.�

�That�s a mouthful,� he said.

�Sir Larry, then.�

And that was that.

Later, he found himself complaining on parchment about a stupid little beast that was growing like a weed and pissing all over his house.

A week later, the reply said:

Malfoy-

You have a DOG? Honestly?

Send a picture.

-H.P.

- - - - -

She wipes the counter on autopilot:

Perfect circles, this time, not drawn with a wand in Transfiguration while everyone else was mastering the perfect transparent cube. This time, the perfect circles are made with a bright lime green sponge.

"So?"

"So what, Cass?"

"So who was that guy?"

"Him? He was nobody."

�Didn�t look like nobody to me.�

Sally�s tired. She doesn�t want to have this stupid conversation. It�s almost closing time and she wants to be sleeping. She wants to say, �You know who he was, Cass? He was that one boy on the playground. The one that pushed a little girl down in the mud and called her names. Not just any names. Not fatty or four-eyes or weasel or potty or even beaver-face. He had called her . . . something like queer, chink, wet-back, or ni--� Sally swallows and promptly shuts her mouth, not daring to say that last one (she�s not allowed), never really having said any of it.

�He�s not my type.�

Cassie nudges Sally�s hip with her own. �Sound like there�s history there, to me.�

Sally shakes her head urgently. �Bad history.�

"So?"

�So what?

"Are you gonna ring him up? See how history�s changed, or hasn�t changed, as the case may be?"

People don�t CHANGE!

Sally agitatedly throws down the green sponge and heads back where Pete is packing up. "No."

- - - - -

She remembers:

Four years ago, she was flying. Midair, past the initial climb with stomach in throat, past the initial descent with stomach plummeting back down, down, down. Now freefall, exhilaration whipped past her, blanketing wind all around. She landed on a slicked-with-rain-rooftop. She relished in the crunch of friction beneath her boots. No slips. No falters. The surety in her movements. She was finally getting good at this.

She was stupid.

The moment was poisoned with irony, because a bright light slammed into her temple and threatened to cleave her skull in half.

- - - - -

(07-12-04)

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Red Summer of 19