Harry Potter One Shots

Moments

All rights belong to the author, Marston Chicklet

I believe in moments.

Fifteen years of fighting doesn't leave you with many illusions. Especially because most days you can't even remember what your cause is, only that it must be important for some reason, because you've always done it. On some level, I know that the world needs to stay in this state of turmoil, if only because there is no place for me to live in a place of peace.

Once, I had dreams for when the war ended. I was going to experiment, to discover, to create. I was going to build something out of the ashes left behind and it was going to be glittering and beautiful. A monument to prosperity. It would be my mark, left on a world to which no more atrocities would be committed.

One war finished, with the death of the Dark Lord, and a new one began. A war between those who wanted to shape a new government, a democracy, eradicating all traces of the old regime, and those who wished to remain the same as always. Some people call it 'civil war.'

There is nothing civil about it.

Six glorious months in between fighting—enough time for me to buy a house and fill it with all the books that I could ever hope to read, furnish it to my tastes. Shape a world where I could learn and study for the rest of my life. After working for the ministry, I certainly had the funds for it.

Six months in which I could build the anticipation up higher, giving it more distance to tumble down.

They told me that it would be over in a few months. I was fool enough to believe them, young enough that their promises seemed genuine. Those months passed, and more after them, yet there was still hope. Always hope driving me forward, until even that faded against a background of smoke, leaving me only with memories of moments. Because they have been the only things worth remembering in a lifetime of despair.

Moments where the sun came out from behind the clouds after another battle. Looking into someone's eyes and feeling something close to love. Watching Peter Pettigrew's execution. Moments that broke the grey monotony of a world in turmoil.

I'm sure that even Harry felt the pangs of victory as Lord Voldemort crumpled, before the Killing Curse hit him from behind. I hope it gave him the moment's peace that I have been searching for.

I sit alone now in a bar in Muggle London, a world where no one is aware of the battles taking place in their very streets, in the corners of their alleys, seeking what tranquility a drink will bring me. How much it will take for me to slide into oblivion I'm not entirely sure, but I'm more than willing to pay the prince.

The bartender asks me what I want and for a moment I freeze, before realising that she is talking about my order.

A lifetime of solitude on the rocks, please, I want to say, but ask for gin and tonic instead.

A few minutes later, it is in my hand and I sip at it, taking my time. Enjoying the moment. A man sits down next to me and I ignore him as he does me. He carries the same aura of death that I do, a sense of desolation that I know only too well. I don't want to see his face for fear that I will recognise him—I'm not sure which side I would prefer him to be on.

He orders and, with dismay, I realise that there can be no mistaking that voice. No way that I cannot know who it is. The man who was responsible for six years of torment. The man who killed Albus Dumbledore. The man who managed to clear the way for Harry to enter the Death Eaters' stronghold.

The man who saved us all.

Despite the fact that I now know who it is, I still look away. It's been three years and two months since we last spoke. Three years and eight months since an encounter that I wish I could forget, involving a hotel in Cornwall and the best wine of my life. Hell, forget the wine. It was the best sex of my life too. Three years and ten months since I stopped blaming him for Harry's death.

Not that I've been counting or anything.

We sit in silence for several minutes and I wonder what he's thinking. If I look at all the way he remembers. I'm only thirty, but I know that I look much closer to fifty than I would like. War has mapped itself onto my face with deep lines. Somehow he looks the same as he always has, and I envy him that.

He clears his throat and I glance over with a start, catching his eyes in mine. They are deep and black, but they are filled with a warmth that, I remember, only ever seemed to be reserved for me, even when I did not want it.

Now, however, I do.

I don't tell him this, though. I don't need to. We sit perfectly still, in silence, staring at one another and if there was any romance left in me, I would say that we are connected. Later, I know, I will follow him back to his flat or he will come with me to my house with the unread books and there will be plenty of movement, plenty of noise. Afterwards, we will talk in an attempt to fill up the deafening muteness within us—discussing books, tactics, anything. I don't need to wait. We've done this before.

But right now, there is only me, him, and the moment, surrounding us, filling us, giving us what is perhaps the only moment of peace either of us will feel for the rest of our lives. A moment potent enough that it becomes tangible.

There is not enough time in a moment for illusion to be created.