Chapter 16:
Love is Not Love


"Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great,
And would suffice."


The letter that Ginny had dispatched to Hermione Granger earlier that night, never reached its destination – it was intercepted on the way by grubby, dirt-caked hands, hands almost unhappy in their gnarled folds of veins. Ginny’s owl returned as expected the next morning, no signs of its internal daze apparent.

When Hermione Granger checked her mail the following day, she made a little face at the lack of letters that had been dropped in the elegantly-woven basket that lay on the first sill jutting out of her bedroom wall. There were several envelopes, one from her office and another advertising a new kind of witches' perfume [L'Sowolio - smell like the rose that your are], but none from her or parents, or – this stung – Ginny.

Ginny. Ginny who had, until recently, sent her a letter daily. Two days in Paris, and she has forgotten me, Hermione thought to herself - only to realize that she could not blame Ginny. Paris was a beautiful place and for Ginny, to see it up close, to be able to breath and experience it had almost been like a childhood dream. Now that that dream had met realization, Hermione decided the youngest Weasley deserved to be able to bask in it however she pleased.

Her momentary sadness dispelled, Hermione penned down and dispatched quick replies to the more important letters, before rising to her feet to make herself [what she hoped would turn out to be] a dish of steaming eggs for breakfast. Hopefully, I'm not going to burn it this morning, she thought - burnt breakfast was quick becoming a highly Hermione-ish custom. More often than not, she was so busy with the morning mail that she forgot the food [or going-to-be-food] she had left to heat or cook and by the time she returned to it, it had burnt to something that resembled a punctured, black tyre. [Ron had told her this might be a sign that she was 'aging,' and she had practically punched him for that.]

She managed to save the eggs and tea, today - no smoke, no spilled oil, no ouch'es. Take that, Ronald Weasley! Mightily pleased, Hermione sat down and begin to help herself to toast.

She was reaching for the morning's Daily Prophet when the glass of orange juice fell from her hand.

It shattered, and shards of glass flew in all four directions, their points sharp, their edges steel-like. Juice spilled on to the dining room floor - the neat, neat drawing room floor! - and Hermione gasped, grabbing the arm of the nearest chair to steady herself. For a moment she thought she had succeeded - and then dizzy nothingness flooded her. She found herself pushed off her feet, into a motionless heap in a corner of the room. For long, she heard, felt, knew nothing.

And then she dreamed.

She was walking down a stone-edged path. The setting seemed old, like times forgotten. There was a rosebush in the distance, its flowers in full bloom, but the sight of them made her grow angrier, for the man she had once wanted to pluck them for her - the only man she had deemed worthy of her - had secretly engaged himself to someone else -- and her dreams? To be shattered like a broken glass!

“Al Keith!” she cried.

He was in the garden of his own house. Hermione - oh, but she was not Hermione - walked up to him, steps as quick as mind furious, eyes blazing. Al Keith looked up, clearly surprised to see her there, and raised an inquiring eyebrow. The-Hermione-who-was-not-Hermione glared, all the angrier because the blond hair continued to beckon to her, because the gray eyes continued to entice her.

“What is the matter, Atara, friend of Guinevere?” Al Keith asked, rather warily. “You seem highly displased about something.”

Without warning, she snarled and slapped him, hard, across the face. Human he was, and she special elf-maiden, and the Hermione-who-was-not-Hemrione saw him fall backwards, his eyes widening at this sudden assault. “You are not in your senses, Atara!” he cried. “Go back. Do not come near me again. I have no desire to hurt a lady."

She knew he could never raise his hand to strike a female and that - more than anything else - supplied her the reckless courage that she needed. “You fool!” she cried. “Do you realize, you weak human, what you have pulled my best friend into? She has placed her entire family in danger to make this foolish union possible! But I care more for her than she herself, and I shall not allow her to take the hand of a human who cannot defend himself, but still wishes to take an elf-maiden into a land uninhabited by elf or beast – and if by beast, then all the worse!”

Al Keith’s pupils expanded in shock. He had known this elf-maiden for long, been aware of and disliked her gaze, but he had tolerated her so far for the sake of Guinevere - for how could he forget that Guinevere had called this elf-maiden a friend who had lent her a shoulder to cry on, and another mouth to laugh with?

“This is not your decision to make, Atara,” he said coldly. “It is Guinevere’s and her family’s, and I will not have you step into it. Your conern for Guinevere may be genuine, but that does give you the right to snatch her dreams or love. The two of us wish to break the unlawful laws of this land - and let me tell you, friend of Guinevere, there shall come a day when the eld-lords and -ladies shall bow down to our will.”

“You seek to overthrow the rule of the Elves!” the Hermione-who-was-Atara shrieked. She launched herself against him, but this time Al Keith was ready. Though her anger flared - the fury that she felt at Guinevere’s merciless hold on Al Keith's heart seemed to multiply tenfold - and she clawed at him like a wild beast, he had the better of the situation. He held her off, asked her to go back, asked her once, twice, thrice - but when she would not relent, he had no choice and struck her across the head.

Taken by surprise [and only because she had been taken by surprise] Atara landed in a hea, at the foot of the door of his garden. Al Keith stared, horrified that he had raised his hand at a lady, but also aware that there had been no other way. “Forgive me!” he crried. “You are not in your right mind, Atara, and I would never have –”

“I shall tell Guinevere what you have done to me!” she cried, rage blinding her as she staggered to her feet. “She shall know that I came to speak of my fears and you attacked me, you weak human!”

Al Keith was aghast. “She would never believe you!” he cried, but Atara caught the doubt in his tones, doubt that stemmed from his awareness of her and Guinevere's friendship. “I shall tell her what you have done and she shall believe me!”

“She will not,” Atara spat. “I know her like no one else does, you weak human - even when she attempted to hide her blushes and poems and fantasies, I saw through her and read in her eyes the foolish love that she strove to conceal from me. Mark my words, Al Keith - she has been an idiot, but she will not believe you now!

“I will not have you speak of her like that!” Al Keith said sharply. "You -"

Atara spat at him. "Human," she said coldly - spitefully. "Remember that you are only a human, Al Keith." For a moment, the two stared at each other, each breath Al Keith took heavy, laboured - then there was the swirl of a fine cloak, and Atara had vanished.

In another time - perhaps in the same - Hermione Granger woke up in a sweat, her eyes huger than she could have thought possible. Round her lay spilled orange juice, the glass that had contained it broken, cracked right through the middle.

Like Atara’s heart.

*

[] References:

+ "Love is not love -" - William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116.

+ "Some say the world will end in fire -" - Robert Frost, Fire and Ice from the book, New Hampshire.