Fic! The Lives of the Saints
Feb. 4th, 2008 10:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rillaliciousSo, I'm working on some fic. And I figured posting as a WIP would give me much-needed motivation. I'm aiming for weekly updates, but not making any promises.
Title: The Lives of the Saints
Pairing: SS/HG
Rating: That's a bridge I'll cross when I come to it.
Summary: Sometimes death is only the beginning.
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. Making no money.
A/N: Never say never, right? Um, I'd like to thank![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pandora_nervosa for the read-through! And thanks always for reading and reviewing.
Chapter 1
Death, Hermione thought as her body became a soft, thick memory, should have come with more warning if it was to be reasonable. Not that Hermione had expected death to be reasonable, but had she been given even the vaguest precursor, she would have at least made sure Rose and Hugo had all her affairs in order. There should have been preparation. With Ron gone only a month before her, she hadn't considered all the paperwork to be dealt with in the event of her own demise. It wasn't fair to her children, who had families of their own to worry about.
It wasn't at all fair to the rest of the Wizengamot, who'd been debating earlier that afternoon about lowering the age for the restriction of underage magic. It was her first week back to work after Ron's death, and she'd been set to cast the deciding vote. Death was dreadfully inconsiderate. A witch couldn't even get her life sorted before it was snuffed out in the middle of the night.
Attempting to sigh when one lacked a body was a curious sensation. She felt like a breeze, a wisp of temperate air. She was made of breath now, and when she exhaled, her entire being flittered about like a dusting of Floo powder caught in an updraft. She waited for the sensation to abate before deciding it would be prudent to figure out just where she was, and what this afterlife business was all about. It took a few moments for her sense of sight to reawaken, and though she seemed to lack eyes, or any other physical attributes for that matter, she was gradually able to see.
She looked around the room curiously, and realized it wasn't a room at all. And this certainly wasn't the waiting station at King's Cross that Harry had told her about. Everything around her was green, in every conceivable shade, and all slightly out of focus. There was light pouring through the gaps, bright beams that slashed across the overgrowth, somehow cleaner and more brilliant than any light she'd ever seen before. Hermione reached up to shade her eyes with one hand, realizing that this place was vaguely familiar.
It was straight out of a fairy story, that much she knew, likely a tale her mother had read at bedtime when she was a small girl. Nothing about it comforted her, or inspired nostalgia, and she thought it strange that—if this afterlife was a creation of her own memory—her mind had brought her here, to a place that held no sentimental value at all.
Unlike her sight, her sense of hearing returned as suddenly as death itself had come, and the world around her opened up to the sound of music, distant and weak, but everywhere. Hermione pulled her mist-form upright, marveling at the sensation. She felt cool, like water, and mutable, but cohesive. She swayed from side to side for a moment, then drifted over to the edge of her enclosure, listening carefully to the sounds.
Upon further investigation, it wasn't music at all, but the far off chiming of tiny voices, trickling in through the greenery like bells. Soft and lilting, the sounds soothed her, and Hermione realized where she was. She also realized that her appearance had taken on something of a human body, though only in the vaguest sense. She reached out one misty hand, and allowed a wide, green leaf, pregnant with beads of dew, to pass through it.
"Put it on!" The words sliced through the air, sharp and crackling, and Hermione jumped as a thin, silky shift soared through the transparency of her form, flattening against the wall of greenery, then drifting to the ground.
She shifted and rearranged her mist-body until she'd turned around, and found herself looking down on a peculiar creature with large eyes like a house-elf and a humanlike head on a slender, disproportionately small body.
"I can't put it on," Hermione said sensibly, and it was only when she heard the sound of her own voice that she realized she was capable of making sounds at all.
It wasn't her, not the way she remembered. She'd grown used to her voice in later years, the low, rattling sound that accompanied every syllable. She was used to sounding strained, as an old woman's voice would, and occasionally lapsing into a breathless rasp. This voice, though, was strong and certain, as vibrant as it had been in her youth, but with more wisdom behind it.
"I haven't got a body," she finished in confusion.
"Aye, but this one you can wear," the creature said, and when it nodded at the fallen shift, a stunning lick of flame-red hair snapped forward and then back again.
Hermione flinched. She kept watch on the creature as she lowered her mist-self, reaching out blindly at the fabric, but touching nothing.
"Hi, hi, hi," the creature laughed. "Clever? No. You can't touch it."
"That's what I was saying," Hermione said.
"No touch. Wear." The creature clapped sharply. "She's expecting you at the meal."
Hermione looked down to see the translucent gown draped over her body even though she hadn't laid a finger upon it.
"Who is—"
"Don't be late." With another clap, the creature vanished.
She might have stayed there, staring at the spot where the strange little beast stood moments before, if it hadn't been for the low vibration of creaking hinges that rocked her verdant cage, and she turned to see two great doors opening up, each wrapped so tightly with vines that she hadn't known they were there at all.
The light spilling in from the outside was purer, deeper even than the light she'd previously marveled at. With a bit of concentration, Hermione managed to place one ethereal foot in front of the other, and began a slow journey of walking to the outlaid path. If her memory served her correctly, she was on her way to dine with the Queen of the Faeries.
~~~
Title: The Lives of the Saints
Pairing: SS/HG
Rating: That's a bridge I'll cross when I come to it.
Summary: Sometimes death is only the beginning.
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. Making no money.
A/N: Never say never, right? Um, I'd like to thank
pandora_nervosa for the read-through! And thanks always for reading and reviewing.Chapter 1
Death, Hermione thought as her body became a soft, thick memory, should have come with more warning if it was to be reasonable. Not that Hermione had expected death to be reasonable, but had she been given even the vaguest precursor, she would have at least made sure Rose and Hugo had all her affairs in order. There should have been preparation. With Ron gone only a month before her, she hadn't considered all the paperwork to be dealt with in the event of her own demise. It wasn't fair to her children, who had families of their own to worry about.
It wasn't at all fair to the rest of the Wizengamot, who'd been debating earlier that afternoon about lowering the age for the restriction of underage magic. It was her first week back to work after Ron's death, and she'd been set to cast the deciding vote. Death was dreadfully inconsiderate. A witch couldn't even get her life sorted before it was snuffed out in the middle of the night.
Attempting to sigh when one lacked a body was a curious sensation. She felt like a breeze, a wisp of temperate air. She was made of breath now, and when she exhaled, her entire being flittered about like a dusting of Floo powder caught in an updraft. She waited for the sensation to abate before deciding it would be prudent to figure out just where she was, and what this afterlife business was all about. It took a few moments for her sense of sight to reawaken, and though she seemed to lack eyes, or any other physical attributes for that matter, she was gradually able to see.
She looked around the room curiously, and realized it wasn't a room at all. And this certainly wasn't the waiting station at King's Cross that Harry had told her about. Everything around her was green, in every conceivable shade, and all slightly out of focus. There was light pouring through the gaps, bright beams that slashed across the overgrowth, somehow cleaner and more brilliant than any light she'd ever seen before. Hermione reached up to shade her eyes with one hand, realizing that this place was vaguely familiar.
It was straight out of a fairy story, that much she knew, likely a tale her mother had read at bedtime when she was a small girl. Nothing about it comforted her, or inspired nostalgia, and she thought it strange that—if this afterlife was a creation of her own memory—her mind had brought her here, to a place that held no sentimental value at all.
Unlike her sight, her sense of hearing returned as suddenly as death itself had come, and the world around her opened up to the sound of music, distant and weak, but everywhere. Hermione pulled her mist-form upright, marveling at the sensation. She felt cool, like water, and mutable, but cohesive. She swayed from side to side for a moment, then drifted over to the edge of her enclosure, listening carefully to the sounds.
Upon further investigation, it wasn't music at all, but the far off chiming of tiny voices, trickling in through the greenery like bells. Soft and lilting, the sounds soothed her, and Hermione realized where she was. She also realized that her appearance had taken on something of a human body, though only in the vaguest sense. She reached out one misty hand, and allowed a wide, green leaf, pregnant with beads of dew, to pass through it.
"Put it on!" The words sliced through the air, sharp and crackling, and Hermione jumped as a thin, silky shift soared through the transparency of her form, flattening against the wall of greenery, then drifting to the ground.
She shifted and rearranged her mist-body until she'd turned around, and found herself looking down on a peculiar creature with large eyes like a house-elf and a humanlike head on a slender, disproportionately small body.
"I can't put it on," Hermione said sensibly, and it was only when she heard the sound of her own voice that she realized she was capable of making sounds at all.
It wasn't her, not the way she remembered. She'd grown used to her voice in later years, the low, rattling sound that accompanied every syllable. She was used to sounding strained, as an old woman's voice would, and occasionally lapsing into a breathless rasp. This voice, though, was strong and certain, as vibrant as it had been in her youth, but with more wisdom behind it.
"I haven't got a body," she finished in confusion.
"Aye, but this one you can wear," the creature said, and when it nodded at the fallen shift, a stunning lick of flame-red hair snapped forward and then back again.
Hermione flinched. She kept watch on the creature as she lowered her mist-self, reaching out blindly at the fabric, but touching nothing.
"Hi, hi, hi," the creature laughed. "Clever? No. You can't touch it."
"That's what I was saying," Hermione said.
"No touch. Wear." The creature clapped sharply. "She's expecting you at the meal."
Hermione looked down to see the translucent gown draped over her body even though she hadn't laid a finger upon it.
"Who is—"
"Don't be late." With another clap, the creature vanished.
She might have stayed there, staring at the spot where the strange little beast stood moments before, if it hadn't been for the low vibration of creaking hinges that rocked her verdant cage, and she turned to see two great doors opening up, each wrapped so tightly with vines that she hadn't known they were there at all.
The light spilling in from the outside was purer, deeper even than the light she'd previously marveled at. With a bit of concentration, Hermione managed to place one ethereal foot in front of the other, and began a slow journey of walking to the outlaid path. If her memory served her correctly, she was on her way to dine with the Queen of the Faeries.
~~~
