Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and her very evil minions.


Warning: Slash and death and weirdness.


Author's Note: This is a follow-up to Amalin's "Glass and Death and Rose Petals"




~~~~~Dominion
~~
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
~~Dylan Thomas
~~~~~~



Afterwards, no one knew what year it began-- only that one spring, where before there was only grass and dirt and stone, the smallest bit of green began to show. No one noticed, immediately. Who would? Just a bit of green, among other bits of green, at a grave now mostly avoided, and perhaps even studiously looked past. No one came around, to hear the whispers, to see the faint glimmerings of starlight streaking through two shadows, briefly outlined against a tired-looking willow tree. No one heard the startled cries of ravens and bluejays, in the early morning hours, when the scent of roses wound carelessly through the graveyard, and the air seemed to shiver with a new-found pulse.


It was an old, wild magic, left once again to its own devices. It scented the air, and wound up the heartbeat of any living thing within a half-mile of it. There was no one there to believe in it, or to scoff at it, or to rejoice at its coming. It simply was-- and it didn't even have to know-- it didn't have to know its roots, or causes, or the desperate wishes it was too late to fulfill, or the hopeless dreams it was to inevitably enter. It just existed-- and grew-- and fed. It grew where love slept, where breath was held, where dreams were tossed heedlessly into oblivion. It saw no boundaries, and needed no past, and knew no future. The first spark of it lit slowly, a dying ember glowing in the broken promise of a last breath, encased in glass, floating suspended like an embryo, a dream made visible.


And so it seemed perfectly natural that the next spring, a low hedge of thorns and ivy had formed around the pale grey headstone, wild and dangerous-looking, and yet somehow painfully beautiful. There were several bird-nests upon it by the end of the summer, and it was a favorite hiding place for the brave among chipmunks and the field-mice that happened across it. It was a strange, fey sort of ivy, silvery-green of leaf and velvety to the touch, had anyone been there to touch it, which of course there wasn't. And the thorns were harmless enough-- oh they would prickle you, and deep. Your blood would well from as deep as your heart, and drip heedlessly and quite quickly onto the soft ground. And yet, it would bring no pain, and only a strange sort of release. A sense of freedom. As if you were cut loose-- as if you were flying. Prickled, one would not fall asleep, but rather awaken. A small bit of one's heart melted, perhaps even broken off, one would go on, one's expression uncertain, and somewhat wounded, as if one had just lost something awfully important, but gained a greater gift in return. If one had never known love, after that, one would now need it like breath. And if one was already in love-- well then-- one would understand.


Years passed. Sometimes the spring would come, and only the green ivy would peek through the tangle of thorns, and it would seem as if everything was perfectly ordinary, and no silver had ever touched those leaves. And sometimes the whole hopeless tangle would practically glow in various shimmering shades of silver. It was May, and a full moon, and a cool, bracing wind was blowing one night. The voices and shades and movements were all still at last, and not a breath stirred the total calm suspended over everything. It was then that the roses burst through the twisting thorns, impossibly unscathed and in full bloom, impossibly silver as the moonlight bathing them in radiance. It was so still, and so silent, and no one was there to close their eyes and whisper that it couldn't-- it shouldn't-- it wasn't possible, after all. And suddenly, there was a faint tinkling in the air, like the strings being plucked were those of the night itself, and movement resumed-- and there, among the swaying grass, and the rustling trees, two silvery shadows danced, not existing, yet not disappearing. Dancing slowly, their faded forms twining and twisting and finding a delicate, perfect rhythm. And if there was blood spilling on the dewy grass, or tears, or moonlight, there was no one to tell. But in the morning, there was a rose rising out of the thorns, as impossible as love, as red as blood, as transient as moonlight.


~~