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Chapter 1 : Everything Falters
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This wasn’t fair for her.
Things were supposed to turn out good for her.
She knew she sounded like a seven-year-old brat.
She couldn’t care less.
All that mattered was him.
All that mattered was that he was gone, and she was still here.
That was the only thing she cared about.
She couldn’t hear the yelling.
She couldn’t see the blood.
She could listen to the sound of his voice until it went hoarse.
She knew that.
She could gaze at his face until the end of time.
She knew that.
Nothing would ever be the same.
People said it would be.
They said time healed all wounds.
She knew it didn’t.
Out of everyone in the world, everyone that had been dragged through this treacherous war, she knew that time did not heal all wounds.
Time made you forget.
But forgetting was different than healing.
Time forced you to move on, continue with your life, as if nothing had happened.
But everyone knew.
Everyone knew that it had happened, he did die.
And she couldn’t change that.
She couldn’t change the fact that she was in love with him.
She couldn’t change all that they’d gone through together, all that they’d shared.
Nothing could change that.
All the Firewhiskey her body could hold would make her forget.
Make her forget for a little while.
She could live with that.
She could live with a bandage over her wound.
The best that her wound would ever see was a bandage.
It would never close, never heal.
Just like love.
Love never closed.
Love never went away.
A relationship could end.
They usually did.
But if that relationship held love, things would be different.
The people who held the luck, their relationships had love.
Her relationship with him had had love.
And even if he wasn’t there, with her, anymore, there was still love.
She still had love for him.
Even if nothing about their love had been said, it was there.
Things are often like that.
The things that go unsaid are almost always the most important.
And, by the cruelness of fate, they are often left on the tips of tongues.
If they even make it there.
Hers, however, did not.
She was a part of the noble and brave house of Gryffindor, yes.
But everything falters at one time or another, even her.
Even if she looked strong, she didn’t feel strong.
And that was all that mattered in the end, wasn’t it?
But she could look strong.
She was an expert at telling people she was okay.
Everyone asked her constantly, everyone always seem to be worried about her
She was always fine, for the most part, on the inside.
On the inside, she had her thoughts of him.
She had all of their memories to cling to with desperate hope.
And cling, she did.
She spent every minute of her every hour, every hour of her every day clinging.
She clung to the picture of his face in her mind’s eye.
She clung to the memories of their happy days together.
Her mother knew that she was always thinking about him, always.
Mothers always seemed to know about these sorts of things.
And she understood.
Her mother understood that no matter how hard you tried, the well-being of your loved
ones was always a rainy cloud over a bright day.
She knew that everyone, no matter what side of the war they were on, no matter what
they were fighting for, everyone had their own storm clouds.
Everyone had their rainy days every once in awhile.
Hers just happened to occur far more frequently than everyone else’s.
But she didn’t have any particular problem with that.
As long as she could have her thoughts, she could get through anything.
That’s why she has so much hope that things will be okay.
That’s why she can always convince people they’ll win the war.
Everyone used to be happy.
Everyone has some precious memories to hold on to.
Everyone has something to cling to.
Everyone tell hers that she can’t just ignore what’s happening around her.
She doesn’t ignore what’s happening around her.
How could she?
How could they say that?
Say that she must not care about her family, and her friends.
She liked quiet.
It made it easier to concentrate.
But that didn’t mean she was ignoring everything.
When she was lost in her thoughts, everything reminded her about him.
Every voice that spoke sounded like his.
For every face she remembered, she was reminded of how his face looked.
And that would be the price she paid.
Every time she thought about him, got lost in her memories, she missed him more.
She became more and more tired of waiting to see him again.
And the more she wore her mind out, the more tired she became.
And the more tired she was, the harder it was to see his face.
The harder it was to hear his voice.
The harder it was to remember the feeling of his hand upon her skin.
She wasn’t getting older any faster than before, but it looked like it.
And it felt like it.
She felt like a full grown woman more and more, and the wistful teenager she used to be less and less.
The worst part was that she didn’t know if she liked that, or hated it.
Molly Weasley sat in a rickety old hospital chair on the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
She was sobbing quietly, grasping her daughter’s small, frail hand.
Her husband stood over her, tears silently sliding down his face.
His comforting hand rubbed her shoulder as the couple look down at their youngest daughter’s seemingly lifeless body.
“She’s alive though, right? And she’ll stay that way?” Her brother, Bill, said, looking out the small window.
“Yes.” Charlie whispered, not willing to meet his eyes.
“Will she ever…” Bill started, but his voice faded away as he snaked his arm around his wife’s waist.
“Be ze same?” Fleur murmured.
“The healers say she might.” Ron entered the room, closely followed by Hermione, both of which had tear tracks down their faces.
“But,” Hermione said, “they said it’s up to her. If she wants to wake up, she will. But if she doesn’t want to, then she won’t.”
George gave a small chuckle. “But that’s how she’s always been. Extremely stubborn, even when it’s no good for her.”
Fred voiced what the rest were thinking. “And after what happened to him…”
They all sighed, and looked from the petite redhead lying in the cold, metal hospital bed, to the small picture of a messy-haired boy, smiling and waving that was on the nightstand.
Hermione burst into a fresh bout of sobs, and Ron quickly wrapped a hand around her shoulders.
“They asked us again if anyone saw what happened.” Ron said, speaking directly to his mother.
“Hagrid came in.” George said.
“Carrying Harry.” Fred said.
“We both screamed.” Ron said quietly.
“She was right next to us.” Hermione said. “Right there. She screamed too, and then she was gone. I ran forward, and I figured she was off fighting somewhere else.”
“I think it was the shock.” Arthur said. “We all knew how she felt about him.”
Hermione most noticeably nodded. The rest seemed too wrapped up in their thoughts.
“We should go back to Hogwarts.” Percy said quietly. “They’ll need our help.”
Everyone nodded slowly, quietly.
They were afraid of disturbing Ginny, whose only trace of life was the discreet rise and fall of her chest.
Mrs. Weasley lingered for a moment.
“I – I don’t want my daughter to be alone.” She whispered.
But she wasn’t alone.
She had her thoughts.
She had her thoughts of him.
That was all she needed.
That was all she wanted.
And that was fair.
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