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Chapter 1 : Introduction: Boxes
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December 26, 1998
I suppose I deserve this.
In the past two months I have lied my way through this life. I've used every person who cared about me and I created a world that was never meant to exist for myself... I could try to argue that it was for their own good, too, but we both know of that untruth. And in the end, love still failed.
I most certainly deserve this.
I look around my empty house and only now do I feel the full weight of my mistakes. The suitcase in my hand drops in sync with my first tear, which falls slowly down my cheek. It doesn’t take long for the others to join, cascading in individual drops towards gravity’s pull and eventually dripping from my chin to the tiled floor.
A sob rips through my chest and I am bitter, though not entirely surprised, when I realize the absolute hopelessness that the sound is made of. Soon my body gives in to gravity as well and I become nothing more than a pile of shaking limbs on the floor of the loneliest home in the world.
But like I said, I deserve this.
May 8, 1998
It was over. Precisely one week ago today, the dream of vanquishing Lord Voldemort became a reality. Good had conquered evil and the souls of the victors, the survivors, were overwhelmed by a wave of hope for the future.
I never celebrated.
Though I too experienced the overwhelming sense of relief that came with their defeat, any joy I may have hoped to feel was wiped away with a single glance at a broken body; his broken body. And so I simply haven’t celebrated, for I have lost too much.
Even before the war took my only true friend’s life, I was already without family. My closest companion was all I had left. Now he is gone, too.
I am alone.
I am surrounded.
Presently I stand at his funeral, encased by a sea of mourning friends and family members, all dressed in black and crying tears of heart-wrenching pain. And yet, despite the crowds of mourners, still I am alone.
I couldn’t stop my anguished tears even if I wanted to, which I do not. Crying, to me, has never been a sign of weakness, but one of strength. We are taught that tears are for the weak, for those of us not strong enough to keep emotions at bay, but I believe it is that reason alone that makes crying such an act of courage. Knowing how people will judge you, but choosing to do so all the same; that is strength.
But even as I allow the tears to fall, I do not feel any strength this day.
My best friend is lying in a box.
The sun has no business being out today. It should be shrouded in black clouds, pouring torrents of unforgiving randrops, blinding us all with lightning and deafening us all with thunder... And yet, high in the sky, bright yellow and warm, there is the sun. The happy sun is shining away.
What a mockery.
When the funeral has finally drawn to its conclusion and the masses begin to uproot and mingle, offering their mutual condolences to one another, I do not linger, but instead walk away to hide behind a large chestnut tree. I am certain that my disappearance has gone unnoticed. I will wait here until everyone has gone and I can be alone with my friend.
I adjust myself so that I am as comfortable as possible while staking out behind a tree, and last out the other mourners. And as I sit and wait for the crowd to disperse, I am plagued by one continuous thought:
Fred Weasley is lying in a box.
I hope to see you in the next chapter,
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