AN: Angst angst angsty-angst-angst. Translation: This is not a happy fic. At all.
I have also left it deliberately vague, so that who is speaking is up to you. Of course, I know who I think is speaking but who knows, I could be wrong... (If you have the time, don't forget to review. ;D)
Disclaimer: I am sure that I have mentioned it before but I do own Harry Potter. Yes, I am the mad genius who came up the master piece of the seven-part series. I claim full ownership...Bah! Who am I kidding? I don't want to get sued. Don't own.
Rain
Rain. That's all there ever is now. Rain and grief that is. In a world free of Voldemort and Death Eaters there is nothing to be glad about. Too many have died; too many people have gone mad with regret. Too many are left to remember. There are simply too many alive.
Not everyone sees the rain, but it is all there is for the man. It constantly runs across his vision; graying the world around him. Nothing is the same. No longer can he joke about the bad. Instead it fills him and he drowns in his sorrow. He has lost everything in the war against those who followed a mad man. Gone is his love, gone is most of his family. Then, in the last battle against the mad man himself, he lost the man who was almost more of a brother that those who did share his blood. What else would you expect after living in seclusion, for what seemed like years on end, with only each other and one other for company.
Everyone marveled at him. 'Here,' they would say, 'Here is a hero; a strong man. Here is someone who has lost nearly everyone, and yet, he still stands tall.' That is what they see. In the eyes of the world stands a man who has lost, but had also won. They don't know. They don't know how he lost a little of himself after that first death. That little lost piece only grew more with passing years… passing deaths. Now, there is very little left, and so rain drips over everything. Even today, with the sun shining—not too bright, but not too cold—the rain runs. It blurs everything together, and the world is grey.
It is September first, the anniversary of when he met them. In honor of that day he sits and watches them sleep. They lie on beds of differentiating wood, covered in soft silk, with lids to block out the blinding sun, and layers upon layers of dirt to muffle the sounds of the living. On this day, the man sits in the presence of the dead. He is the living among those long gone; he feels at home. Silent tears slide stoically down his face to join the grey rain that covers his heart. Yes, some of his family lives, but they are practically strangers with the changes the war wrought on them. Or is it he that is changed? No matter, it all leads to the same thing.
A silent figure watches as the man sits in the monotony of the forest of stone. He watches as the man weeps for those who passed on before him. Slowly, the figure approaches the crying man and crouches in front of him. A small smile flits across the figure's face.
"Didn't I tell you? Didn't I tell you not to cry for me?"
The crying man stares at the figure in front of him in wonder, his mouth noiselessly saying a name. Another silent figure joins the first.
"Hang on, don't give up. Life is not so bad."
The hero's eyes grow even wider at the new shadow in front of him. He reaches for the figure, but before he can get close enough to touch her, another appears.
"You're not alone, we never left. We've always watched over you; always will."
More and more come. All those whom he lost are here whispering words of encouragement and love. For the first time in ages nothing is grey. The man feels truly happy. He is no longer alone and the rain is gone. Then, the people begin to leave. Frantic he asks them to stay, tries to keep them there. One by one, the ignore him and, one by one, they go out of sight until he is alone again. He screams and begs for them not to leave him, he begs them to come back – he can't go on alone. There is no one to hear his pleadings.
People come to take the man away. It is obvious that he has finally broken. He cries and screams out for those not there. There are times when he yells and rages at the deceased; asking them why they left him alone when he asked them to stay. Then there are times when he is calm. He laughs and smiles and hold conversations. He talks to his dead friends and family. He talks to no one but the air. For one glorious moment the rain had seemed to disappear, but now it is back and it isn't going to leave.
There are simply too many alive. Too many are left to remember. Too many people have gone mad with regret; too many have died. There is nothing to be glad about in a world free of Death Eaters and Voldemort. Rain and grief. That's all there is now. Rain that is.
Plus one more man gone mad.