After the proverbial flood, is there anything left unsaid?
Accusations?
Excuses?
Confessions, questions, blunt statements, requests, pleads, apologies, lies, fire, ice, venoms?
Or maybe just a scream.
A good, long scream, like a banshee announcing the death of an entire world.
A scream that rips the throat apart, so everyone can see the pulsing heart lodged in the trachea so that each beat is a battle with a breath. Because that's what it's like, living like you are dying.
Clarissa Gawain was an old soul. It seemed to many that she had, from her tower of strength and knowledge, she had seen it all, and could judge all with the clear accuracy of a Truth Potion. It was those very ones that took her for granted, expected her to trot the hall of the Ministry, heels clicking loudly, coffee in one hand, black book bag in the other and dog following close behind every morning of every day, forever and ever and ever.
But she was an old soul, and breaking.
It is said, that when dogs are about to die, they run away to a lonely place.
"You're not dying on me, are you, Monster?" Clarissa asked. For some reason her eyes had misted over.
The wolfhound regarded her solemnly through his functional eye.
"Thank you."
There was silence for a while.
"Up we go then," Clarissa said. "Let's see what the child is up to."
She made no move to sit, though.
It was hard. So unbelievably hard, and she thought idly if this whole affair would spawn a monster. One broken heart, one gray monster egg. Two broken hearts…
That is the moment when the pain gives way to restless anger, when breaking things and crying is just not enough and you pace and pace and pace, fingers twisting spasmodically and each sob burns your lungs.
Then your legs give.
Then you cry, cry, and then cry some more.
Then you do something drastic to try and wash it all away.
Clarissa Gawain stood. She tried to get her breath back.
Then she broke her wand in three and burned the pieces.