Liquid Morality

A/N: Yes, I'm back again! It's been ages since I've written anything and while life is still hectic, I found I couldn't ignore this story anymore. I know roughly where I'm going with this but I've decided to leave bits of it up to improvisation - fingers crossed it works! I hope you like this and please let me know what you think – I'd love to hear anything you have to say. This is a pretty depressing chapter but I promise things will lighten up eventually – it's necessary for the story!

Anyway, that's enough of me and my boring rant! Please read and review!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot!

Chapter One: Hurricane Drunk

"And you can't save me now,

I'm in the grip of a hurricane…"

Hurricane Drunk, Florence + the Machine

Blood-stained hands.

No matter how many times he tried to scrub his hands clean, he couldn't get rid of the transparent lines of scarlet etched onto his skin so intricately that they entwined themselves with his veins. No amount of soap could burn the thought from his mind, and he felt like he would always be destined to live with it.

He scowled and gave up for the night. As he reached for his towel he caught sight of himself in the mirror: unshaven and dishevelled, vacant expression and tired eyes. The clean, aristocratic image of a younger boy was a distant memory now. He couldn't be that person any more. He squinted slightly, trying to rearrange his features to fit the seventeen year old image of himself. He mentally softened his jawline, eradicated the stubble and combed out his once striking blond locks. For a fleeting second, he almost believed it. But his eyes refused to change. They had become cold - a dark steel that could no longer sparkle with arrogance or amusement.

He felt like he had no soul.

He dried his hands, turned off the lights, and crawled under his covers for another sleepless night. There was a time, long ago, when the darkness would have soothed him. But now all it did was awaken a mental slideshow of the images he tried so hard to block out. Amongst the screams and the masses of bodies, there was always one that appeared last:

He was always looking down the length of his wand at a body on the ground, weakened with the effects of curses being flung at it. The man's back was towards him. Just as a bony hand scrambled anxiously in search of a wand, he could hear his voice, thick with regret but smooth with confidence, utter two unforgivable words.

Avada Kadavra.

And then he was crouched beside the body, turning it over to see the man's face.

A mass of ginger hair and freckles greeted him.

His hands begin to shake. He knew that face all too well.

The air became heavy and his lungs clenched together.

And then he threw up.

x-x-x

Another box packed.

She smiled wryly at it before uncapping her black marker pen and scrawling 'Book Box 5' on the top. She took a look around the room and ignored the way her stomach clenched at the emptiness. This is good. This is healthy.

Walking out of the living room, she made her way to her bedroom. Hesitating as her hand touched the door knob, she willed herself to open it. It's time. Slowly, tentatively, she stepped inside. She hadn't been in there for months, opting to sleep on the sofa whenever the urge to close her eyes claimed her. But now she had no choice. The longer she left it, the longer the demons had to fester.

The first thing that hit her was the smell. His aftershave lingered with her perfume. Forgotten scents that danced around the room, reminding her of a happier time. She looked at the bed, perfectly well-made and oh so inviting. As she walked across the room she ran her hand over the crisp comforter and thought of the domestic bliss she'd once experienced. Her eyes darted across the pictures on the wall – memories of when she'd been truly happy assaulted her, and she paused mid step. She could hear laughter.

But then she thought of the events of the past four years, and all she could hear was silence. The kind of silence she'd soon become accustomed to – the silence that had engulfed the room as she'd waited with baited breath to hear the death count.

Swallowing thickly, she made her way over to the closet. Her mother had taken her clothes months before, but on her firm instruction, left his alone. She opened the door and stepped forward, allowing herself to smell him for the first time.

Before she knew it she was crying, clutching the garments as if her life depended on it. She ended up on the floor, face buried in one of his old shirts.

She sat there for hours.

It was unfair – as most things were. Any second now, she knew she'd have to steel herself again. Pick herself up off the floor, wipe away her tears and start packing again. She couldn't break down.

But all she really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and forget everything. She was already forgetting who she was – who he was – and it terrified her, but it also soothed her slightly. The idea of not having to deal with anything was oddly appealing given that she'd been dealing with issues too adult and too taxing for her entire adolescence and early adult life.

But she knew that until she got the truth, she'd never get closure. And without closure, she felt like she was bleeding to death from an open wound.

The air would forever be heavy, and the pressure in her chest would never alleviate.

She didn't have the energy to throw up any more.