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The voice is a lovely rush of wind-swept dead leaves, apathetic and mildly interested. I glance into his eyes – his half-focused, indifferent, greengreengreen eyes. The man's hoarse, ruined voice says, "I'm tired of life."
I don't answer.
I pour him another cup of tea instead. He needs the caffeine; anyone can tell. The circles under his eyes resemble those of a crack addict's. He hasn't been sleeping, but I knew that already. I haven't been sleeping, either, and I would've heard his guttural screams if he had actually dozed off.
Eventually, exhaustion becomes delirium becomes insane lightness-can't-think until I pass out where I stand, going straight into REM sleep and skipping the dreams altogether. Both he and I practice the same method of nightmare avoidance.
It's pretty idiot-proof as long as I keep stimulants handy – coffee, tea, Pepper-Up potion, and slightly less legal substances like dragon blood and ground-up unicorn horn.
The lack of a stronger potion than Dreamless Sleep makes me wish Professor Snape had survived the war. I could use someone to help me with experimenting and theories about the more potent version I am trying to create. I could also use someone who isn't insane lightness-can't-think two out of five days. Mistakes slow the research for a solution down. The insanity dulls my brain, slows it and stretches it like strawberry taffy, and I can't say it, but I'm tired of life too.
He stares at me complacently as I refill my own cup, add a single sugar, cross my ankles, and sip the too-strong tea. He waits for me to answer. He knows how time dulls and slows and stretches like taffy that never severs.
I meet his gaze again, and I'm too weary to hate anymore - too weary to hate the aristocratic scum who fucked our lives, too exhausted to hate the Higher Beings who popped out a prophecy, too drained to hate the things that killed my lover, too drop-dead fatigued to hate myself for murdering Death Eater children. I've been too weary for a long god-fucking time.
Even the silence is tired, and the Weasley clock ticks, and I drink my tea. All the hands on the clock point to 'DEAD,' and they have been there for several years.
The Boy-Who-Lived says, "I'm tired of life."
I reply, "You must be tired of something."
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A.N. Blame it on Counting Crows. Got drunk and dissected that song with my friend with the Drunken Profoundness which comes from downing a fifth of mango rum and a six pack of Smirnoff. I sobered up and couldn't get my favorite line outta my head, ergo... The song is "Round Here." Review! Soothe the hangovers of the world (which I don't get - ha!)!