That morning we sat together, just as we had the night before. You curled up in a chair with your forehead against the window, staring out into the night. I was on the floor, facing you, back stiff against the wall and legs stretched out in defeat. I'd been staring at your face the entire time, barely registering anything else. It was dawn though, and light was slowly streaming in and I finally saw what you had been reading before the light had faded last night when you'd just resorted to silently staring at the moon.
Through the early light I could see that you'd been reading a brochure. The picture on the front of it showed a sun, covered by a dark cloud, but the cloud was in a continual cycle of moving out of the sun's way so it could shine brightly on the letters below. The title read "How to Cope" but you didn't look like it had been very helpful.
I wondered what was bothering you more. Was it the fact that you were sick, or the fact that your father was in St. Mungo's? He'd gotten so pissed at the pub, but he'd still thought he could drive his car home safely. He'd driven it into the house instead. But the Healers said he'd be fine, minor damage. Potter and Weasley had taken care of all of that, the perks of having friends in the Magical Law Enforcement office. That was what they could do for you. All I could do was sit with you. We didn't talk. We just sat.
Oh god, I'm so sorry. But it felt right, didn't it? But you don't need this right now. You have so much on your mind. But what could I do? You looked so vulnerable and frightened. When everyone else comes in you put on this brave face but when it's just us, when we just sit in silence, it's all I can do not to break down. I shouldn't have kissed you. But you looked so beautiful, and I'm scared I won't ever have the chance to tell you that our friendship has been my world. That as cosmically strange as it is that it even happened, that I'm in love with you, that I probably have been since I was 11 and met you, but I never knew, never let myself find the truth until it was too late. And now, it feels too late. Don't hate me forever for that kiss. We never have to repeat it if you don't want, just as long as you know before you go. I've always loved you.
Tuesday night finds us all in a strange place. Potter and the Weasley clan, all of your teachers from Hogwarts, yes, all of the ones still living, random people I've never met, half the ministry and half of Hogwarts. They're all at church. I think I even saw some house elves and goblins in the back, hiding. I've never been religious. I don't think any of these people are religious, either. But they're all there because of you. They're all here because you touched their lives, because you are important. Because no one wants you to go, but there are no options left.
Nothing happened. Everyone was silent. But I know what they were all praying for. It was what I was praying for. But when I returned to you, you looked just as pale and small as before. Nothing happened.
You kissed me. I don't think I've ever been as overjoyed or as devastated in a single moment as I am in this moment. I almost touched your shirt in my joy and in my passion, but I paused. You don't need that. I'll just be gentle, I'll just be here for you as much as I can. I'll sit here, holding you in your bed, and let you cry into my shoulder for as long as you want. But you're looking at me with those brilliant and beautiful wide brown eyes. You're tearing me apart inside but I'm holding it together because I want to hold you together. I keep squeezing you like I'm trying to hold you to the earth, trying to hold you to me. And then you're holding me back just as tightly.
Gently you kiss me again. We're in your father's house, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is you and me. I'm going to kiss you back until you stop me. But you don't stop me. Slowly, so slowly and tenderly, we undress each other. And now we're both crying, silently. Are you crying because you're scared? Because I'm crying? Because this might hurt? Because you're so beautiful? Because it's not fair? I feel like there are so many emotions inside me I'm bursting. But mostly in this moment it's love. Love of your soft pale skin. Love of your gentle heart. Of your round breasts and the little mewling noises you make when I kiss every part of skin I can reach. Love of how soft your tiny, tender hands are on my chest. And then fear. Fear that your hands are too cold against my warmth, that a few of those tears are from pain as I enter you. But you grit through it. You nod your head. You wanted this. You want to experience everything because there's not much time left. So we do it all that night. Everything. Because there's not much time left. Not much time left at all.
Friday morning your father comes upstairs to check on you, but he finds us wrapped in each other's arms, naked besides the sheet wrapped around our legs. After he yells me out of the house, I come back in an hour to check on you. He's gone and you're alone and crying at the top of the stairs in a sweater that once used to fit you but now looks like it's two sizes two big. You told me you were scared. You were scared that he might do something stupid again, scared that he might not come back, scared that I might not have come back. But I did come back. But now you're scared for yourself, you're panicking and nothing I'm saying is calming you down. You're breathing is shallow, and I'm worried. Is it because your body is failing or is it all the stress and anxiety? I try to calm you down, I run for a calming draught but as soon as I leave you're flying down the stairs, out the door and out of my grasp and now I'm scared.
You run outside with your cloths hanging off of your skinny frame like bags, the wind billowing about you. Your boots are untied; you'd just shoved your feet in them and ran for it. It's cold outside but you just run and tell me not to follow you; that you have to get away and be alone for just a while, just a little while. Your cheeks are flushed and the winter wind is throwing your already wild hair around and you look terrifyingly beautiful and frail. There are tears streaking your face. The expression on your face is so desperate that I freeze and in that moment, in that moment I'm too weak to stop you, and you see it, and you're running away from me and I can't stop you and you don't turn no matter how much I call to you.
Sunday night I clean your father's entire house without magic, by hand, trying not to think. You would have laughed if you could see me doing all of this manual labor voluntarily. I find your letter. Why would you write this letter? I don't want you to say goodbye like this, I don't want you to tell me to be happy and to be strong when you're gone. I just want to talk to you again, just hear your voice again, because that's the only thing that keeps me going after all. But you're in St. Mungo's, and no one but your father is allowed in the room to see you. I find the pictures of your mother you hid away from yourself. I know you always blamed yourself for her death. But you managed to protect one of your parents, didn't you? You have one more caring parent now than I ever had. I stare at your mother. You look so much like her. You would have grown to look exactly like her if you could have just hung around for a few more years. Just a few more years, that's all.
This is it. I'm on the bathroom floor. It feels like I've been sucked into a giant hole. You called them black holes. My shirt's come un-tucked and I've only got one shoe on. My hair's sticking up and my eyes are wild. I look like a mad man. I can barely breathe. I feel like a mad man. I'm sobbing in your bathroom because it's not fair. It just really isn't fair. You're a witch, damn it. You're supposed to live until you're at least a hundred and fifty fucking years old. Not at twenty-three. Twenty-three is too young for anyone to die, let alone a witch as wonderful as you. What am I supposed to do for the next one hundred and twenty-seven years without you? What the hell am I supposed to do without you?
In the morning when you finally fade, we're all sitting around. I'm staring at the small brown bird outside the window trying to convince myself that if he doesn't fly away, then everything will ok, it will be fine if the bird just stays on the ledge chirping away. They can't tell us anything, but we all know it's serious. That's why we're all here on a Monday morning, waiting around not talking.
The Weasley women are silently crying but all the men in your life are trying to stay calm, all the men except for your father. He's displaying the inner turmoil that I feel inside right now. But you know that you're the only person I've ever cried in front of so I know it won't bother you that I'm just staring at this bird trying to make a deal with God that the bird will stay because I can't form the words, even in my head to make any other deal. Because thinking about it will send me into a head spin. So I'm bargaining with God that I'll never drink again, that I'll help old ladies, that I'll kiss Potter, that he can have me, he can have my life instead, if only that bird will stay on that ledge singing cheerfully.
The young healer runs in. Everyone looks up, but her face is pale and her head is hung low and she shakes her head slowly and the world stops and I think I've gone deaf and the little bird flies away with a violent flapping of wings and his birdsong is gone.
In the morning in the cold of March on that dreadful day I thought I saw you. I swear it looked just like you walking through that park you loved so much. I chased after you. But you disappeared into a grove of trees. And when I walked into the grove, expecting to see you laughing at me and my sadness, all I saw was a large flock of little brown birds. It couldn't have been you because that would have been a living, breathing, walking, and talking you. And as of early this morning, that no longer exists. I just sat and fed those birds for hours. I ran out of food and the birds lost interest and flew away. Those stupid fucking brown birds just flew away.
I've never been religious. And you'd think that fact would make it easier for me. Obviously I know now that there is no God, because if there was, he couldn't take someone so sweet, so good, so beautiful, and so kind from the world for no reason other than to torture me. So maybe that means there's only hell, and we're all living in it. Except for you. You escaped and left us all behind and took the only sunshine out of hell and left us all to be slowly consumed by the fire of grief and longing and despair. And I can't even be angry with you about it because even though you're gone all I can think is how much I loved you. How much I still love you, even though you've left me to be alone.
But I think you believed in God, even if you weren't overtly religious. Maybe you shouldn't have. Maybe because you believed and you were so wonderful, he liked you so much that he took you away from me to have you all to himself. God is cruel then. Because he left me behind. He left me, a shaken man, behind in the wake of the joy that was your life. I'll never be the same. I'll never be as bad as I was, but I'll never be as good as I could be when I was with you.
That's what life is, isn't it? It's just something to be taken from you. Whether it's God, or Satan, or fate or destiny or aliens or whatever the hell it is. It just takes and takes and takes from you until there's nothing left to take. Because it's taken everything that matters and even the things that you don't think matter and you're left with nothing. And all that's left to do is to cope. You weren't very good at coping. How am I supposed to be?
A/N: This is a story I wrote that was actually not for fan fiction. I just changed it a little to fit it into this world. The original has all mention of magic and the Harry Potter world/characters out of it. It is heavily, heavily based on the song 'Casimir Pulaski Day' by Sufjan Stevens. Great song. I hope you enjoyed it, even if it is in a little different style than what I normall write. Please review, let me know if you liked it or how to fix it!