Burning Away
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and accept no credit towards it. I am not the wonderful J. K. Rowling nor am I in any way affiliated with her.
Warning: Character death, small instances of bad language and like a whole ton of angst. This is not a happy story.
The amazing cover photo belongs to the incredible gabrielleragusi on Imgur!
VoldemortWins!AU
The cell is dark, so so dark.
(Too dark, too dark- nocomebackdontdiedontleaveme)
She can remember everything about that day if she tries hard enough and if she closes her eyes and really focuses, she thinks she can still smell the scent of lingering blood hanging in the air. It's morbid but it keeps her alive so she's not complaining.
There are times when she thinks that they are standing next to her again, the friends who became her family, and she feels strong enough to fight back, to resist her captors, escape to the countryside and pursue a fantastic adventure on the back of a hippogriff, breeze in her hair, but then the chain linking her family to her breaks and the illusion dissolves.
(She misses the breeze in her hair.)
She sits by the window most days, gazing at the grey sky and waiting for a sign to swoop down from the clouds and sweep her off to Neverland or Narnia or anywhere else other than this fiery inferno of hell because it's so hot, so hot and she's burning, burning, burning, in the loneliness of her solitude and- and then the weight lifts and she can breathe again.
(The sun rarely shines these days.)
It's all so boringly predictable watching these executions because the same damn thing happens every damn time and she hates that she has to pretend that this is a normal thing (it is, it is) but if she doesn't, it's like seeing her friends crumple again in front of her eyes and it's only been a week- God, has it only been a week?
The Panic comes to her that night, stronger than ever before and she tries to fight it because - God help her, she's never been a Gryffindor but she's a fighter through and through - but their names merge together and flood over the top of her, drowning her, dragging her to a place which revels only in nightmares- harryronhermionenevilleginnydeaddeaddeadbloodbloodblood- blood on her hands.
(Friends, friends, friends - oh god they were her friends.)
Their bodies are brought out on the week anniversary of the event. Decaying and already going mouldy, they are pulled unceremoniously onto the platform, jeers and insults flying like unforgivable curses through the air. She wants to scream at them, tell them to handle her friends' remains with respect but she's locked like Rapunzel in this stupid tower and there's no prince coming to save her this time.
(The sky seems to grow a little darker.)
Harry's body has been mutilated almost beyond recognition, the only identifying features being the scar on his forehead and the glasses on his nose but she thinks that he still looks like the brave, heroic boy she used to know. The hands of Ron and Hermione seem to be reaching out for each other, even in eternal slumber, their faces calm and serene, blissfully unaware of the raging tyranny around them. Neville is missing an arm, the same arm which held the sword of Godric Gryffindor before he slew the final Horcrux, but he seems otherwise unharmed, could almost be sleeping if she squints hard enough. Ginny is beautiful in death, her red hair fanning out like a halo above her head, no sign of the swift killing curse which delivered her to Heaven, and there almost seems to be the faint trace of a smile on her lips. The bodies are tinted with a sickly shade of green, and decay is quickly settling in but if Luna looks past that, she can see them again, her friends, her family, their eyes alive with anticipation and bright with kindness.
Harry's head is stuck on a pole and it's all so terribly medieval she thinks as she sways lightly on her feet, tearful blue eyes watching the world with a vacant stare. The crowd is giggling gleefully as they abuse the remaining bodies with curses and hexes until finally Harry is not heroic and Ron is not calm and Hermione is not serene and Neville is not sleeping and Ginny is not beautiful.
(She wants to curl up and cry.)
The remains of her friends are dumped into a huge hole with no coffin and yet it stays open and why haven't you covered them yet where are their marble tombs and golden headstones? Nobody makes any move to properly bury the bodies and Harry's head is still on that pole - give him a proper burial he fucking deserves that at least - a spark of rage ignites inside her and everything is red hot, red hot, and she's burning so badly she thinks embers must be flying off her as she throws herself around the room, screaming and howling, and suddenly she's sobbing, breaking away into little pieces as sticky blood flows down her forearm. Her friends, her friends, how dare you treat them like that, she's going to murder everyone who had a part in this slaughter, harryronhermionenevilleginny, friends, friends, friends, best friends, the bestest of friends, the only friends, and how fucking dare you, cover them, cover them please, don't leave them like that, don't make her look at them, the crushed broken bodies of the best- only- friends in the whole wide world.
(harryronhermionenevilleginny)
And then the door opens for the first time in a week and there stands Draco Malfoy, even more pointed and pale, and he's striding towards her, pulling her up but he can't quite meet her gaze.
"Time's up." He snarls but there's a crack in his voice. "Move it, blood traitor."
She doesn't say anything to him - why should she, he's the blood traitor, not her, he killed her friends, her harryronhermionenevilleginny - and lets him push her into the corridor, where the foreboding figure of Lucius Malfoy is waiting, his face heavyset and grim.
"Good." He says curtly to his son who shifts awkwardly on one foot and seems to be about to say something as Lucius drags her away. She holds her head up high and stalks down the corridor. She has nothing to say to the boy who can't even look her in the eye anymore as he insults her. Her heart is pounding, so fast she thinks it might break out of her chest, but she won't admit that's she's afraid to anyone. It has been drilled into her since she was small that she should never hide her emotions, to always let it out and she knows this; she's smart; she's a Ravenclaw, but her friends were Gryffindors and they taught her how to be brave.
A great raucous breaks out as she is half pushed, half dragged, into the open air (it feels better than she remembers) and the same taunts which accompanied her friends' bodies are now flung at her, jeers and insults, but the radish earrings dangle proudly from her ears and she's put up with all this before so she barely bats an eyelid at them (they don't deserve her attention, not after what they've done). She reaches the platform where Voldemort sits and she is pushed roughly up the steps, forced to her knees, made to submit like some troublesome puppy and she knows that she has never felt anything like this horrible, fiery, anger coursing through her veins because this man murdered her friends in front of her and she couldn't do anything about it, not then, not now.
(Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, friends, friends, friends, she can't lose her sanity now.)
"So," Voldemort says and his voice is so cold, she almost shivers, her eyes focused firmly on the floor, not on the grave, not on the grave. "Luna Lovegood. Blood traitor. In league with Harry Potter." He spits on the ground next to her and suddenly everything is so so clear, the hole is not covered because five is not six and her friends are waiting for her and the pit can't seal itself because not everyone is there yet and- harryronhermionenevilleginny - now the anger is fading and she's smiling and even Voldemort looks confused as he raises his wand and she finds her eyes looking inexplicably into his.
"What is it that you find so humorous?" He hisses and she can't even be scared because friends, friends, friends. "Find it amusing that you will soon meet your death, do you?"
"My friends are waiting." She chirps and the breeze ruffles her hair (so close, so close to freedom) and Voldemort points his wand at her and she knows that in a minute she's going to land, thump, next to her friends, (thump, thump, like the beat of her heart) and even the sun has struggled out of it's clouded cage to wave goodbye because there's nothing left to fight for in this world anymore, she can't fight because she's so so tired of life without friends. She hears the killing curse snaking through the air (it sounds like sleigh bells and sunshine) and a short burst of agony explodes in her chest and she's on fire- crumpling like paper into the flames- and then there is nothing and Luna Lovegood's body slumps into the mass grave, her arms stretched out in front of her almost as if she's hugging the bloodied and broken remains of her friends and now she's the one who looks heroic and calm and serene and sleepy and beautiful all at once because the grave is sealed and she can rest at last.
(withharryronhermionenevilleginny)
Aaahh, so like I wasn't kidding about the angst.
Was it okay? I'm not sure if I like it yet but this idea just came to me so I wrote it down. For anyone who is confused, Luna is supposed to be going slightly crazy in this fic. Thank you for reading! Xx