Burning To The Ground

Napalminthemorning

Write a story based on the following lyrics:

"Lessons learned, bridges burned to the ground,
And it's too late now to put out the fire"

Daughtry - Crawling Back To You

Well – she's gone.

The ingredients are laid out in front of me; dittany, aconite, porcupine quills…my hands methodically pick them up – one by one, toy soldiers falling into the pot where everything finishes and the story ends (for them) .

I cannot imagine life without her. Every beating Father gave me Iwent through quietly. (For her.) Every fist that Muggle Boys threw at me I did not retaliate. (For her.) Every bitter argument against the Marauders I could have acted on I stopped. (For her.)

(My life has been about her so much I no longer know what to do now she's – )

You're standing on the corner of the street, lanky and greasy and ugly. The boy from Spinner's end, they call you derisively, always laughing, pointing, jeering.

But there she is! Her beautiful red hair, those bright green eyes, waiting almost for you to go up to them, challenging you to make them widen with surprise and delight –

You can get lost in them, forever. Just standing. Just staring.

Then her group of friends (friends? You've never known any) ambushes her, and they giggle and run around the corner, and every step she takes further from you is another shattering of your lonely heart.

Potions has been my pet subject for years; but now it's the only thing I look forward to anymore. The intricacies of mixing ingredients require complete focus. It does not allow time for grieving. It does not allow time for moping. I'm forcing myself to forget in the only way I know how.

Yet –

Even as I stir the potion to the steady 1-2 beat, I hear a voice. It's saying Li-ly. Li-ly. I try to stir faster ,1-2-3; she-is-dead, she-is-dead, she-is-dead –

Harshly, I count, 1-2-3-4, under my breath, hearing the words, 1-2-3-4, but then it becomes Li-ly-is-gone-she-can't-come-back-she-won't-come-back and all I can do is force the ingredients into the cauldron, drop the ladle, bottle it up and then smash the glass against the wall, again and again and again –

You didn't mean to say the word, but now she's staring at you coldly, the looks she reserves only for your friends. "I'm sorry," you stammer, hammering it out, but she's not going to budge.

She's walking away now. Lily, with her red hair and her beautiful smile and her way of laughing that makes everything in the world seem okay. Lily who can always say anything to anyone and cheer them up immediately. Lily whose every word is something that you want to keep forever, Lily whose every disapproving look drives a stake through your heart, Lily who doesn't even like him anymore.

Lily.

You want her, you want to be her friend, you want to be her love, you want, you want, want –

(Like to pretend that she secretly likes you, because it is nice to have someone secretly like you even though the feeling isn't real, because it is easier to live a lie than to accept the truth – )

But you know that this is the end, because you've hurt her, because she's not coming back, ever –

(The bridges are burning to the ground, and it's too late to put out the fire – )

"I'm sorry."

Dumbledore calls me into his office one morning. There's no point hiding the red eyes or the bitter face, and he knows it just as well as I do.

"Sorry doesn't change anything."

I supposed I should have expected something like that, because I knew this was what people said when they didn't have anything else to. When people in black suits shake your hand at the graveyard and present their apologies. When you lose someone close to you. When you lose the only one you love.

Sorry just doesn't cut it.

Sorry doesn't mean anything, sorry isn't going to turn back time, sorry isn't going to bring her back. Dumbledore knows this, I suppose. It was just the easiest way out. It was always the easiest way out.

"Everybody's sorry," I say quietly. "It seems to be the one emotion of man. I'm sorry your dog died. I'm sorry I forgot to hand up my work. I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry your father beat you every day he was alive. I'm sorry your girl never loved you back. I'm sorry she's dead."

He says nothing to apologize for his apology, just looks at me, even as I stand up to leave, almost as if he was completely aware of the fact in the first place.

It's their wedding, and you were invited. You would have torn up that invitation, you would – but she had come to see you, one more time, to ask you to come, to beg you to come.

You're sitting in your best suit, feeling shabby next to the rest of them. There's Pettigrew, shriveled and foolish. There's Lupin, kind-eyed and werewolf hearted. There's Black, cocky and annoying. There's Potter –

(You would kill Potter right now, do anything to be standing up there instead of him – )

Then the bride makes her entrance, and for minutes, all you can see is her. Radiant, shining, glowing like an angel from heaven, like a star on earth. The smile, the childish wave when she spots you in the crowd.

You barely feel the hot, bitter liquid splashing into your lap as they look into each others' eyes. The lady next to you asks if you will be all right.

"These are happy, these are for them," you explain in a watery smile. Your tears are not wanted here.

I think one goes through such a situation once in their lives. How do they get through it? The pain I feel, every step, every move, every breath – it's agonizing. I simply want to die, I want to kill myself to join her. All I've known is her. All I've ever wanted.

Friends help you through it, they say. I don't have any friends, just the old man, frail and alone. 1-2-3-1-2-3. Dum-ble-dore-you-i-diot-you-old-fool…

But –

He-means-well, even as I stir. I stir faster. Let-him-help-you-he-can-help-you.

(But –)

It is the night, it's the night and you don't believe it, you can't believe it, your head tells you what your heart won't accept. Your breath is ragged, you're stumbling across the footpath – there's Potter, arrogant Potter, evil Potter, but now you would want him to be alive instead –

You're stumbling up the steps, heart thudding, wand drawn, hoping, wishing, feeling –

The Dark Lord could not have killed her, not when you asked for it, you're almost at the top now, and your heart is screaming NO, NO, NO because this can't be true, this musn't be true, and you're peering around the door of the room now –

And then your world crashes down around you.

I know now that I will never get over it. I will try my best. I will try my hardest. Dumbledore will help me, and he will change something, I am sure of that.

(It's time to move on.)

But forgetting her, forgetting this? Impossible. I will remember that bright smile, those kind green eyes, the way she stood up for me even when no one else would, the hugs she would give me, the words she would say to me, the way she would walk with me.

Because she was my

(everything)