For Camp Potter: week 2 – archery.

For Amber because she inspired this, and she didn't want to be alone with angry!Paula.

Note: For this story, Hogwarts reopens the September of 2000.

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You are making your way through the crowd with Shay at your back. Together, you are trying to make it to the fighting in the Great Hall, as you had been searching the halls for the dead during the hour of reprieve. Along the way there, the two of you pass several fights, but don't join in because the Death Eaters are being bested and your presence would only hinder instead of help.

You hear Shay cry out and slump against your back. You turn around to question him. He flashes you a smile, but you can see the pain in it. And then you notice the crimson red that covers Seamus' white shirt. "Shay," you whisper. Before he can reply to you, you wrap your arms around his waist and half-carry, half-drag him out of the way of flying spells.

You drop your wand and fall to your knees beside him, you don't even worry about the fighting that is going on around you; you are more worried about him. Besides, you are out of the line of view. He's panting harshly as you pull his shirt apart, not even bothering to unbutton it. He gasps in pain as you pull the shirt away from his skin. He coughs, blood spilling from his mouth.

You can't hide the sharp inhalation of air as you see the deep, angry cuts that marred his pale skin. "That bad, huh?" he asks, his voice shaky but you can still hear the hint of laughter beneath it. You pick up the wand that you had dropped and try to remember the healing spells that you had been taught while on the run.

Your memory fails you, so you try, "Episkey," instead, which has no effect, not that you were really expecting it to. Episkey is meant for small wounds, and works best when using your own wand, but you had lost yours months back.You watch as blood continues to seep out of Seamus' wounds at a steady pace. "Ferula," you say. From the tip of the stolen wand, a bandage and a splint are produced. You put the splint to the side because you don't need it, and put your arm behind his neck.

"This is going to hurt," you warn. "But I have to stop the bleeding," you say softly, reassuringly. He only grunts as you pull him into the sitting position. You wrap the bandage around his chest and stomach tightly, hoping that the blood would stop flowing so quickly, so steadily. Once that is done, you lay him back down. And you heart sinks as you see red staining the white already.

And you know that there is absolutely nothing you can do to help him. Anger rises in your chest as he murmurs, "I'm cold," while his eyes flutter shut because you know enough to know what that means. "No! Shay, stay with me. You have to stay with me," you demand. The anger is quickly fading to fear. "You aren't going to die here. I won't let you die."

He forces his blue eyes open. And he gives you a pained smile that you return through the tears that you didn't realize you were shedding. "Shh! Don't cry. It's alright, Dean," he tells you reassuringly. "I love you." It comes out as a whisper, and it sounds more like a final goodbye to your ears.

Before you get a chance to tell him that he isn't allowed to leave you, he coughs up more blood. And then his breathing shutters before stopping completely. "Shay!" you say, touching his unmoving shoulder. "Shay!" you say louder, but he still doesn't answer. "No," you whisper, staring at him as if he's going to start breathing again. But somewhere deep inside, you know he isn't. You lean forward and press your lips against his still warm ones, ignoring the blood that paints them. "I love you to, Shay," you tell him as you pull back.

You sit there until someone finds you, unwilling and unable to move from his side.

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You wake up, gasping for breath. Sweat pours off your face and your whole body shakes. You untangle yourself from your blanket and make your way towards the bathroom, hoping that you didn't wake the rest of your family up. You lean against the counter, trying to control your breathing. Once you got your breathing under control, you turn on the tap to wash away the sweat and fear.

Before you leave the bathroom, you meet your reflection. You believe that you look the same as you did after being freed from the Malfoy's cellar – worse for wear. Your hair is short because you don't have any motivation to keep up with it. There are dark bags under your eyes that your dark skin color helps conceal. And your eyes look lifeless, hollow.

You tear your eyes away from your reflection, leaving the bathroom quickly. You make your way to the living room of your small house, knowing that you won't be able to get back to sleep anytime soon. This is routine since you've been plagued by nightmares. But these nightmares have happened long before he had died; nightmares about the Snatchers, about the Malfoy's basement, about the war.

Picking up the sketchbook and pencil from the coffee table, you sit down on the couch. The sketchbook is relatively new, seeming as your other one – the one with all the drawings you did while on the run – was burned after you were caught by the Snatchers. But half of the pages have been filled already since you draw when you can't sleep. You flip through the pages; flip through the various images of Seamus that you've drawn. Because this is how you cope.

You've been trying for over two months now to get the image of Seamus out of your mind. Because you don't want to remember him in his final moments. You don't want to remember how his dirty blonde hair stuck to his forehead, how the sweat dripped down his ash-covered face, how crimson looked against pale flesh. You once heard that you never wanted to remember the dead's final moments, but you never believed them until you watched him die.

Now, you would rather remember him any other way than that. However, the memory of his final moments always haunts your sleep. So you draw him in order to push it from your mind. But as the time goes on, you find you're having difficulty remembering where exactly his freckles went. And that scares the shit out of you. You don't want to forget the way that impossible blue eyes would look at you. Nor do you want to forget how his lips curved when he smiled. You don't want to forget him. So you promise yourself that you won't.

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You press your pencil to the final page of your sketchbook. Instinctively, you know that you're drawing him, just as you've always done. You draw without thought. It has long since become routine for you. It takes you less time that it would've before, a testament to how often you draw him.

When you pull the sketchbook away from yourself to inspect, you see that it's him. But it isn't. This picture is merely shaded, unlike all the other pictures of him that you've drawn. Because you've forgotten the exact shade of blue that his eyes were, and you've forgotten the ratio of brown to blonde in his hair.

His smile isn't his because it isn't the ever-so-soft upturn of the lips. And you've long since forgotten where to scatter his freckles and how many he had. There's no love, no warmth, nothing captured in his eyes. It's him, but it isn't because you've forgotten the little details that you promised yourself that you wouldn't forget.

You cry.

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It's been quite a while since you've been here. You're not exactly the biggest fan of graveyards, but you make an exception for him, always for him. In your hands, you're carrying your already full sketchbook.

You weave your way through the headstones, trying to find the one with his name on it. You sit cross-legged in front of it, your sketchbook in your lap. You sit there silently for a while because you can't force the words to come out. You take a deep breath in, and exhale.

"I can't do this, Shay," you start. And once you start, you can't stop. "I don't think I can live without you anymore. It hurts too much. I can't get the memory of you dying to stop haunting me, but, at the same time, I don't want it to because then I'll completely forget you. And I don't want that."

You pause, and take another deep breath. "I can't draw you anymore. Because I've forgotten all the little things; the things that matter, the things that make the picture come alive. And that scares me, Shay," you admit softly. "It scares me that one day, I'll wake up and won't be able to remember what you looked like at all."

You close your eyes, and try to calm yourself. "I don't want to draw. Not if I won't be able to draw you right, to get all the little things perfect like I used to. It's not worth it. I guess that's why I brought my sketchbook."

You give a faint smile because you can see him protesting against you giving up something that you love so much because him. But he was the reason you loved it so much, and drawing is nothing without him, without your muse. You tap your wand against the sketchbook, protecting it against the weather. Leaning it against the headstone, you place a permanent sticking charm on the back of it so that it won't go anywhere.

You get to your feet. "I miss you, Shay. And I regret that you never heard me tell you how much I love you before you died. But I do love you, so much." You turn on your heels to make your way out of the cemetery. You glance behind you, noticing how the wind pushed sketchbook open. The picture of Seamus that really isn't him stares back at you.

And you've never felt your heart break more.

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You wake up and stretch. It's the first night in too long that you've actually slept through the night. There were no nightmares plaguing your sleep, no feelings of being watched. You get up, dress and make breakfast before you make your way to the train station. You had debated with yourself for a while on whether you were going back to Hogwarts, and decided that you're a Gryffindor.

When you get to the station, you see all the people that you had pushed away. You made your way to the train, avoiding them. You don't smile, and you keep mostly to yourself. But somehow there's a weight that was lifted off your chest and that's a step in the right direction.

Your space gets invaded by the Seventh years that you know Seamus had spent his time with. They give you pitying looks, causing anger to well up inside you. But you say nothing as you pull out a book to read, which doesn't go unnoticed by Neville, who knows you too well.

"Where's your sketchbook?" he asks, nodding towards the book in your hand. "Wasn't it always tradition to draw the train ride to Hogwarts?"

You lift your eyes from your book. "It's with Shay," is all you say. He must see something in your eyes because he just nods and turns away, which you are thankful for. You turn your attention back to the book, wishing for the first time in a while that you had your sketchbook because it's like your safety blanket.

Though, it's time to start again, to learn to live without him. It scares you, but you know you have to do it.