Eleven
She was just eleven.
She had been innocent and silent and pale before she met him.
Now she was even more silent. There was nothing to say to anyone anymore.
He was the only one worth living for.
Maybe he was worth dying for.
He was sixteen, and dark and so much more of a gentleman than all the boys in her year.
He had an aura of danger that lingered around him.
It should have told her something.
Because it was always there.
It would not go away.
She should have known that he would not try to make it leave.
She should have known that he liked it.
He wrote to her. And she wrote back.
She did not know what would come of it.
But maybe she would have done it still, had she known.
He was like that.
She would have done anything for him.
She did not know that he knew.
She did not know that he laughed when he realized it.
She did not know how naive she was.
Only he did.
No one knew.
No one noticed.
No one saw how she grew paler and paler. Until she was nothing more than a wraith who sat like a ghost at the table and ate nothing.
And still no one saw. Even then.
Even the Boy Who Lived did not see. And they said he was especially sensitive.
Not to her.
She tried to end the conversations with the dangerous one, again and again.
It did not work.
He always won her back. Always.
She could not figure out how.
She would do anything for him. And he knew it.
And he drained her soul, slowly. Like sucking a watery beverage through a straw until it becomes nothingness.
That was what she was becoming.
That was what she would soon be.
Then he came to her one day.
He took her far beneath the school.
He took her. And he took her soul nearly in full.
Before he came to take it from her she stood trembling and said, shakily but firmly,
"I would have died for you. You know that."
He laughed again.
Because he did know.
His mouth curved into a smile.
"I have always known."
She was almost unconscious and he knelt beside her still form and took her white hand in his.
He kissed her colorless lips. It was a farewell.
She was nearly gone.
She was to die beside him.
But her lips moved, almost not at all, and an almost inaudible whisper reached his ears.
"You wanted me to die in front of you. You wanted me to die for you."
There was fear in her eyes.
She was only eleven.
She would have died for him.
And she was going to.
She was just eleven.
She had been innocent and silent and pale before she met him.
Now she was even more silent. There was nothing to say to anyone anymore.
He was the only one worth living for.
Maybe he was worth dying for.
He was sixteen, and dark and so much more of a gentleman than all the boys in her year.
He had an aura of danger that lingered around him.
It should have told her something.
Because it was always there.
It would not go away.
She should have known that he would not try to make it leave.
She should have known that he liked it.
He wrote to her. And she wrote back.
She did not know what would come of it.
But maybe she would have done it still, had she known.
He was like that.
She would have done anything for him.
She did not know that he knew.
She did not know that he laughed when he realized it.
She did not know how naive she was.
Only he did.
No one knew.
No one noticed.
No one saw how she grew paler and paler. Until she was nothing more than a wraith who sat like a ghost at the table and ate nothing.
And still no one saw. Even then.
Even the Boy Who Lived did not see. And they said he was especially sensitive.
Not to her.
She tried to end the conversations with the dangerous one, again and again.
It did not work.
He always won her back. Always.
She could not figure out how.
She would do anything for him. And he knew it.
And he drained her soul, slowly. Like sucking a watery beverage through a straw until it becomes nothingness.
That was what she was becoming.
That was what she would soon be.
Then he came to her one day.
He took her far beneath the school.
He took her. And he took her soul nearly in full.
Before he came to take it from her she stood trembling and said, shakily but firmly,
"I would have died for you. You know that."
He laughed again.
Because he did know.
His mouth curved into a smile.
"I have always known."
She was almost unconscious and he knelt beside her still form and took her white hand in his.
He kissed her colorless lips. It was a farewell.
She was nearly gone.
She was to die beside him.
But her lips moved, almost not at all, and an almost inaudible whisper reached his ears.
"You wanted me to die in front of you. You wanted me to die for you."
There was fear in her eyes.
She was only eleven.
She would have died for him.
And she was going to.