WHY CAN I NOT TOUCH MY MEMORIES?
This has been done before, but late nights are not a good time to be thinking, as they lead you to all sorts of trouble. I decided to use the hours I was awake to get this written down, as it might help me.
This is dedicated to any who have lost anyone due to war.
Kya
Notes:
This story only pertains to book one through four of the Harry Potter's series.
All answers to reviews are at the very end of the story.
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Cold rain showering on a blistering hot body would seem the perfect idea for most, but all I can think about is how even the ones outside the small group joined outside the green pastures, are mourning the past. Any reporters have been kicked out of the area until after all of us have left, with even special shields being placed up to make sure that none of them try to sneak in and ruin our few moments of privacy.
But even as some of us still worry about ending up on the front page of the Daily Prophet, the reporter blasting our sorrows for all the world to see, none of us can think of anything except for the small shrub in front of us. We all stand shoulder to shoulder, leaning in to each other to try and grab warmth on such an emotional day.
We cry as one. Our thoughts intermingle with the others beside us, each thinking along the same lines.
Why were we left to bear the brunt of the aftermath when...
My shoulders shake and I feel the wind whisper in my ear. I raise my head, gazing up into the clouds up above, my mind trying to convince me that those words were real. I can still hear them bouncing inside of my brain, reminding me of what I have lost.
What all of us have lost.
I can feel the words the cloaked man in front of us is whispering, but even the small phrases he his using can not even touch the emotion inside of me. He tries to explain... but all I hear are the murmurings of one who did not know what we all lost.
He is young, not much older than twenty. He never went through what the rest of us did. His live was sheltered. He never suffered, he never fought.
He has no right to try and give the memorial when...
I lose my train of thought again. My eyes drift from the masses of grey above us and towards the building lying in an almost perfect mirror of what it was like just before it started. All the corridors that were destroyed, the towers that fell have been replaced, and it is no longer what it used to be.
Another has been built, so that this old castle may stand as a reminder to all.
But it remains empty, except for when the true survivors pass through it. Tourists travel through it daily, for a small price. The Ministry still managed to extract more from the ones it is supposed to serve. Except for any who were involved in the war. Our fare is free, for what could they take from us that have not already been stolen?
Very few of us visit. None of us wish to be reminded of what we went through. The ones who survived the entire ordeal have moved as far away as possible. We keep in contact with each other, but most have moved on, or tried to convince themselves that they have.
We all bare the scars. None of us left this war without losing something.
McGonegall, the only professor to survive, left the field of teaching, once the war ended, and retired to a small town in Wales. It was the farthest she could get away from this castle, without leaving the country. No matter how much she suffered due to the hands of the people of this island, she refuses to move off the land.
She can not stand the memories of the ghosts of her fellow professors who still haunt the castle. Her sitting at the Main Table all those years ago, her hawk-eyes always drifting among the inhabitants of the four tables, making sure that the Gryffindors and Slytherins didn't get into another fight. The other professors all laughing at the latest prank played by the Weasley twins.
Flitwick's high voice.
Snape's snarling words about Gryffindors.
Dumbledore attempting to calm her down...
The last time she wrote she told me that she was still waiting for that hefty check the Ministry had promised her, to pay for all the damages and for all the wonderful work she did during the war. She doubts she will ever get it. So do the rest of us.
All of us were given written confirmations that we would be paid handsomingly for all we did. Time has passed and we all have given up. We all live on the little money that remains in our vaults, the few coins that were not stolen when Gringotts was attacked.
We move on.
The gentle caress from the wind which has softened since this morning, rubs against my cheek. A small grin appears on my face, the first in many days. It reminds me of...
I shake my head angrily, as the tears begin to form in my eyes. My attention drifts back to the mere boy who is trying to sum up all that the mourners are feeling. His crisp blue robes almost make me feel that I should rip it off.
He obviously was rewarded by the Ministry for doing absolutely nothing, while the fighters of the war are left to live on mere Knuts and wear old, torn robes.
No more. I can take no more of this.
I find my feet drifting way from the small group that are left of the original survivors of the Hogwart's Resistance, moving along the path to where we all used to run along when we had just seen Hagrid. His hut lies like it always did before, except there is no longer his bulking form watering the cabbages he grows in his garden, the smell of the latest attempt he has made in cooking, or the sound of his flute late into the evening.
I force my head away, closing my eyes to try and reach solace before I bump into the wooden doors that were supposed to be one of the structures protecting us against the Death Eaters. They have been re-made due to the dents in the one we used to know of, and painted a horrible brown. It's probably supposed to look natural, but it's just another example of the Ministry trying to spend as little money as possible on the restoration of the national monument.
I sigh before I slowly open one of the doors. The screech of protest it makes resounds along the hallways, and as I shut my eyes and remember back to when Peeves used to fly around the castle, playing tricks and infuriating Filtch.
Both are gone now. All of them are gone. Even the ghosts could not handle the memories the place brings forth. They all moved as far away as possible for them, even Peeves who had been bonded to the castle when he died, so that they would never have to set sight on it again.
What I would not do just to have Peeves trying to soak us with water balloons again, or hear the screech as McGonegall slips on the mess beneath our feet?
Those days are long gone. The memories are all I have now.
My footsteps pound inside the halls, my ears listening to what used to be. My feet know exactly where to go; I close my eyes and relive it all.
I can almost hear the laughter and screams of the other students that used to exist in this very castle. The giggling groups of girls as in one hand they held on to the latest printing of CHARMED, the teenage female magazine that was all the rage all those years ago, the other clutching on to the small bag that carried all the essentials they would ever need in make-up. The boys jostling each other as they made their way to breakfast, teasing their friends on what they had overheard their friend saying in their sleep, the night before.
I can almost see it.
But then it is gone.
I jump when I hear scuttling, my eyes darting about until I locate the small shadow on the corner. A spider.
Something that used to be..
I can not think of this now.
The beating of the soles of my feet against the stone pounds into my head as I force myself to pick up the pace. I know my mind by now. I have had more than enough time to realise what it is capable of.
Too much time.
I come to a halt at the entrance of where the three of us always used to meet up if we had just gone to different classes. Where everything happened.
Where everything always happened.
I find myself placing my right hand against the side of my stomach. The old wound still prickles me now and then. We all knew that I wasn't supposed to have lived after I was stabbed with the dagger tipped with poison.
Somehow I did.
Even Madame Pomphrey declared it a miracle.
But that's over now.
I slide into the Great Hall, now empty of the large tables that the four Houses used to sit at. Even the table where the teachers used to eat has been removed. The Ministry will not replace it after it was smashed by the Death Eaters threw and then thrown...
I find my legs shaking, my arms holding tightly against my body as my knees give way. I slide down to the ground, the cool temperature of the stone pulsating into my warm body.
One hand rests against the floor, as the other raises to my neck. I grip the skin, one thumb on the right, the other four on my left.
I close my eyes, as the hand slowly rises from my neck, and touches the wall. My fingers are sucked to the wall, my fingers gently touch the engraving.
Underneath my fingertips lies the name and date of one of the students who did not survive.
I slowly gaze at it, forcing myself not to gasp when I realise what I am touching.
Ginny Weasley: September 16th, 1997
She never had a chance. She was never given a chance. Even before she could draw out her wand, the Dementer sucked the life out of her. The blow of her head hitting against the pavement after the foul creature was finished with her was what killed the youngest Weasley.
Unconscientiously my fingers drift downward and I am faced with another.
Bill Weasley: September 16th, 1997.
He died doing what any brother would do. He was the one who attacked the Dementer moments after it managed to get a hold on his sister. But just like her, his flame of life was cut before it could even blossom. Even his wandless magic could not save him. He managed to defeat the Dementer who sucked the soul out of his sister, but his back was turned when the Death Eater attacked.
One Aveda Kedavra and that was it.
He died moments after Ginny Weasley.
The last moments of his life will always be imprinted in my brain.
The sound of the Killing Curse from the Death Eater causing him to turn and see the green light whoosh towards him. He looking over his shoulder, seeing that he was going to die before turning to me.
His last words, as his eyes met mine, were, 'I will always love you.'
A tear slowly trails down my hot cheeks.
I do not need to look anymore. I do not need to search through the names as many of the ones who were not part of the Hogwart's Resistance, do. The dates and names of the dead are all engrained into my memory.
Frederick Weasley, January 5th, 1998.
Died in Diagon Alley, trying to defend the building, he, Lee and George had fought so hard to run their business in, and where they and other Hogwart's Resistance members had packed full of civilians, believing that they would be safe there.
The cellar ceiling gave way moments after the Death Eater torched the shop known as Weasley Wizard's Wheezes, where Fred and the innocents were. George, who had dashed out of the building to grab a seven year old witch, thought he heard Fred order him to rebuild the shop once the 'bastards' who served Lord Voldemort retreated.
George never had enough time, though
The attacks continued. Every day we or one of the Hogwart's Resistance, were battling it out in and around Diagon Alley for control.
And then his time ran out.
George Weasley: March 14th, 1999.
Died rescuing a young witch during one of the times when the Leaky Cauldron was ambushed by Death Eaters. Over fifty witches and wizards of one of the Resistance groups died in that single battle alone, but our numbers suffered the most.
The Hogwart's Resistance lost Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Percy Weasley and Lee Jordan also, due to their wounds.
Lee Jordan: March 15th 1999.
Percival Weasley: March 16th 1999.
Molly Weasley: March 19th 1999.
Arthur Weasley: March 19th 1999.
The Ministry thought that the number of Resistance members who died from The Leaky Cauldron Ambush of March 14th, 1999, would be the worst during the entire war.
None of us had any idea of what we would suffer, before the war would be over.
Other names are engraved into the walls of the Great Hall. I can still picture their faces in my head. Except with each face, the date of their death pops into my head. I can not escape it.
The figure of Dean Thomas in another argument over football with one of the boys in his House, one hand twiddling with his light brown hair as anger that would never appear anytime else would flicker in his brown eyes in the old days. There was always at some point during the fight he would make a single stomp with his right leg on the floor, even if we were in the middle of class.
I can still remember the time he lost his temper with Draco Malfoy when the Slytherin made a comment about how Muggle sports were a waste of time. I guess Snape never guessed that his foot would be trodded on in the middle of the lesson. Twenty points were taken away for physical violence and Thomas was given detention with Filtch.
Malfoy crowed about it afterward, but the points were worth it to any Gryffindor, as we all had been secretly wanting to do that to the Slytherin Head of House, for years before.
I wish we had been nicer to Snape. He had only been following his hated character to fool the Dark Lord.
Dean did.
Dean Thomas: February 31st, 1999.
The Muggle Born had died during one of the attacks on Hogwarts in the early days. He died on the day we all refused to leave Dumbledore and the teachers' sides. All the students who did not claim allegiance to the Dark Lord, fought bravely against the Death Eaters.
He died on the second day of our first ever offensive battle against the Death Eaters.
The second causality of one of our biggest battles. The mentor of the Wizarding World and a wizard who many thought insane due to the Ministry, was slain by the cruel hands of the Dark Lord himself.
I sigh. The names keep crowding into my head of all the ones who passed on.
Seamus Finnegan: February 29th 2007.
Padma Patil: May 15th 2001.
Blaise Zambini: April 13th 2000.
Madame Hootch. February 23rd 2003.
Oliver Wood. June 14th 2002.
Draco Malfoy.
I don't think anyone was more amazed than Harry and Ron was, when Draco told us that he had been a spy for Dumbledore since he was thirteen. So had Blaise, except Blaise never had time to tell us. Blaise died in a secret mission that even we did not know about.
Draco made sure that Blaise was remembered properly. Insisted Blaise's name went up on the Memorial Wall.
We never found out why they changed their mind and fought on our side, though.
Draco Malfoy: April 2nd 2001.
Ron and Harry had had an argument with Draco the night before he went off to the mission to try and figure out the latest moves Lord Voldemort was going to try and enact. I never found out exactly what the argument was about in the first place, as the boys never told me. A stupid one, they told me later on.
One that should never have been brought up.
One they wanted to apologise for, afterwards.
Never could.
He never returned.
We never found his body. We never managed to give him a proper funeral. We ended up inscribing his name on the wall. That was all we could do, and it pained us to.
If only we could have done more.
If only.
My hand drifts to the right and touches an uneven surface.
My eyes narrow as I remember the ones that used to have the honour of being listed on this wall as ones who died in the battle against the Evil Lord.
Who would have thought that they would have been spies?
Power mad, they had gone to Lord Voldemort days after the third battle, and became his moles in our Resistance. They never showed any difference in behaviour. I can still remember the nights when they would hiss that they would hope that the Dark Lord was killed in a horrific way for all the crimes he had committed.
But I guess that is what made them such great spies. No one suspected them.
It was only after the death of Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson, killed after the two Quidditch players had reported to us that they had seen the two on the Hogwarts' grounds days after the two were supposedly killed by supporters of Lord Voldemort, that we realised their true allegiances.
They were caught and cast out of Hogwarts and even scourned by their mentor, Professor Trelawney.
The two of them died in each other's arms moments after a patrol of Death Eaters came across them and killed the two lovers. They were not recognised as one of their own.
After that, the Hogwarts' Resistance never thought that we could be infiltrated again, but soon enough, another spy of the Evil Lord managed to weasel their way in, and we lost more of our good fighters.
The rat not only managed to cause us to lose warriors, but my best friends and new found family.
Ronald Weasley. Died November 2001.
A blow to the head when the Astronomy Tower collapsed, trying to rescue Harry, who was up there battling the Death Eaters which had flown into the tower by one of the small windows. Death Leaders let in by the rat.
Harry died in the same disaster.
Both of them were only twenty-one years old.
I feel another prickle creep into my eyes. They all swore to never leave me. They all promised after the death of Bill, my lover, that I would never lose another one of the group again.
All of us, especially the three of us, would grow old and die together.
What a stupid promise. It could never be fulfilled. And it was proven when one by one, they died.
Sirius Black: January 31st 2004.
Died by an arrow in the heart.
He wasn't even killed by a Death Eater or anyone who was a supporter of the Evil Lord. The action was done by a Muggle, one of the Muggles who started up a group against our kind. He died in the arms of his partner, Moony.
Sirius died in the arms of his partner, Remus.
Remus mourned. He was the never the same again. It wasn't The Marauders anymore, he once told me. It was the werewolf left by himself in the cold world. Nothing we could do or say could change it.
Not that we didn't try.
I could almost believe that he was grateful when he finally passed away. Killed in a sneak attack on Hogwarts by only Death Eaters, at dawn. He was outside, near Hagrid's old hut, paying his respects to the grave we had carefully created for Padfoot when they swarmed onto the Hogwart's grounds.
Remus Lupin: March 6th 2005.
He wouldn't have wanted to die anywhere else. To collapse in death anywhere that was close to Sirius as possible.
He was buried next to his lover.
The pain of my old wound causes me to gasp, making me forget the sadness of my friends and family who passed. The amount of cruelty I wanted to inflict on the two Gryffindors who turned on their own companions.
The cold wind has never agreed with the stab wound. Any cold weather is enough to makes sure to remind me that it is there.
Breath squeezes out between my clenched teeth.
I am alone, bearing everything all alone. Even the ones who are there, next to the shrug, remembering the fallen members of the Hogwart's Resistance they used to belong to, are not old friends of mine.
They are only colleagues. Fellow sufferers during the war.
Not my old friends.
Neville Longbottom died days before the end of the war. Hours before the Dark Lord was finally killed. Minutes before the end of the last battle.
Neville Longbottom: June 4th, 2008.
I open my mouth and howl the unfairness of it all into the empty castle, hearing it rebound against the walls that no longer even contain the paintings that were there when I had been a child. Innocent, not all of my days were spent trying to think of ways of killing the Dark Lord.
A gentle hand rests on my shoulder, cutting my scream into being silenced.
'Hermione,' he whispers, and I look up into his Weasley eyes.
Out of all the ones left, he is the closest person I have. The only one left of our original family group. He is not an old friend. An old friend is someone I knew well before the War.
He is not my lover, for my heart remains true to another.
He is a fellow sufferer.
'They are all gone,' I hiss, letting my head knock into my chest as I scrunch my eyes shut.
'They are all gone!' I repeat.
'I know,' he mutters, falling to the floor so that he can wrap his arms around me. 'I know.'
'By why did they have to die?' I say, a gasp escaping me as my stomach aches. 'Why have we been left alone?'
'Hermione,' he says softly, 'they all died believing that they lost their lives for the right cause.'
'But they shouldn't have died!' I whisper.
'We've erected a plant memorial for all of them. The shrub will never die. It can not be cut down,' he replies. 'They will never be forgotten.'
'The ones of this generation already have done that,' I answer, as he pushes me into his warm chest and nearly engulfs me with his large body.
'You need to get back to the healer,' he mutters into my ear. 'You have an appointment to see her after the service.'
'I don't want to go back to St. Mungo's, 'I say. 'I don't want this day to end. I don't want to have to return to an empty house when night falls.'
'I know,' he says, 'but we promised them that we would never sell The Burrow, among other promises.'
He need not mention the last promise we ever made to his parents. The last words from their lips.
Upon the death of the last member of the Weasley family, including any honorary members, The Burrow would be burned to the ground.
'The house reminds me of them,' I mutter, 'I can still sometimes hear Aunt Molly yell up at the stairs at the twins when we hear another one of their inventions blow up, as Ginny sits next to the fireplace, trying to mend one of her schoolbooks. And Ron is sitting thoughtfully on the couch, his knees jammed against the small table as he tries to think of a new way to beat Harry, and-'
My voice breaks.
'So do I,' he whispers, 'The last time all of us were together at The Burrow. I can still see Percy sitting at the far end of the living room, his glasses sliding down his nose as he leans his arm on the small table on his chest, finishing the latest report for that blasted department of his with us because mom insists that he continues to pretend to be loyal to the Ministry.'
I slowly raise my head, feeling his hands carefully guiding it so that it doesn't bash into him. My hazel eyes stare directly into his.
'I can see my dad with a screwdriver as he holds an instruction book in one hand and the piece of the television set he is trying to put together in the other, with me try to help him as much as possible before we have to call you over.'
His eyes have glassed over as he sinks into the memory.
'Remus Lupin and Bill standing by the kitchen door, trying to stop that godfather of Harry's from entering the kitchen and eating all of the dinner that mum is trying to prepare,' he says. 'The three getting into another fight which ends with all of us, the twins and Lee jumping down the stairs to join in and even Percy, throwing cushions at each other.'
'Charlie,' I whisper softly, the colour returning to his eyes before I feel his gaze upon me once again, 'do you promise to never leave me? I can't bear to be alone.'
He nods.
'We will die together,' he replies. 'There is not going to be one left alone with the others gone. Which ever one of us goes first, the second will follow.'
'Even if it is not by natural means,' I murmur.
He gently kisses my forehead before we grasp each other into a hug, our minds entwined again with our memories.
The End
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Reviews:
Viz17: Thank you for your words. I am glad that people didn't get too confused and all of the main character's thoughts didn't get in the way of the tragedy.
Cecilia Orechio: I hope that this new version will be less confusing and you can figure out exactly who has died and who is still alive.
Thanks for your kind words.
Lumos nox8101: Thanks for you kind words. I am so glad that the story reached the right reactions.
This has been done before, but late nights are not a good time to be thinking, as they lead you to all sorts of trouble. I decided to use the hours I was awake to get this written down, as it might help me.
This is dedicated to any who have lost anyone due to war.
Kya
Notes:
This story only pertains to book one through four of the Harry Potter's series.
All answers to reviews are at the very end of the story.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Cold rain showering on a blistering hot body would seem the perfect idea for most, but all I can think about is how even the ones outside the small group joined outside the green pastures, are mourning the past. Any reporters have been kicked out of the area until after all of us have left, with even special shields being placed up to make sure that none of them try to sneak in and ruin our few moments of privacy.
But even as some of us still worry about ending up on the front page of the Daily Prophet, the reporter blasting our sorrows for all the world to see, none of us can think of anything except for the small shrub in front of us. We all stand shoulder to shoulder, leaning in to each other to try and grab warmth on such an emotional day.
We cry as one. Our thoughts intermingle with the others beside us, each thinking along the same lines.
Why were we left to bear the brunt of the aftermath when...
My shoulders shake and I feel the wind whisper in my ear. I raise my head, gazing up into the clouds up above, my mind trying to convince me that those words were real. I can still hear them bouncing inside of my brain, reminding me of what I have lost.
What all of us have lost.
I can feel the words the cloaked man in front of us is whispering, but even the small phrases he his using can not even touch the emotion inside of me. He tries to explain... but all I hear are the murmurings of one who did not know what we all lost.
He is young, not much older than twenty. He never went through what the rest of us did. His live was sheltered. He never suffered, he never fought.
He has no right to try and give the memorial when...
I lose my train of thought again. My eyes drift from the masses of grey above us and towards the building lying in an almost perfect mirror of what it was like just before it started. All the corridors that were destroyed, the towers that fell have been replaced, and it is no longer what it used to be.
Another has been built, so that this old castle may stand as a reminder to all.
But it remains empty, except for when the true survivors pass through it. Tourists travel through it daily, for a small price. The Ministry still managed to extract more from the ones it is supposed to serve. Except for any who were involved in the war. Our fare is free, for what could they take from us that have not already been stolen?
Very few of us visit. None of us wish to be reminded of what we went through. The ones who survived the entire ordeal have moved as far away as possible. We keep in contact with each other, but most have moved on, or tried to convince themselves that they have.
We all bare the scars. None of us left this war without losing something.
McGonegall, the only professor to survive, left the field of teaching, once the war ended, and retired to a small town in Wales. It was the farthest she could get away from this castle, without leaving the country. No matter how much she suffered due to the hands of the people of this island, she refuses to move off the land.
She can not stand the memories of the ghosts of her fellow professors who still haunt the castle. Her sitting at the Main Table all those years ago, her hawk-eyes always drifting among the inhabitants of the four tables, making sure that the Gryffindors and Slytherins didn't get into another fight. The other professors all laughing at the latest prank played by the Weasley twins.
Flitwick's high voice.
Snape's snarling words about Gryffindors.
Dumbledore attempting to calm her down...
The last time she wrote she told me that she was still waiting for that hefty check the Ministry had promised her, to pay for all the damages and for all the wonderful work she did during the war. She doubts she will ever get it. So do the rest of us.
All of us were given written confirmations that we would be paid handsomingly for all we did. Time has passed and we all have given up. We all live on the little money that remains in our vaults, the few coins that were not stolen when Gringotts was attacked.
We move on.
The gentle caress from the wind which has softened since this morning, rubs against my cheek. A small grin appears on my face, the first in many days. It reminds me of...
I shake my head angrily, as the tears begin to form in my eyes. My attention drifts back to the mere boy who is trying to sum up all that the mourners are feeling. His crisp blue robes almost make me feel that I should rip it off.
He obviously was rewarded by the Ministry for doing absolutely nothing, while the fighters of the war are left to live on mere Knuts and wear old, torn robes.
No more. I can take no more of this.
I find my feet drifting way from the small group that are left of the original survivors of the Hogwart's Resistance, moving along the path to where we all used to run along when we had just seen Hagrid. His hut lies like it always did before, except there is no longer his bulking form watering the cabbages he grows in his garden, the smell of the latest attempt he has made in cooking, or the sound of his flute late into the evening.
I force my head away, closing my eyes to try and reach solace before I bump into the wooden doors that were supposed to be one of the structures protecting us against the Death Eaters. They have been re-made due to the dents in the one we used to know of, and painted a horrible brown. It's probably supposed to look natural, but it's just another example of the Ministry trying to spend as little money as possible on the restoration of the national monument.
I sigh before I slowly open one of the doors. The screech of protest it makes resounds along the hallways, and as I shut my eyes and remember back to when Peeves used to fly around the castle, playing tricks and infuriating Filtch.
Both are gone now. All of them are gone. Even the ghosts could not handle the memories the place brings forth. They all moved as far away as possible for them, even Peeves who had been bonded to the castle when he died, so that they would never have to set sight on it again.
What I would not do just to have Peeves trying to soak us with water balloons again, or hear the screech as McGonegall slips on the mess beneath our feet?
Those days are long gone. The memories are all I have now.
My footsteps pound inside the halls, my ears listening to what used to be. My feet know exactly where to go; I close my eyes and relive it all.
I can almost hear the laughter and screams of the other students that used to exist in this very castle. The giggling groups of girls as in one hand they held on to the latest printing of CHARMED, the teenage female magazine that was all the rage all those years ago, the other clutching on to the small bag that carried all the essentials they would ever need in make-up. The boys jostling each other as they made their way to breakfast, teasing their friends on what they had overheard their friend saying in their sleep, the night before.
I can almost see it.
But then it is gone.
I jump when I hear scuttling, my eyes darting about until I locate the small shadow on the corner. A spider.
Something that used to be..
I can not think of this now.
The beating of the soles of my feet against the stone pounds into my head as I force myself to pick up the pace. I know my mind by now. I have had more than enough time to realise what it is capable of.
Too much time.
I come to a halt at the entrance of where the three of us always used to meet up if we had just gone to different classes. Where everything happened.
Where everything always happened.
I find myself placing my right hand against the side of my stomach. The old wound still prickles me now and then. We all knew that I wasn't supposed to have lived after I was stabbed with the dagger tipped with poison.
Somehow I did.
Even Madame Pomphrey declared it a miracle.
But that's over now.
I slide into the Great Hall, now empty of the large tables that the four Houses used to sit at. Even the table where the teachers used to eat has been removed. The Ministry will not replace it after it was smashed by the Death Eaters threw and then thrown...
I find my legs shaking, my arms holding tightly against my body as my knees give way. I slide down to the ground, the cool temperature of the stone pulsating into my warm body.
One hand rests against the floor, as the other raises to my neck. I grip the skin, one thumb on the right, the other four on my left.
I close my eyes, as the hand slowly rises from my neck, and touches the wall. My fingers are sucked to the wall, my fingers gently touch the engraving.
Underneath my fingertips lies the name and date of one of the students who did not survive.
I slowly gaze at it, forcing myself not to gasp when I realise what I am touching.
Ginny Weasley: September 16th, 1997
She never had a chance. She was never given a chance. Even before she could draw out her wand, the Dementer sucked the life out of her. The blow of her head hitting against the pavement after the foul creature was finished with her was what killed the youngest Weasley.
Unconscientiously my fingers drift downward and I am faced with another.
Bill Weasley: September 16th, 1997.
He died doing what any brother would do. He was the one who attacked the Dementer moments after it managed to get a hold on his sister. But just like her, his flame of life was cut before it could even blossom. Even his wandless magic could not save him. He managed to defeat the Dementer who sucked the soul out of his sister, but his back was turned when the Death Eater attacked.
One Aveda Kedavra and that was it.
He died moments after Ginny Weasley.
The last moments of his life will always be imprinted in my brain.
The sound of the Killing Curse from the Death Eater causing him to turn and see the green light whoosh towards him. He looking over his shoulder, seeing that he was going to die before turning to me.
His last words, as his eyes met mine, were, 'I will always love you.'
A tear slowly trails down my hot cheeks.
I do not need to look anymore. I do not need to search through the names as many of the ones who were not part of the Hogwart's Resistance, do. The dates and names of the dead are all engrained into my memory.
Frederick Weasley, January 5th, 1998.
Died in Diagon Alley, trying to defend the building, he, Lee and George had fought so hard to run their business in, and where they and other Hogwart's Resistance members had packed full of civilians, believing that they would be safe there.
The cellar ceiling gave way moments after the Death Eater torched the shop known as Weasley Wizard's Wheezes, where Fred and the innocents were. George, who had dashed out of the building to grab a seven year old witch, thought he heard Fred order him to rebuild the shop once the 'bastards' who served Lord Voldemort retreated.
George never had enough time, though
The attacks continued. Every day we or one of the Hogwart's Resistance, were battling it out in and around Diagon Alley for control.
And then his time ran out.
George Weasley: March 14th, 1999.
Died rescuing a young witch during one of the times when the Leaky Cauldron was ambushed by Death Eaters. Over fifty witches and wizards of one of the Resistance groups died in that single battle alone, but our numbers suffered the most.
The Hogwart's Resistance lost Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Percy Weasley and Lee Jordan also, due to their wounds.
Lee Jordan: March 15th 1999.
Percival Weasley: March 16th 1999.
Molly Weasley: March 19th 1999.
Arthur Weasley: March 19th 1999.
The Ministry thought that the number of Resistance members who died from The Leaky Cauldron Ambush of March 14th, 1999, would be the worst during the entire war.
None of us had any idea of what we would suffer, before the war would be over.
Other names are engraved into the walls of the Great Hall. I can still picture their faces in my head. Except with each face, the date of their death pops into my head. I can not escape it.
The figure of Dean Thomas in another argument over football with one of the boys in his House, one hand twiddling with his light brown hair as anger that would never appear anytime else would flicker in his brown eyes in the old days. There was always at some point during the fight he would make a single stomp with his right leg on the floor, even if we were in the middle of class.
I can still remember the time he lost his temper with Draco Malfoy when the Slytherin made a comment about how Muggle sports were a waste of time. I guess Snape never guessed that his foot would be trodded on in the middle of the lesson. Twenty points were taken away for physical violence and Thomas was given detention with Filtch.
Malfoy crowed about it afterward, but the points were worth it to any Gryffindor, as we all had been secretly wanting to do that to the Slytherin Head of House, for years before.
I wish we had been nicer to Snape. He had only been following his hated character to fool the Dark Lord.
Dean did.
Dean Thomas: February 31st, 1999.
The Muggle Born had died during one of the attacks on Hogwarts in the early days. He died on the day we all refused to leave Dumbledore and the teachers' sides. All the students who did not claim allegiance to the Dark Lord, fought bravely against the Death Eaters.
He died on the second day of our first ever offensive battle against the Death Eaters.
The second causality of one of our biggest battles. The mentor of the Wizarding World and a wizard who many thought insane due to the Ministry, was slain by the cruel hands of the Dark Lord himself.
I sigh. The names keep crowding into my head of all the ones who passed on.
Seamus Finnegan: February 29th 2007.
Padma Patil: May 15th 2001.
Blaise Zambini: April 13th 2000.
Madame Hootch. February 23rd 2003.
Oliver Wood. June 14th 2002.
Draco Malfoy.
I don't think anyone was more amazed than Harry and Ron was, when Draco told us that he had been a spy for Dumbledore since he was thirteen. So had Blaise, except Blaise never had time to tell us. Blaise died in a secret mission that even we did not know about.
Draco made sure that Blaise was remembered properly. Insisted Blaise's name went up on the Memorial Wall.
We never found out why they changed their mind and fought on our side, though.
Draco Malfoy: April 2nd 2001.
Ron and Harry had had an argument with Draco the night before he went off to the mission to try and figure out the latest moves Lord Voldemort was going to try and enact. I never found out exactly what the argument was about in the first place, as the boys never told me. A stupid one, they told me later on.
One that should never have been brought up.
One they wanted to apologise for, afterwards.
Never could.
He never returned.
We never found his body. We never managed to give him a proper funeral. We ended up inscribing his name on the wall. That was all we could do, and it pained us to.
If only we could have done more.
If only.
My hand drifts to the right and touches an uneven surface.
My eyes narrow as I remember the ones that used to have the honour of being listed on this wall as ones who died in the battle against the Evil Lord.
Who would have thought that they would have been spies?
Power mad, they had gone to Lord Voldemort days after the third battle, and became his moles in our Resistance. They never showed any difference in behaviour. I can still remember the nights when they would hiss that they would hope that the Dark Lord was killed in a horrific way for all the crimes he had committed.
But I guess that is what made them such great spies. No one suspected them.
It was only after the death of Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson, killed after the two Quidditch players had reported to us that they had seen the two on the Hogwarts' grounds days after the two were supposedly killed by supporters of Lord Voldemort, that we realised their true allegiances.
They were caught and cast out of Hogwarts and even scourned by their mentor, Professor Trelawney.
The two of them died in each other's arms moments after a patrol of Death Eaters came across them and killed the two lovers. They were not recognised as one of their own.
After that, the Hogwarts' Resistance never thought that we could be infiltrated again, but soon enough, another spy of the Evil Lord managed to weasel their way in, and we lost more of our good fighters.
The rat not only managed to cause us to lose warriors, but my best friends and new found family.
Ronald Weasley. Died November 2001.
A blow to the head when the Astronomy Tower collapsed, trying to rescue Harry, who was up there battling the Death Eaters which had flown into the tower by one of the small windows. Death Leaders let in by the rat.
Harry died in the same disaster.
Both of them were only twenty-one years old.
I feel another prickle creep into my eyes. They all swore to never leave me. They all promised after the death of Bill, my lover, that I would never lose another one of the group again.
All of us, especially the three of us, would grow old and die together.
What a stupid promise. It could never be fulfilled. And it was proven when one by one, they died.
Sirius Black: January 31st 2004.
Died by an arrow in the heart.
He wasn't even killed by a Death Eater or anyone who was a supporter of the Evil Lord. The action was done by a Muggle, one of the Muggles who started up a group against our kind. He died in the arms of his partner, Moony.
Sirius died in the arms of his partner, Remus.
Remus mourned. He was the never the same again. It wasn't The Marauders anymore, he once told me. It was the werewolf left by himself in the cold world. Nothing we could do or say could change it.
Not that we didn't try.
I could almost believe that he was grateful when he finally passed away. Killed in a sneak attack on Hogwarts by only Death Eaters, at dawn. He was outside, near Hagrid's old hut, paying his respects to the grave we had carefully created for Padfoot when they swarmed onto the Hogwart's grounds.
Remus Lupin: March 6th 2005.
He wouldn't have wanted to die anywhere else. To collapse in death anywhere that was close to Sirius as possible.
He was buried next to his lover.
The pain of my old wound causes me to gasp, making me forget the sadness of my friends and family who passed. The amount of cruelty I wanted to inflict on the two Gryffindors who turned on their own companions.
The cold wind has never agreed with the stab wound. Any cold weather is enough to makes sure to remind me that it is there.
Breath squeezes out between my clenched teeth.
I am alone, bearing everything all alone. Even the ones who are there, next to the shrug, remembering the fallen members of the Hogwart's Resistance they used to belong to, are not old friends of mine.
They are only colleagues. Fellow sufferers during the war.
Not my old friends.
Neville Longbottom died days before the end of the war. Hours before the Dark Lord was finally killed. Minutes before the end of the last battle.
Neville Longbottom: June 4th, 2008.
I open my mouth and howl the unfairness of it all into the empty castle, hearing it rebound against the walls that no longer even contain the paintings that were there when I had been a child. Innocent, not all of my days were spent trying to think of ways of killing the Dark Lord.
A gentle hand rests on my shoulder, cutting my scream into being silenced.
'Hermione,' he whispers, and I look up into his Weasley eyes.
Out of all the ones left, he is the closest person I have. The only one left of our original family group. He is not an old friend. An old friend is someone I knew well before the War.
He is not my lover, for my heart remains true to another.
He is a fellow sufferer.
'They are all gone,' I hiss, letting my head knock into my chest as I scrunch my eyes shut.
'They are all gone!' I repeat.
'I know,' he mutters, falling to the floor so that he can wrap his arms around me. 'I know.'
'By why did they have to die?' I say, a gasp escaping me as my stomach aches. 'Why have we been left alone?'
'Hermione,' he says softly, 'they all died believing that they lost their lives for the right cause.'
'But they shouldn't have died!' I whisper.
'We've erected a plant memorial for all of them. The shrub will never die. It can not be cut down,' he replies. 'They will never be forgotten.'
'The ones of this generation already have done that,' I answer, as he pushes me into his warm chest and nearly engulfs me with his large body.
'You need to get back to the healer,' he mutters into my ear. 'You have an appointment to see her after the service.'
'I don't want to go back to St. Mungo's, 'I say. 'I don't want this day to end. I don't want to have to return to an empty house when night falls.'
'I know,' he says, 'but we promised them that we would never sell The Burrow, among other promises.'
He need not mention the last promise we ever made to his parents. The last words from their lips.
Upon the death of the last member of the Weasley family, including any honorary members, The Burrow would be burned to the ground.
'The house reminds me of them,' I mutter, 'I can still sometimes hear Aunt Molly yell up at the stairs at the twins when we hear another one of their inventions blow up, as Ginny sits next to the fireplace, trying to mend one of her schoolbooks. And Ron is sitting thoughtfully on the couch, his knees jammed against the small table as he tries to think of a new way to beat Harry, and-'
My voice breaks.
'So do I,' he whispers, 'The last time all of us were together at The Burrow. I can still see Percy sitting at the far end of the living room, his glasses sliding down his nose as he leans his arm on the small table on his chest, finishing the latest report for that blasted department of his with us because mom insists that he continues to pretend to be loyal to the Ministry.'
I slowly raise my head, feeling his hands carefully guiding it so that it doesn't bash into him. My hazel eyes stare directly into his.
'I can see my dad with a screwdriver as he holds an instruction book in one hand and the piece of the television set he is trying to put together in the other, with me try to help him as much as possible before we have to call you over.'
His eyes have glassed over as he sinks into the memory.
'Remus Lupin and Bill standing by the kitchen door, trying to stop that godfather of Harry's from entering the kitchen and eating all of the dinner that mum is trying to prepare,' he says. 'The three getting into another fight which ends with all of us, the twins and Lee jumping down the stairs to join in and even Percy, throwing cushions at each other.'
'Charlie,' I whisper softly, the colour returning to his eyes before I feel his gaze upon me once again, 'do you promise to never leave me? I can't bear to be alone.'
He nods.
'We will die together,' he replies. 'There is not going to be one left alone with the others gone. Which ever one of us goes first, the second will follow.'
'Even if it is not by natural means,' I murmur.
He gently kisses my forehead before we grasp each other into a hug, our minds entwined again with our memories.
The End
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Reviews:
Viz17: Thank you for your words. I am glad that people didn't get too confused and all of the main character's thoughts didn't get in the way of the tragedy.
Cecilia Orechio: I hope that this new version will be less confusing and you can figure out exactly who has died and who is still alive.
Thanks for your kind words.
Lumos nox8101: Thanks for you kind words. I am so glad that the story reached the right reactions.