I know. I haven't updated any of my other stories in a very long time, but I will make up no excuses. The only one that I can give, at least for this month, is that I have been absorbed with my first year at nanowrimo, and it would be childish of me to give any other excuse than that. My other stories hold no interest for me while I am working on my novel, though this literally popped out of nowhere while I was listening to Toxic by Yael Naim. I hope you enjoy it, and I have no idea how long it will be.

Devils Cup

Falling

He slams his fist into the nearest wall and felt his knuckles crunching with the blow, his free hand yanking desperately at chunks of his black hair as he struggled to rein in his emotions. He stood just outside of the room that kept both Hermione's and Ron's body, his eyes burning as he jerked his forehead towards the wall in order to try and chase the anguish gathering in his chest.

It's not fair, his thoughts supply him mutely, as if he couldn't have realized it without thinking it. He feels the tell –tale burn at the corners of his eyes as his throat constricts and he scrabbles at the plaster walls, his knees weakening on their own accord.

Why? Why, why? The single worded question runs through his mind over and over again, flooding his mind hopelessly as his knees finally give out beneath him and he thumps to the ground with silent tears finally breaching his lids and pouring down his cheeks as he stares blearily at the wall that he had just bee abusing with his hands.

Just close your eyes, Hermione's weak voice whispers in his mind in memory, her beautiful pale face twisted into a smile as she looked up at him from the bed in which the healers had placed her in, her brown hair sticking to her sweaty forehead as tired eyes skimmed over his face. On a bed beside her, Ron laid weakly, a strained smile curling on his lips as well. They both sported the signs of the curse they had been hit with, their bodies skinny and nearly boneless. He was surprised when a too cold hand wraps around his wrist, causing him to jerk his thoughts and attention back to Hermione, his anguished green eyes staring into her own muddied cocoa.

He had grappled with his words but had nothing to offer her, the battle between him and his grief closing in on him faster than he would have liked.

Ron's voice cracked into existence but Harry merely looked down at his feet, his hand clenching tightly onto Hermione's wrist as his world started crumbling around him one word at a time.

You're safe now, mate. The words came with such relief and sincerity that Harry had nearly lost it then and there as he watched Hermione reach across the space between their beds and Ron met her halfway, their hands closing and entwining fingers with each other as they shared a sad, poetic smile between them. It was so full of love for each other that it made Harry choke up and look away, fists clenching.

The brilliant witch was the first one to go when her eyes had turned glassy and her hand tried but failed to keep a grip on Ron's hand, her body fighting the inevitable death that was boring down upon her, heedless of her struggles.

She gasped once, then twice, and her clouded eyes turned from Ron's horrified and desperate face to look at Harry, her lips twitching into a barely there smile against the pain as she reached out towards him slowly. He went to reach back, to hold her hand in the obvious agony that she was feeling, but just as his fingertips brushed hers, her arm fell limply back at her side and the light faded from her eyes as her lips parted in a last, silent 'Oh' of enlightenment.

No, Ron had whispered out, brokenly, as Hermione's grip went slack in his hand, and the young man struggled fruitlessly not to allow himself to dissolve into tears. The attempt failed in the end the red head clutched tighter to the rapidly cooling hand, his face scrunching up as he let out a broken sob as his eyes turned on Harry, as if he had the answer on how to bring her back, to make it a lie that she had died in the first place. The young red head had followed his lover into the next life with ease, slipping from his body as if he had been drug by Hermione herself without the intent of fighting against her as her spirit coaxed him into her own realm.

Now, standing outside of the room, he feels as if his ribs were attempting to pierce his lungs with every inhale that he took, his throat constricting and convulsing as he dry heaved towards the floor, the hot tears tracking down his face and staining the front of his robes.

It was too much, too much, and he found himself slowly but surely delving into the darkness that had been trying to consume him for years.