All Was Well
Chapter 1: An Anniversary
Pansy
She wakes up in cold sweat and panting, despite the cold; relief pulsating through her. She wipes at her eyes and feels the warm wetness against her palm and wills for the tears to stop. Climbing out of the bed, she turns on the lights, checking every nook and cranny of the room fervently, looking for the monster preserved in her conscience.
Every Saturday she takes the train to visit her mother and they have tea. It's bothersome to wake up earlier than she would want to in the weekend, but the routine is comforting to Pansy; a constant stability in her life that keeps her grounded.
"You should go," her mother says the next day. Wrinkly hands touch hers briefly, blue eyes accusing and comforting at the same time. Pansy wonders how she does it.
"What are you talking about, mum," she says, and the tone is too soft and weak for her liking.
"You don't need to try and hide anything from me, Pansy," her mother says, pausing her stirring to stare at her daughter pointedly.
I'm scared. What will they say? What's happened to the others? What if they're suffering? What if they're not? "What if I don't want to?" she asks instead and drops her teaspoon on the table with a clunk to still the voices in her head.
Her mother frowns and takes a sip of her tea before she responds, "Well, sometimes you don't have a say in the matter."
Pansy shakes her head and puts more sugar in her tea.
Pansy tries not to look at the calendar. She tries to concentrate on the numbers and figures and constellations on her desk; something within the grasp of her understanding - and not a memory of something that happened four years ago and doesn't really have a place in the present. The here and now.
"Keep moving forward," she says to herself, trying to seize every shred of courage she can, but she knows she's no Gryffindor.
Hilda, her boss, walks by and says, "Excuse me?"
Pansy shakes her head, confused, and doesn't take notice of the amusement in her boss' eyes.
"You've been acting weird lately," Hilda comments, and Pansy doesn't know whether or not she should be grateful for this distraction. "Is it because of a," Hilda pauses for melodramatic effect, "boy?"
Pansy's heart skips a beat, focuses on Hilda's raised eyebrow, blinks back tears and forces a smile, "No." Yes, she thinks, but not that kind of an affair.
Hilda smiles, winks and heads to her office, humming cheerfully.
His face is all she can see in the dark. The flames engulfing him, hearing her voice and remembering how her finger shook as she shouted, "But Potter's right there! He's right there!" Remembered how scared she was, and all the wands were pointed at her; at them. Remembered opening letters upon letters with curses and jinxes on them. Nasty messages. Accusing messages. The sound of a rock smashing her window, and her father roaring, "Get away! Get away!" Voices rallying for her to get out of the country. The memories block out sleep, and she presses her hands against her head and prays for an Obliviate curse her way.
Days pass by, creeping closer the crossed out date in her calendar. An owl arrives from her mother, a one-way ticket to England. That Saturday she stays at home instead of visiting her mother in a petulant attempt at revenge. It takes a few more nights without sleep and wallowing in regret and self-pity and before she knows it she is standing in front of a massive ship, ticket clutched tightly in her hands. She gives them to the officer and the woman glares at the crumpled piece of paper before letting Pansy pass.
Despite of the waves, the ship sails on stably. Pansy watches the sun rise with the familiar feeling of a hand gripping around her heart tightly, and when the harbor comes to sight, she runs over to the railing and throws up in the sea.
She pays for a room at a Bed and Breakfast, just across the street of a shabby pub. And more importantly, at a walking distance from where she knew Vince would be buried. She dyes her hair, takes a shower and hastily puts on some clean clothes – muggle clothes – and a hat, before heading out.
He's buried in a humble cemetery, near a small church. Along with the rest of the people who died in the war. Not in his family's cemetery. She passes Collin Creevey's grave and shivers, and drags her feet to the stone where "Vincent Crabbe" was engraved. Looking around warily, she takes off her hat and tries to find her voice. "Hello, Vince," it comes out in merely a whisper, but she figures he can hear her anyway. Her knees wobble at his name, and she falls to her knees on the grass. "It's been a long time." There's a lot more she wants to say to him, but as soon as the words leave her mouth, she feels something break inside of her, and there is little else she can do but cry.