Disclaimer: "I Am Jack's Wasted Life" –Fight Club
A/N: Talking to a friend late at night, I was suddenly inspired to write this. That, or I just didn't feel like going to bed yet.
Living Backwards
I look at the world in a thousand ways, each one better and more fascinating than how it truly is. Silence when there should be speaking. Immobility when there should be action. Denial in place of emotion. Isn't it funny, isn't it truly ironic, that you never realize what should have happened until nothing happened in its place?
Harry stared out of the window of a bookstore, rain trickling down in intricate patterns. His hand was pressed against the cool glass, smudging it slightly as he stared out at darkening street beyond. Harry had never been much of a fan of reading, but he found himself coming to this location more and more often as the years passed. He was twenty-five now and it was still so hard to believe that over seven years had passed since the final battle. The time had gone by so fast, but the fact remained, that it indeed had gone.
He saw the world through reminiscent eyes. It was as if he could only look backward. Not regret, perhaps, but wonder.
"The store will be closing in five minutes," a female voice spoke across the store, magically magnified, "please bring all final purchases to the check out counter. We will be opening again tomorrow at eight."
Harry checked his watch, five till ten already. Where had the time gone? He stood slowly and stretched, quietly making his way out of the store. He never bought anything, but no one seemed to care much.
He walked down the muddy street with no destination in mind. The rain had stopped for the moment, but overhead the clouds spread ominously across the sky. A cold wind picked up and he drew his cloak tighter around his body, shivering slightly. A half-formed idea floated through his head and, as he examined it more closely, he decided to act upon it. There was nothing better to do, really. Before he could change his mind he closed his eyes and, with a small pop, had apparated.
He was standing at the doorway of a cozy little house, placed comfortably on the outskirts of a small village. He walked up to the door and, though it was late, rang the bell. The sound of footsteps could be heard from within, a moment's pause, then the door opened a crack, letting light spill out in a golden pool on the ground.
"Blimey, Harry?" came a stunned voice from within.
Harry nodded and the door was thrust open all the way, revealing the tall lanky form of his old school friend, Ron Weasley.
"Come in, mate, come in!" Ron exclaimed, still shocked. Harry followed him through the door and entered a small sitting room. He sat down on a sofa next to the fire and Ron took the armchair across from him. "Blimey," he said again, "It's been, what, five years now? Six?"
"Seven," corrected Harry, "remember I helped you move in here? A couple months after the battle?"
Ron counted on his fingers for a moment, and then looked up at Harry, "Course I remember, course. Seven years, my god."
Harry allowed himself a small smile, "How have you been Ron?"
"Oh well enough, you know. I've got a wife now, some kids, a nice enough job at the Ministry. What more could a more could a man ask for, eh?"
"A wife, really? So who's the lucky one?"
"A charming young muggle girl from the village. She didn't care that I'm a wizard, only wanted to get married, leaving me to proudly destroy another pureblood line." He said with a smile and a mock-bow.
"Good for you, Ron, good for you! You definitely deserved a happy life."
Ron gave a contented sigh and leaned back in his chair, "But enough about me, how have you been?"
Harry's smile faltered, "Oh, well enough …" he trailed off.
A concerned look had found its way onto Ron's face, "Harry…?"
"Don't do much, you know, spend a lot of time thinking. I go to a bookstore every now and again." He stared pointedly at the blank wall above Ron's head as he said all this.
The two lapsed into silence for a few minutes. Ron picked at a loose thread on the armchair, looking decidedly awkward, "Harry?" he said after a moment.
Beat. "Yeah?"
"You loved her, didn't you?"
There was a sharp intake of breath. Harry's eyes suddenly acquired that guarded look Ron remembered so well. Beat. Beat. "Who?"
Ron looked up, looked directly at Harry, "Hermione."
There was a pause. Everything Harry had been so carefully suppressing for the past seven years poured into his mind with the intensity of a floodgate that had just been opened. One image stood out more clearly than the rest; a body on the floor among the dead, a body that, in Harry's mind, should not be there, could not be there. Hermione's body. The only recollection he had of the months afterward was helping Ron move into this very house. It was as if his subconscious knew he would need that information seven years later.
"Harry?" Ron's voice broke into Harry's recollection.
"Yeah, Ron, yeah, I did."
"And you haven't ever, you know…"
"What?"
"Moved on?"
Harry shook his head. "I haven't really done much at all. I just, you know, wonder what might have been if I had, you know, said something, done something before…before it happened."
"Harry," Ron said softly, firelight throwing into relief his concerned features, "that's no way to live."
These were the words Harry needed to hear. They hit him hard, but they hit him none the less. He stood up, "Well it's late, I'd better go."
"Oh…are you sure?"
"Yes."
The two friends walked to the door. Ron took Harry's cloak from the coat rack, his hand on the doorknob.
"Night, Ron," said Harry, stepping out into a light drizzle.
"Night Harry." He watched the retreating figure for a moment then, right before it had disappeared out of sight completely, he yelled, "Good luck!"