Part 1:
Hand Magic
Prologue: Savior
It kills me not to know this but I've all but just forgotten
What the color of her eyes were and her scars or how she got them
As the telling signs of age rain down a single tear is dropping
Through the valleys of an aging face that this world has forgotten
There is no reconciliation that will put me in my place
And there is no time like the present to drink these draining seconds
But seldom do these words ring true when I'm constantly failing you
Like walls that we just can't break through until we disappear
~Savior by Rise Against
Dearest Neville,
The War over here hasn't gotten any better. It seems that every day I turn around and see more carnage, more terror, more hurt. I beg every day to be taken home, to be allowed to go home to you; but it doesn't seem like the Governments are going to let that happen with the increasing awfulness over here. I've argued about the nature of our relationship and the agony that these past ten years have brought, but still, they are relentless. What's more, I'm finding less and less of a reason to keep fighting. I will see you again someday, though, and when I do I promise to tell you everything. I love you, and I never could stop. Please, don't worry too much for me.
Love,
Maggie
Yet another cryptic letter. I sigh, tears of frustration pouring down my face, and gently put in a box with all the others I had received from her for ten years. Ten years of not seeing her face; ten years of not feeling her caress; ten years of not having her in my arms and I cannot handle it anymore. Not like it matters how I feel, or how she feels; the governments do not care much for personal tragedies in the face of nationwide terror.
I cannot even remember the last time we face-flooed each other- the one leniency provided- due to how little access she had to a fireplace during her American Wizarding War, and the nature of that War itself. How come, when War in Britain ends, War in America begins and prevents us from being reunited? I need her more than breathing, more than eating, more than drinking water- all the things necessary for living, in theory. Letters and face-flooing (and the one time I cheated, passed through the floo, and helped her fight for a day) can only satisfy for so long (a day, at most) and her handwriting, while evident of her and reminiscent, is starting to cause more pain and longing than dispelling it. It's like in my classes at Hogwarts. You can teach the kids a lot about plants, but the words on the blackboard and on the pages of their textbooks can only satisfy their curiosity (if they have any concerning plants,) and will only satisfy their thirst for knowledge for so long. You have to touch, you have to live, you have to see with your own eyes.
I see, as I put away the latest letter, her well-worn journal. When she had been in Britain for a year, she kept a detailed journal of her life and her experiences. I open it up, tears dripping on the first page as always. Perhaps, it's time for another trip down nostalgic, tragedian memory lane.
I know it's no use to mope or to pine, but I just cannot think of anything else. She is everything to me. She sacrificed so much coming over to the UK, just after she turned eighteen, and yet, she was punished in return. She was punished for four years, continuing for six more because of another stupid, stupid war.
Perhaps, it's time to tell somebody.