Lost
I wasn't really that worried about dying. I mean, I've trained for three years and I've had my job for almost two and a half, and every single day the people around you would drill into your brain that "You're an auror. You can die today, tomorrow, the day after, next week, whenever. Maybe you're already dead, but that doesn't matter; it's part of your job." Moody would always say that, and it'd always depress you because you know it's true. Moody knows it depresses the hell out of everyone, but he does it anyway. I think he likes depressing people, in a way.
It used to really depress me, but I got used to it. It doesn't even matter anymore. It doesn't even mean anything to me, actually. I just know that I may die at some point. I probably will, too. I'm not saying that I'm a lousy auror or anything, but this is a battle between good and evil. It isn't just a stupid felony that aurors of a different generation may have been stuck sorting out day after day. This is major.
Anyway, Fabian always says stuff like that too, actually. He says it all in good fun though. Not in Moody's you-know-you're-bloody-doomed way of saying it. Fabian knows he can die, too. We both know it.
Of course, nobody really wants to die. I mean, they know there's a pretty large possibility of them dying—especially now—but they don't really want to die. They know the consequences of their jobs, of course. They all know that at some point, they may be called out of a Sunday dinner with the wife and kids and sent into a flurry of dark hexes. They all know they could be called upon at the middle of the night and given orders to rally around a suspected Death Eater hideout. They all know that. They all know that if they die, their families would be left generally unfunded and uncared for. Their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, wives, husbands, sons, daughters—whoever—would cry and bawl over their dead bodies. I guess, in a way, that's some sort of a consolation, knowing that someone would cry over your casket when you die, but it's still a very depressing thought.
Death, I think, would just be the start of something new. It would be a definite end to the cycle of stakeouts, killings, paperwork, coffee breaks, surprise Death Eater attacks, quick visits to the St. Mungo's emergency wing, miscellaneous coffee breaks, nice hot baths once you get back to your hellhole of a flat, and endless nights of trying to fall asleep but not being able to because you think too much of all the dead bodies, and all the blood, and the screaming, and the orphaned babies.
At night, I keep thinking that Moody would be appearing sooner or later along with that dreaded flash of green flames on my god-forsaken hearth. I keep thinking about my brother—my sodding brother—who likes to march into the middle of an attack with no regard for his life and all the people who would cry over his grave. I'd cry over his grave. I wouldn't tell him that, of course, but I would so cry.
And Molly. I think about Molly all the time. She's always at home, pregnant and all, while Arthur's out on the field. I always worry about my sister. If Arthur dies, that's six kids to take care of on her own. What if I die? What if Fabian dies? Who's gonna help her? I always worry about other people. It depresses me sometimes, when I worry about other people. But then if I worry about myself, I get even more depressed, because it makes me feel really selfish.
What gets me really depressed though is Hestia. Sometimes, when I get home, she'd be waiting at the flat, sitting at the stained leather couch that Fabian bought for a couple Galleons too many. Hestia would always sit at the very corner with her legs crossed. She'd look up when I come in and she'd smile a great smile. She'd give me a hug and a kiss and say, "You're back," as if she had seriously been considering that maybe this time I won't be coming back. I'd tell her that she makes my job sound so rough, but then she'd remind me that I'm in the Order too, and I'd give her a kiss if only to try and get both our minds off that. Technically, she's not really supposed to know about the Order, but I slipped. Thing is, Dumbledore's probably already thinking of inviting her to join. It'd be nice if that happens, because then I wouldn't have to keep so many secrets from her. But then I don't really want her in the Order though. It's too risky. I'd rather keep secrets from her than have her die on me.
Hestia's really something. I miss her, actually. I saw her this morning, but I miss her anyway. I love her. I really do. I just haven't told her yet, but I'm working on it. And she knows it. I know she knows it, but I guess that isn't really enough. I'd like to tell her. I could tell her today. Later tonight I can take her out somewhere and tell her. She'd like that. I know she'd like that.
God I hope I don't die today. It'd be awful, terribly depressing, if I die right before I get to Hestia and tell her that she's "it" for me. I don't think I'd be—
"Prewett! I need everyone at the basement of St. Mungo's. This is a big one. We didn't even get any warnings. Bring your spare."
Well, I guess maybe I am worried about dying. I don't want to die. Not yet. Not when I'm twenty-four. That's young, in spite of the fact that lately, everyone has been forced to haphazardly grow up and face life with a decade or two of additional but truly nonexistent familiarity and understanding of the fucking world.
A basement. I didn't even know St. Mungo's had a basement. Must be an incredibly dodgy affair if it's being held at the dark recesses of a more or less unknown location. Fabian, my "spare," was probably already there. He was always on top of these things. He loves the adrenaline rush, but hates it immediately afterwards when he sees the list of casualties.
Quickly, I apparate back to my woefully uncharmed and unguarded flat. I look around quickly for a parchment, and found none. Panicking and thinking about what could be happening in that basement right now, I turn to the wall and write hastily with my wand.
I love you.
Marry me and spend the rest of your life with an emotionally dented man, who, I swear to God, really loves the hell out of you.
I'll be home soon.
I swear I'll come back to you.
I love you.
I know it wasn't terribly romantic or anything, but I'm just not like that. I couldn't be like that even if I tried. I was crying though. I didn't have an idea as to why I was crying, but I was. And I couldn't stop it. And I was still crying as I apparated into a field of hexes, knowing that I had so much to lose. So much. And knowing that I couldn't really die. I couldn't because it—oh God—it would be so unfair when everything else in my life had been so incredibly unjustified. I knew that this time the fates would have to work for me. I've already lost so much, and I couldn't stand to lose much more.
Not when I'm still myself. Not when I'm still human.
A/N: I started writing this after I finished reading The Catcher in the Rye, which would explain the unrelenting use of the word "depressing." Technically, I've been writing this thing over the course of a month, since I finished reading the novel in January. I think what happened was I wrote paragraph by paragraph sporadically, so I apologize if there are no transitions and no general harmony.
Reviews are always welcome!