A/N: Another one-shot. I seem to be in a very pensive mood. Like my other story, this is completely vague, so you can imagine who you want. But I thought of Luna as I wrote this. It just… Seemed like something she would do. Pick the petals for the people. This is directly after the war, in the healing process. I guess you can say this is her healing.
She didn't cry. All she was really, was numb. So where she didn't feel like crying. She was numb until her head felt clouded, and her fingertips felt strange. She didn't cry for them.
She picked petals. Flower petals, proof of something living. Something bright and beautiful, so full of life and color. Something to represent them all. Something to give back to the ones who couldn't cry. Who couldn't feel numb. Who couldn't feel anything, ever.
And as the petals spread across her floor, layer upon layer across each different color, she tried to keep up. But they started to wilt, and lose their color. Just like the people they were for, slowly even the petals lost their light.
But she continued. More and more and more. Pick up a flower, pick of a petal. Remember. Remember the dead. Remember the stolen. So many stolen away. Too many.
Grab a flower.
Cedric Diggory.
Pick another petal.
Bertha Jorkins.
Drop it on the floor.
Emmeline Vance.
Watch it fade.
Sirius Black.
Grab another flower…
Albus Dumbledore…
Fred Weasley…
Bertha Jorkins…
The names went on and on. The flower petals continued to rise on the floor. As the newspapers came in, bringing more dates, more deaths, more stolen lives, she picked more petals.
It didn't matter anymore. The blood. Pureblood, muggle, wizard, muggle-born. They were all the same here, strewn across the floor. They were all the same now. They were once all people. They were all stolen. They were all just flower petals.
She began to drown in them. As they grew to three inches tall on her cold stone floor. Mixed together, vibrant hues mixed among the already faded, the already forgotten. She started to drown in the petals. She wondered if she would see any whole flowers ever again.
The names stopped coming. The newspapers were done counting. The pile of petals on the floor stopped growing. She was still drowning.
She gathered the petals, the petals she so meticulously picked, different flowers, none torn, none dead yet. She picked them up, and put them in baskets. Simple, brown baskets. They soon covered her floor, too.
She took the baskets, and arranged them under a circle around a tree. The supposed sign for life. Faded lives under the epitome of the thing, unbroken and surrounding, together. Different petals mixed with different petals, in the same basket. Surrounding the same tree. In the same circle.
Different people, the same as each other, all in their own caskets. Surrounding the survivors. All going to the same place.
She wished she was one to cry. Instead of just feeling numb, after hours and days, picking petals, picking, picking, picking…
Remembering.
She never really was one to cry…
Review?
-Soho