Remember

by Princess180

You remember. A girl you loved. A boy who loved her better than you could. A tragic hero who was also a great man. A heroine with a temper. A war that would not end, but did. A fire you can’t remember. A little girl who you might see but might not.PostHBP

A/N: This is…. This is completely inexplicably bad. I don't know what to blame it on asides from the fact that I hadn't posted in a while and wanted to do something with my new computer. Please, feel free to flame/ridicule, honest. I have tried onthe spacing. I have I have I have! is in tears

Disclaimer:I own nothing from the story here. I kinda wish I didn't even own the plotline, but really, I only own about half, and I've totally mangled the first bit. Oh, and I do own the nameless little girl, but I really don't think she's all that important,

It'snot so much that it hurts as that nothing hurts any more that disturbs you so much. It's not that you're alone as that she's not beside you. Nothing that is seems so important without her.

You used to hate her and you spend so much time regretting that that you forget what you had sometimes. You remember every cruel thing you ever said to her, but you don't remember all the apologies. You don't remember when she laid her hand on your cheek and forgave you for existing. Or at least that's how it felt at the time. You were mad then- mad like insane, not like angry, you can't remember ever really being angry. And she knew what made it better. She knew. You still don't know what might piece you back together, then, if she's not here.

You remember it in snapshots, quick and almost painless except for how much they hurt. A girl, bushy hair, buck teeth, not beautiful, not special, not then. Dirty blood, you remember thinking, she has dirty blood. Not like yours, so clean and pure and blackened with sin, yours. You remember a boy who loved her very much and how much you hated her, hated him, and hated their tragic hero of a friend. Hated everything, really, if you think about it. You hated it all, because it was different and yet it wasn't bad. The boy loved the girl, even though her blood was dirty and she wasn't beautiful or special then and it was different from the way you loved Pansy.

Pansy was beautiful, and special, and pure. Pansy was a Parkinson your mother told you, petting your hair like you were still two, even though you were fourteen. She'd make a good wife, your mother said, of course you'd take her to the ball, of course you would. And that made you angry, but you didn't know why, because you loved Pansy. Had always loved Pansy, hadn't you? With that flaxen hair, which was pretty, and she was, well, you didn't know what you loved about Pansy. But you knew that you did, didn't you? The only reason you were angry was that you wanted to choose, you wanted Pansy to know that you chose her, didn't you? You didn't care what the bushy haired girl thought, did you? You knew she'd go to the ball with the boy who loved her.

She didn't though, and you noticed that night that she was beautiful. She was so beautiful that night, for the first time. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wanted to dance with her that night. Wanted to be closer to her, somehow. But you knew there was a boy who loved her better than you waiting in the wings for when she was done with the one she had now. And besides, you loved Pansy, didn't you? You were with Pansy, weren't you? You danced with Pansy, you were closer to Pansy then you'd ever been before, to anyone. You kissed Pansy and told her you loved her, and you weren't lying. You did love Pansy, you had to love Pansy.

You stop here sometimes, when you're remembering. It's safer here, you and Pansy together by the Quidditch pitch talking about nothing and holding hands though hers were sweaty and slimy and yours were chafed and always cold. It was nice, simple and comfortable. Pansy had no mysteries inside her for you to discover, not like her.

You don't stop all the time, though. You don't stop before you get to the good parts, because there might yet be a happy ending, mightn't there? You remember falling fast and hard into something alien. You remember seeing the Dark Lord's face. You remember your father trusted you with all his secrets. You remember feeling honoured and important to him. You remember knowing that you were like him and that that was good. You remember your mother crying at night in the kitchens and leaving quietly because you didn't know what else to do. You remember feeling fury at the tragic hero- of all the people in the world- when your father was imprisoned. You remember saying things like 'I swear' and 'I believe' to protect his honour. You remember a knife held to your mother's throat and a promise made. Funny, you've always thought, that he should use a knife. Funny.

You remember searing pain of a blackness being put on you. You've always been so pale, and it's still so clear on your arm after all this time, you trace it sometimes, not on purpose. You did always want a tattoo as a child, didn't you? You remember being scared, you remember being strong. You remember a flash of green and no longer having any heroes left standing. You remember a chance of redemption. You remember a bushy-haired girl who didn't care for you crying in the arms of the boy who loved her.

You remember your mother's body, laying on a dark floor- the kitchen of the Manor. She was so beautiful, dressed in white to die, her lips blood red, she looked like she was asleep. Except of course she wasn't asleep, she was dead and it wasn't because you couldn't protect her. It was because she didn't want to be protected. You remember running. You remember nights and days alone until you came to a small village, and you remember a bushy-haired girl, so beautiful, so special, so everything, nursing you back to health. You remember her face when she would run a cool cloth along your forehead; you think you remember her lips on your brow then, too. But that's from after, you think. That's not from when you were ill and mad before, or at least you don't think so. Because the boy who loved her was there and whole and alive. He used to sit in the corner when she was there with you, you think you remember his voice, it was rough, you think. The tragic hero came sometimes too, and his voice was quiet in those days. You didn't know him so well then, you didn't even know yourself so well then.

And then the boy who loved her stopped coming, and you didn't ask any questions, and she didn't tell you anything. You remember, or you think you remember, that that was when the other girl came. The heroine, the one who knew how to make the hero's darkness go away, how to turn his tragedy with her fire. You think there was a time when she came to you instead, and you think you remember telling you your father was wrong, but you don't know why anymore.

And then the haze stops, and you remember a sort of clarity. You remember changing allegiances. You remember having allegiances. What you don't remember from then is her smile. Her heart was broken, she told you, like a child, when you asked, like a child. Will it ever be unbroken? You asked her and she smiled and petted your cheek. I don't know, she said, and you thought that was wrong. You remember all this. You remember a tailspin of days and changes. You remember the heroine's voice above all the others, screaming and defending a hero who was either conserving his strength or a coward. You remember sitting with the hero one night where his parents house had once been and becoming his friend and seeing his strength. You remember knowing you had made the right choice. You remember learning to fight like a man, for yourself. You remember teaching the heroine to trust you. You remember her smile one day as she pressed a soft kiss to the hero's forehead, but you do not remember the bushy-haired girl's smile.

Then you remember desperation. The heroine's family was gone, just gone. They had been there, under heaviest guard, and then they had not been there anymore and the war had come to you. You remember someone saying that the time for learning was over and the time for fighting was here. And you remember her face, grim, strong, beautiful and pure in a way you didn't understand. Dirty blood, you thought, for the first time in a long time, but so beautiful. Oh, Lord, so beautiful. You remember she hugged the tragic hero and told him he was a great wizard before she started to cry. And you remember how he turned to you and told you to take care of his best friend. And you did.

You were alone there, then. Alone in the old house where you had been with the others. And she was with you, and some of the wounded were there too. You were there to defend them; you were there because he trusted you. And you remember feeling a different sort of honour, you remember respecting him as strong. Next, you remember the anguish of war. You didn't know this is what wars brought, before. You were raised on tales of heroes like this one. Heroines like this one. Villains like the villain waiting for the hero and heroine to conquer him. In those stories, there were not places quiet so full of death as this one. But then, those stories never had space for bushy-haired girls who you could love, so they weren't really worth it. And you did love her. And in time, she loved you.

In time it became something that you accepted, you loved each other. It was nice. You weren't so lonely then, in fact, you were less lonely than you had ever been before her. You remember kissing her one night, impulsively and never regretting it again. You remember her arms around her neck and being surrounded in her. You remembered heady words of love and comfort, a host of feelings of warmth and safety in her arms. She felt the same way, she told you. You remember her smiling again and you remember pride because it was because of you that she smiled. You remember calling her silly, stupid things like 'my sunshine' and 'my salvation' which you meant with every fibre of your being. You remember feeling like you never had before and never will again.

What comes next is all blurry. You remember heat and passion, first, and then a different kind of heat. You remember running again, but not so far, you remember the mark mirrored on your arm in the sky. You remember the hero's tears, the heroine's anger and a thousand recriminations from every side. You remember pressing fervent kisses to charred skin. You remember new scars covering almost every inch of the body of a bushy-haired girl you loved. You remember a realization that she was weak and a desperate need to heal her. You remember her laughter coming again now and realizing that she had been more broken and that you could save her again.

You remember the agonizing recovery and the fact that the war wouldn't end just because the life she'd know had. You'd never thought looks were so important to her, but they were. She wouldn't let you kiss her, or touch her for a time, you remember and you told you stupid things. 'You're beautiful,' you said, 'I love you no matter what,' you said. You meant it too. You meant it like you had loved Pansy, because you had to. Because this is who you were. Except this time- this time there was something burning in you. Something you didn't know a name for that made you care for her, that made you fight all her battles beside her. There was something unknowable on the inside. Not of your creation. You remember you felt it with her too, every second of that pain, you felt for her, with her, beside her. You hadn't protected her and you would never fail at that again.

You remember when things returned to a semblance of normal, and when the hero and heroine came back. Victorious, as heroes and their heroines always are. It had been a year since you came to them, but they had aged a forever. You remember how they distanced themselves from everyone else and how deeply she felt that. You remember the day they left, for a new life, they said. We love you both, they said, we just don't have anything left here. They had her, they had your world in the palm of their hands and they crushed it. But you did not tell them that, you said goodbye and told them they had changed who you were. They smiled and left nonetheless.

And then you were alone again, and that time lasted for a long time. She seemed to recover, gained strength. And you remember that she started coming to you again, and that you still told her she was beautiful because she was, and special, too. You remember those years so clearly. You remember her smile, marred as it was then. You remember how she picked your flat and moved the two of you in and joked about living of your wealth, being a trophy wife. You remember asking her to be your wife, and you remember that she was. You remember the day she came to you to tell you there had been a miracle. You remember placing a hand on her stomach to feel the first fluttering of something perfect you had done together. You remember a screaming girl with your blonde hair tumbling in ringlets and her hazel eyes.

And then you remember now. You think you see the little girl sometimes, and you know you see the heroine. They tell you she's gone, the bushy-haired girl with dirty blood. It was too much for her, they say. She should never have had children. The heroine scoffs at them and pats the girl you think you see on the head. Isn't she perfect, Draco? asks the heroine. You know she is, because she is so much like the other girl with bushy hair and a smile that could end the world and dirty blood and she is also a part of you and she proves that you were redeemed. But you do not know these words. You only know the memories. You only know the past and now is such a mystery because there is no one guiding you through.

You remember. A girl you loved. A boy who loved her better than you could. A tragic hero who was also a great man. A heroine with a temper and an endless amount of love. A war that would not end, but did. A fire you can't remember. A little girl who you might see but might not.

You remember.