Hello! It is I, the magical fangirl . . . I wish. I'm back with another fanfiction! I'm sorry I haven't been updating since forever, but I'm back and ready for action. Please review and tell me what you thought of this fic (it's a one-shot, in case you're wondering).
Disclaimer: Yes, I'm clearly J.K Rowling stuck in a random fangirl's body and writing fanfiction because I can. Haha, not. Though that would be cool . . . In summary, I do not own Harry Potter. J.K Rowling does.
Sometimes the infamous Golden Trio have the worst of days. Or perhaps that's underestimated. Everyday is a completely horrid day. Because it's spent in a blasted tent, where they sit in ghostly silence, and they spend it pouring over useless plans, and facts they've recited five times, and goodness knows what else. It's spent in a twisted prison of hellish thoughts, of cold, ticking time.
But the time and the prison and the tent aren't even half the ruddy torture. Probably only a fair twenty-percent.
The real torture is the fact that they're three hopeless seventeen year-old wizards (and witches) that haven't finished their education stuck in a mouldy tent and a raging war. With that locket.
That darn locket is probably seven-hundred-percent of their problems. It's a living Hell, trapped in a worn-out locket of intricate gold. And every time they put it on, they freak.
It's twelve stupid hours of stupid anxiety and stupid worries and stupid thoughts and stupid sadness, and it's just all stupid! It's twelve hours of being drenched in ice-cold sweat, twelve hours of snapping at your concerned best friends, twelve hours of shivering and twitching, twelve hours of panic attacks and being this close (this close being even closer than the three of them huddled in that freezing, blasted tent) to breaking down completely, and heck, they'd all be lying if they said they constantly didn't. It was twelve hours of pure torture.
"Oh, joy, let's just sit here and watch each other freaking suffer!"
If it's not him worrying, then it's her. If it's not her worrying, then it's the other him. It's just him, her, him, him, her, him, her, her, him, her, him and her again! And if not so, all darn three of 'em! It's a rather painful cycle, to watch each other steadily grow frantic for some unknown reason, then take desperate measures to calm down. But desperate measures — including flipping through battered books for the umpteenth time, surprisingly hot tea (courtesy of a generous Hermione), and ruthless interrogations — don't work.
Sometimes, the Golden Trio have the worst of days. They cry, starve, row, and do darn well near nothing.
But sometimes the unbreakable Golden Trio have amazing days. Sure, they have the tent, and the locket, and the books, blah, blah, ah!
But sometimes they find some fresh bread, and the newspaper on which they wolf it down on has some slightly pleasant news. Sometimes they manage to find decent apples and strawberries. Sometimes they find butter, sometimes eggs. Sometimes they've got great food. And that greatness influences the whole day.
But sometimes when the warm sunshine radiates its glory, it's mocking them. Because the triumph never lasts too long. It knows what's happening. It knows of the rage and fear and war. Sunshine always knows.
And yet when the world is against them, and even their heartbroken home, they stay put. Completely put. And they stay together as if connected by strings; golden strings, woven from the blissful memories and charming ideas they've formed.
And maybe that thought isn't complete. Maybe it's utterly ridiculous. Maybe they're just hopeless and mad. But that thought satisfies them. And if they're satisfied— to heck with what the rest think! Because if they think they're connected with their smiles, who're the rest to judge?
They are golden children connected with golden strings. And somehow — just somehow — they'll make the world a golden globe.
I really hope you enjoyed that!