Us.
Never was it me, or I. Only us.
We can't be us anymore. You know why? Because you're lying cold inside a casket, and Mum is wailing over the earth where you're buried. Voldemort is dead, but what does it matter? Because you're gone too.
There is no us. I'm no longer a twin. I no longer see the other half of myself. I could never before see where you started and I began. Now I am forced into seeing the harshness that is myself.
You're dead. You're bed in our room will always be cold. Our family is screaming in grief. Of all the people to die; the traitors, the spies, the Aurors, the government officials, the Order members, it was you instead. There are some people who just can't die. You used to be one of them.
Where is us? What was us? Why aren't you here? Where are you now? I want to fling my soul from this life to whichever one you are in.
I don't care about life any more. I hate myself for leaving you during the battle. I hate you for leaving me. I hate you for breaking us. I hate myself for hating you.
I hate what we used to be. I hate the past for being gone. I hate the happiness of what once was. I hate not being able to go back. I hate that you died. I hate that I didn't die too.
Mum is screaming with grief. Ginny is sobbing. Percy is just staring, in shock. Tears are streaming out of Dad's eyes. But I can't feel. Anger is useless, and tears are futile. Laughter is obsolete. I am a stone. I cannot feel. I cannot feel except for the burning acid clawing away at the pathetic thing that is my soul. The stone that is me has been cracked and thrown down the mountainside, and scattered into tiny bits.
I've never felt this before. I've never felt myself. Us was always there; us always saved me from myself.
But now us is gone. I am me, and I hate it.