Written for Werewolf Vampire Mistress's 'H' Challenge at HPFC. My two words were 'habit' and 'haughty'.
If
Rain splinters down through the air, landing heavily on the graves. She stands there, her eyes wet only from the weather, a bunch of flowers held limply in her hands. She thought it would grow easier with each time she came. Instead, it grows harder.
But it has become a habit. And she was never very good at breaking habits.
If you run fast enough, and hard enough, eventually you leave the world behind. Somebody told her that once, and she's never forgotten. And she's never stopped hoping.
She stands there, eyes unfocused, dreaming of the past. Remembering over again all the unfairness. Remembering what she has lost.
If you pretend you are happy, sometimes you can make it come true. She's tried that too, over and over and over again. And once, she really did believe it. But then she remembered, and the world came rushing back in again, laughing spitefully.
She has always been a third of one whole. Nobody introduced her without attaching her sisters' names too. And when she lost them, when they were torn apart, there was him. And soon after their daughter had followed, so she was one of three again.
And that's what was so very wrong now, she thinks. She stands there, the flowers hanging in her right hand, her left hand clutching at her heart. Now she is only a half. And as much as she loves him, her grandson is not enough. She knows that he should be. She knows that is was not his fault. She knows that the world has been more unfair to him than to her. But knowledge of these facts cannot change the truth. And the truth is that he doesn't complete her.
She is broken.
If you fall, someone will catch you, or someone won't. Sometimes, both consequences look equally appealing. And sometimes, she longs for the latter.
She stands there, not bothering to cast the spell that will repel the rain currently seeping through her robes. She stands there, wondering how much longer she can go on.
If you live long enough, you forget everyone you ever loved. Their faces fade, their voices become echoes, and nobody else shares the memories. That's when they are truly dead.
Sometimes, she lies in bed, and remembers. She pretends it's one of those muggle films he always loved, and plays certain memories over and over again. Its getting harder though, and even though she's not strong enough to break the habit (because she doesn't really want to break the habit anyway), eventually the film will miss certain bits, and other parts will go blurry, until the screen in her mind will just be filled with static.
If you live with your memories, you have to be careful not to start talking to them. When the pain was fresh, she did it by accident, forgetting that he'd gone. Now, she has to force herself not to, because talking won't bring them back.
She stands there, wondering again why she came. When she was Andromeda (and sometimes Dromeda, and even Kitty for a year or two), and not Mrs. Tonks, she would have been able to stay away. She wouldn't have needed the constant, crushing pain in her stomach to feel alive. She was Miss Black, symbol of purity and pride, full of haughty self-confidence. And now, now she didn't know who she was. She lost Kitty when she went to Hogwarts (and again when Bella died), and Dromeda when Ted died (darling, darling Ted). People don't like calling her Mrs. Tonks, because how could she say she was really a Tonks now? And she definitely isn't a Black. And Andromeda isn't respectful enough for all the young folk. So they call her 'Teddy's grandmother', which isn't a name at all, and try to avoid calling her anything.
If people forget to talk to you when you're sitting in their living room, how do you know that you're not just a ghost? Maybe she really did die on that awful morning, when the whole world was a blur except for the face of her daughter. And Bella's smile.
If people forget you, are you really alive?
The rain is beginning to make her shiver, and so she drops the flowers gently onto the grave, not needing to see the name etched there for eternity. She's read it many times. Too many times. She stands there a moment later, knowing that even though she promises not to put herself through this again, that this habit is too well formed.
If you never have the chance to say goodbye, can you live on without them?
Slowly, ignoring her wet socks, she turns her back on the grave, and walks away.