The grief metamorphoses over time. But what I feel now isn't denial. It's not depression, and it's sure not acceptance.
If it's anger, its edge is blunted into specific resentment. If it's bargaining, it's anything but an altruistic "Why did it have to be him? Couldn't it have been me?"
And then one morning, I wake up and I know with absolute certainty what I'm feeling. Jealously.
I'm jealous of a dead man. Merlin's wrinkles, what's wrong with me?
He'd had a job, a better one than mine. Living the dream. Yet once his rebellious side really got the chance to shine, it was only a matter of time before he'd meet a rebel's end, out in a blaze of gold-sparked fire. Because once you've won, once you've destroyed the oppressors, you have to build up. And rebels like me, we're not good at that.
It's not that extreme, of course. There are people not as far gone as him, but not quite as hopeless as me. One of them was even like us. He was our conscience, quietly whispering what was right at the end of the day. But he's grown up now. I don't know what to say to him now, even if he could fully hear me.
I'm still a child, and I still love a childish game. But when I climb back to the perch where I used to belong, I scrape my head. I'm too big for it now, and that depresses me even more.
I shouldn't be able to feel. Shouldn't I be grieving, or at least numb? Why, of all things, do I miss this?
I look up at the morning's gray sky, desperately looking for an image burned into my mind, a girl soaring gracefully above the pitch. In my fantasy, she is alone, her broomstick an extension of her supple body. They twist and gyrate as one, maneuver after tactic effortlessly spiraling together in an endless display. Then, her acceleration sends her looping throughout the pitch for a final beeline straight towards me.
The effort required to sustain the illusion pushes me to the breaking point. It is a real memory I have now; not any particular game, but all the games as one. For she is not alone, but part of a team. Rough reality pushes forward unrelentlessly, and she must blend in, passing frenetically to her teammates. Individual identity is stifled. Anything for the win.
It's my daydream, so Gryffindor won. Didn't they? I'm throwing less of my own imagination into this not-quite-instant replay. My insanity can do the work for me.
The team dismounts and walk off the pitch. I watch two of them approach the forest and close my eyes. Light seems to shimmer in front of me for an instant, the afterimage of darkness's perfect beauty. I don't need my eyes to know what comes next. She returns grown and alone, no longer needing my immature approval. Theirs was just a fling, but it taught her enough. She doesn't expect true love anymore, but I know someday she'll find the next best thing.
As for me?
For the first time in my life, I am utterly lost for words.