Disclaimer: Recognize it? Not mine.
Fool
He'd comforted Susan Bones after seeing her cry over Becky Mayer's body. He'd taken her away to a secluded corner of the Great Hall so she could calm down, and now he's achieved this, he looks around expectantly for any sign of his friends.
But his mind is on the dead girl.
Becky had always been full of life, so seeing her in such a state feels eerie, surreal, as if it's all a horrific nightmare – and he certainly wishes it was. Becky had been a bubbly sixth-year girl who had resembled everything that seemed extreme – fire and ice, anger and joy, and inevitably, one could either be absolutely taken, entranced by her or feel for her the deepest dislike.
Needless to say, Anthony Goldstein belongs to the former. Though to be honest, Becky had always half-annoyed him, half-amused him, and she was therefore the most exciting friend he ever had. She hadn't been predictable, she'd been devastatingly honest, and more than anything, she had never been shy when showing care.
Having her by his side during that hellish year had seemed like a privilege. But it's all over.
When Susan's tears subside, Anthony notices that Morag MacDougal sits by his other side. Her eyes are surprisingly dry.
"How are you, Morag?" Anthony asks weakly. She shrugs.
"What about you?" she asks instead.
"I guess it's a bit of a silly question. I apologize."
She shrugs again. Becky and Morag hadn't been the best of friends, but they'd known each other since childhood. They'd liked each other enough to still share confidences and giggle together and find support on the other.
"I know it's a cruel thing to say," Morag whispers out of the blue, "but knowing her as well as I did, I'm pretty sure she would've wanted me to tell you this."
"Tell me what?" he asks, confused.
"Becky loved you, Anthony. As in, she loved loved you."
It takes him a few seconds to process her words, but the first thing that comes to him is utter disbelief. They'd been as different from each other as it gets – Becky could never get the motive behind half the things he did, and he'd always showed disapproval when she'd acted too brashly. Then again, he can tell Susan is looking at Morag warily, almost disapprovingly. This proves her words to be true.
"Are you sure?" He asks anyway. Morag huffs in response.
"That is a silly question."
It wasn't torture itself that shook Becky. After finally realizing what the Cruciatus curse felt like, she concluded that it was as bad as everyone said, but that the psychological element of it was worse than any pain. And that was something no one had ever told her.
She felt so sore, that she knew she needed to lie still and forget her body even existed in that pitiable state. So she naturally gave her mind free reign and, lamentably, it took her back to the moment Mandy Brocklehurst walked into the Common Room that night. She'd been blinded with such rage against her, that she couldn't help but fight her.
That was how she ended up in Dumbledore's Army's hideout, on one of those hammocks that only made her pain worse. It hurt badly, even after they all took care of her. She couldn't help but think that, while Michael Corner and the other Ravenclaws had looked at her disapprovingly, Romilda Vane and the other Gryffindors had only wanted to know details, congratulating her courage.
Maybe I should just pack and move to Gryffindor, she concluded. They'll be glad to have me there.
But she knew it wasn't true. She'd always been bold, but she'd never been as daring as, say, fifth-year Romilda Vane, who she got mistaken for quite often because of their height and wild, black curly hair. She didn't possess Vane's mischievous good looks and her big blue eyes, or her charming way with words. She didn't have boys lining up to ask her out on dates. Becky Mayer was the outgoing girl who hid her brashness behind thick-rimmed glasses. And the only bloke she'd ever been interested in had his eyes somewhere else.
Why would it help, then, to be pretty and daring and charming like Vane when Anthony won't even look my way? Mandy isn't pretty either, and yet he was able to bring himself to love her…
Anthony knows that he should go and comfort the ones who are still alive. In Ravenclaw, he's a prominent leader. They expect this from him.
But after Morag's admittedly cruel words, he needs some time alone.
He would've been happy to stay ignorant. He would've been happy to be rid of that guilt and pain that had assaulted him when she'd told him about Becky's love.
Should it have been obvious? Should he have acted differently? Should he have noticed? And more importantly, had he ever hurt her?
The one nagging answer that assaults him is that yes, he should've seen the clues. Hadn't she listened to every word he shared with great care? Hadn't she sought his company more than she'd sought anyone else? Hadn't she fought Mandy Brocklehurst when she understood that Mandy had been the one to punish him with torture?
His heart aches more strongly when he recalls Mandy. He'd loved Mandy. He could've loved Becky instead. But the heart doesn't work like that, does it? You can't help who you love. And what importance does it have, now that Becky…?
Now it's his turn to cry. Cry and remember.
When Becky arrived for breakfast, she found Anthony sitting beside Terry Boot, as usual, and in front of Morag MacDougal. She huffed. Morag never cared much for Anthony, and she didn't quite want to see his face after the events of the previous night.
It's not that she wasn't worried, but she was ashamed. Ashamed, and jealous of Morag, who wasn't dumb enough to stand up to Brocklehurst; who was clever enough to lay low and stay there for Anthony. The thought made Becky miserable, not only because she was resentful of Morag. Mostly, she was angry at herself for being selfish and placing her needs before Anthony's, for acting so brashly, for forgetting that her kind of love wasn't what he needed.
But Morag called her from a distance, and she could tell that Terry was telling him about her actions because of the way Anthony examined her. Her heart beat quickly, and she was conscious of the dry lips and trembling hands that were sequel of the torture she'd endured.
"How dare she?!" He could hear him say when she reached the group. He was obviously talking about Brocklehurst and, while his voice was merely a hiss, his anger was clear in his expression. It made Becky feel tenderness for him, how he was so worried about Brocklehurst torturing her when she'd done the same to him.
"Welcome to the club," she responded, trying to sound casual. "Or you should tell me welcome to the club."
The reference to Dumbledore's Army was clearer than water, but Anthony wasn't fazed.
"You should've stayed in the hideout." Becky rejoiced in his worry, in the way he showed that he cared. But the mere suggestion that she wasn't needed was enough to make her blaze.
"I can't hide and you very well know it, Anthony," she said in a commanding tone. She held her back straight, even though it physically hurt. But her voice didn't shatter.
"You're the most stubborn person I've ever encountered," he said as a response, not under a positive light.
"I won't hide. I'm not a coward." She felt the need to defend herself.
"But you're not a fool, are you, Becky?"
Becky had smiled mysteriously. He remembers having been slightly annoyed at her, for she took his words lightly. Then again, Becky had never been one to take anything too seriously, which only made the fact that she stood up for him much more puzzling and humbling.
He'd found himself smiling softly before she said, "Yes, Anthony. Maybe I am a fool."
He had thought then that he had quite the loyal friend, but maybe he should've known there that she'd loved him. But how could he have known? Becky had been abnormally straightforward and chatty - her intentions were always clear to him, or so he'd thought. He'd assumed she'd wanted his friendship and nothing else. He'd assumed that if she'd liked him, she would've let him know. But she had only sought his friendship.
That much she had, he thinks wryly. He tends to regard everything that happens around him coolly, so the fire within Becky had both complemented him and seemed like an out-of-reach sentiment.
Could I have ever loved her? He wonders.
He's surprised to discover that such a question has no answer.
It stumped Becky how, when in need, Anthony wouldn't find comfort in his peers. Anthony would look at that little book he had and recite those words, trying to find his God in them. Ink and paper were powerful things, and Becky had always known that. But how could he estrange himself from those he loved, in those fateful hours, to pray to a being that may or may not exist?
"What is he doing?" Susan Bones must have realized the direction of her gaze.
Becky met and bonded with Susan when they were both in the hideout. Morag had succeeded in persuading her at last.
"We're all worried, Becky," Morag had said. "You don't defy Mandy Brocklehurst, the Carrows' pet, and get away with it. I thought I'd already told you that, and that you should be wise enough to control yourself no matter how difficult. And," she added, "Anthony in particular is getting irritable."
Morag knew of her crush on Anthony, and she was sure that she'd only added in the last phrase to convince her. Either way, it had worked, and she'd been forced to pay the consequences of her needless recklessness by hiding like a criminal. She'd spent two weeks in the hideout when they were beckoned to fight.
Right then, in the fearful hour that preceded the battle, Anthony wouldn't look at anything other than his little prayers book.
"He's praying," Becky answered succinctly.
"Oh! Really? It's always made me curious – I've never seen a prayer book in my life," Susan confessed. "Would it be rude to interrupt him?"
For all response, Becky shrugged. If anything, she was glad to have an excuse to talk to Anthony. Susan had taken her gesture as a negative, so she almost-dragged Becky to the place where Anthony was softly reciting words.
All Becky could admire in those moments were his blonde hair, his pale skin, his graceful and soft-spoken manner. Her eyes were fixed on the object of her admiration and the way he complied to Susan's request.
But then, she looked at Susan, who was entranced by the words Anthony was reading. She realized that Susan understood what she never would, and that the interactions between her and Anthony had been as seamless and pleasant as it could get. Becky's friendship with Anthony was rocky, with ups and downs, and it was tinged with her own longing and passive resentment that she couldn't possibly get rid of.
My kind of love isn't what he needs, she thinks, not for the first time. She felt as if that should change everything. But it changes nothing, because he doesn't love me and he never will.
So many things had been lost in the war, yet Becky never thought that the one thing she'd lose the quickest would be hope.
Notes: For Camp Potter (Paintball - War fics - Write about a loss,) The OC Round Competition (Prompts: Word, genre, emotion, phrase) and The Apprentice Competition (Prompts: Character, the two dialogues, genre and word.) If you've read enough of my writing, you should know Becky by now.
Thanks to Anna (ladyoftheknightley) for beta-reading this!