Disclaimer: Not mine.
So many times. There are so many times. So often, I want to tell him to just keep still.
Let's just stay here. We can ignore it all, grow old together, here in the woods.
He'd never think of it. Leaving them all to their own devices. Wizardkind. Voldemort's master race.
I wouldn't ever think of it, not truly. I wouldn't want the innocent to die. Not really.
But when I'm huddled in my bunk. When the nights are cold and ten times too long, I ponder—only ponder, mind you—on what it would be like to live on the lam. To live free of the constraints of martyrdom.
It's such a struggle—breathing, thinking, hoping, knowing—understanding everyone else is dying. Or maybe they're living. Maybe they're just existing like me.
I wake up not knowing what the day will bring. Will they find us today? Will this be the day that we die?
Staying still is almost as taxing as running, running so hard and so fast that cramps develop. Deep in my muscles there is an ache, like the siren song of the tide forming the rocks into cliffs.
I'm not able to keep going.
Today is the day that I quit.
"Let's go, Hermione. Just a while longer."
His voice is reason. When my strength failith, like God in a house of worship, he opens the door and guides me through.
I will keep going, because he says I should.
This ficlet is inspired by a beautiful NYC slam poet by the name of Catalina Ferro. She has a poem by the same name. Look her up.
I hope you enjoy. This is unbeta'd and complete. Thank you for taking time to read.