Sometimes, She Cries Herself To Sleep

Sometimes, she cries herself to sleep.

She had been so used to being an outsider; she'd never thought it would hurt like this. All her life, she had been separate from everyone else, hovering on the edge, looking for a way in. It never worked, for she was kind and smart, while all the girls at her school were silly people who never knew a great person when they saw it.

Of course, her father's kind words couldn't change the fact that she read in the library during recess and that she never got invited to sleepovers.

But now she was at an entirely new school, with entirely new classmates who hadn't known her since kindergarten as the dentists' daughter. And she had thought… well, she had just assumed… that it was only logical that someone here would be her friend.

She had hoped, anyway. But it looks like that wasn't the case

Because everyone still gave her dark looks when she raised her hand and everyone still talked about her behind her back. She still did her homework early and went to bed early, and although she tried to be nice, no one cared or appreciated her. Just like before.

She was tired of being smart. She wanted to be brilliant.

And so Hermione cried.

Sometimes, he cries himself to sleep.

No one knows this, of course. He'd never dare say the words aloud, in case they ever got back to his mother, or, even worse, his brothers. Especially his brothers. They'd never let him hear the end of it.

It wouldn't be fair, of course, because he was certain that they'd cried as well. What else can you do when your best friend gets petrified?

Okay, so maybe he bickered a lot with her, and he couldn't stand how she constantly nagged him and how she mooned over their prat teacher, and – well, you get the idea. But it was all in fun, wasn't it? She knew they were still best friends. Right?

Now he wasn't so sure. Her being gone made him realise that. Not that she was really gone, of course, but still. Her eyes were blank and her hands were stiff and hard. In his heart, he knew she'd get better soon, and yet seeing her scared him every time. How can he remember something like that when she's lying there like – like a corpse?

He had promised to himself that he'd tell her that she was brilliant for the hundredth time when she woke up, but he wasn't sure if that was enough. And he sometimes felt as if she ever would.

And so Ron cried.

Sometimes, he cries himself to sleep.

It isn't like it's a secret. Everyone would expect him to, being – well, himself. He was just like that. Scared, nervous, fumbling. Even his teachers said so.

And now with a murderer running around trying to kill one of his friends, he was only more terrified. Not to mention that his friends had almost died due to a stupid mistake that he had made.

Yet another blunder to add to the always growing list.

As he watched people writing long letters, full of hopes and fears and stories, ready to send them by owl to their families, he would find himself wishing he had someone he could write to about his hopes, and his stories. And his fears. His grandmother was absolutely out of the question. She loved him, of course, but she wouldn't understand. She would scold him and tell him to act more like his clever, brave friends, more like The Boy Who Lived.

He very nearly was The Boy Who Lived, except he hadn't done anything special. No, he was just The Boy Without Parents.

He wished he could write to his parents. Could they even write anymore? Probably not. After all, if they were able to write, then they should have been able to speak coherently. They should have been able to comfort him, to hold him and tell him things that he could believe in.

They should've been able to tell him that they loved him.

And so Neville cried.

Sometimes, he cries himself to sleep.

What an absurd lie. He really didn't cry himself to sleep. It was just a stupid speculation that the sneaky, lying journalist had come up with at the top of her head. She had made assumptions.

But he felt like crying.

Never before had he been under so much pressure. The tournament – even those of his friends who wanted nothing but the best for him were pushing him, desperately urging him to prepare, to study (one person in particular, really). All the rest wanted something, whether it was homework or an autograph, or even for him to cave, to give up. Yes, there were those who wanted him to break down.

He struggled to figure things out, but it was hard. There were obstacles, like the fact that breathing underwater was impossible, and there distractions, like pretty girls who were taken, and there was competition, like said pretty girl's boyfriend. He just wanted it all to be over so he could go home and get invited over to his best friend's house and dream about his crush without the constant fear of his impending death.

Now, it was over.

He had just escaped from a nightmare, where he'd fought for his life and had experienced pain beyond belief. Now, everything was upside down and dripping with salt-water and he had sworn he'd bring back the boy's body, he had promised, and here he was, and the father of the body was sobbing…

And so Harry cried.

Sometimes, she cries herself to sleep.

Sleep wasn't the only time she cried. She couldn't help it. She would walk down the hall and see a rose and she'd burst into tears, or someone would mention his name and she'd have to swallow it down until she had escaped to the loo. She would find herself wondering about what might've happened if he'd never put his name in that stupid goblet.

They say fifteen is too young to truly love someone, outside of the family. You can't possibly know what you really want at fifteen, her mother had said. You'll get over it.

Loving someone and being in love are two very different things, though. And she knew that she was – that she had been in love. And she'd seen his body dragged back from hell on earth. That was half a year ago, and she was still crying.

Yet she couldn't help feeling drawn to the very person who had been carrying his body. Drawn to his serious eyes, his courage, his leadership. She told herself that there was nothing wrong with being friends with him. Just because she'd been in love didn't mean she couldn't have friends.

But now they were alone and the room was full of mirrors, and mistletoe. He said something endearingly nervous, and she laughed. They kissed quietly, gently, hesitantly. It was lovely, but she still couldn't help thinking about him, and whether he'd be angry or not. Or, worse – whether he would tell her to move on, because he was never coming back.

And so Cho cried.

Sometimes, she cries herself to sleep.

How could she have been so completely, utterly, indefinitely stupid? She should have known he would disappoint her in the end. He was that kind of boy – the funny best friend of the hero, tall with windswept hair, a fantastic Quidditch player. The kind of boy that girls don't realise they fancy until he's taken.

And now she'd lost him.

Everyone seemed to think it was for the best, for some ridiculous reason. They seemed to not be surprised. They were all holding their breath, waiting for that moment when they'd find him and her snogging in the broom closet.

When that happened, they would all applaud. And she would wince and run away, and she'd be known as that kind of girl; pretty but catty, the one who gets the boy but doesn't deserve him, the one that always loses in the end.

She had thought for sure that she'd won. She done it; she'd worked up her courage, made him notice her, and they'd kissed. He had been a bit clumsy at first, but he'd improved with practice.

And now she was going to get to profit from all of her hard work. Because, despite her not so attractive appearance and her horrible personality, she was simply that kind of girl – the quiet best friend of the boy who suddenly becomes beautiful, suddenly becomes appreciated, who saves the day, who kisses the boy in a whirlwind of emotion and passion and love.

She had seen this movie more times than she wanted to count. She knew what would happen in the end. She knew she'd be left lonely.

And so Lavender cried.

Sometimes, they cried themselves to sleep.

None of them had any idea that they weren't alone in the tears. How could have they? They were separated by distance and weather, by rules and strictures, by words. Stupid, irrevocable words.

What silly things to divide people. They should've known.

Because it isn't something that comes up in conversation, crying at night, and when it does, it's brief and spoken about as if it's something to be ashamed of. But it isn't. It's what binds us all together. Because we all cry.

She cried when the boy she loved left her, and she cried when he came back, because she'd nearly wanted to kiss his best friend while he was gone.

He cried when he swung down that sword down, and all of the doubts and fears he had were ripped apart, and he was left with nothing but bruises.

He cried when a girl he had once fancied disappeared, when his other best friend never came back to help lead the losing side in a fight they would lose.

He cried when he was delirious, when he couldn't control himself, and he could also feel the tears threatening to overflow when he received his death sentence.

She cried in frustration, when nothing was like it used to be, and she cried, for the last time, for a boy who would forever be seventeen.

She cried when she felt herself clawed apart, and she cried when everything became cold and dark and the sounds of the battle faded to background music.

Yes, they cried.

But didn't we all?

So, how was it? I feel really strongly about this one - I was looking through my list of prompts, and found the title of this story - and what I could with that, this idea, just literally popped into my head. I sat down and wrote for about an hour, and then I was done. But there's something about how simple his one is and yet how intricate that really makes me proud of it. It was actually surprisingly hard to write, especially in choosing the characters; Neville and Cho almost didn't make it in, Ron was almost year three, and Ginny and Molly were very nearly years two and five (I hope you guys picked up on the fact that each little section was a different year). Not to mention that, when there a few words, each one has to be precisely right. There's no room for error.

But what did you guys think?

~ Cierra, who has a two-hour delay tomorrow!