Characters: Lavender Brown
Prompts: torture under the Carrows, forgotten and broken dreams, instilling hope in little ones
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You scream, but everyone else dutifully ignores you, because it's what they're supposed to do. You know you're crying, somewhere beneath the mask that you have unconsciously put up; you can feel the salty tears trickling down your face, but that fact in itself is insignificant. You're being punished again, and oh, does it hurt.
You can't even remember what you did anymore, and you wonder if you're losing your mind. How is punishment supposed to be a learning experience, you think to yourself idly, if the person can't remember what their crime was in the first place? It's funny what you think of when you can't think of anything at all.
It seems like ages before the curse is lifted, and the escape from pain isn't really an escape at all. Oh, no, you're still in pain. It doesn't go away that easily. You learned that the hard way…
You see Ginny watching you, and Seamus, and Neville. They are all holding their breaths; that much is obvious. They're waiting to see if you're okay, that you're alive, that you aren't hurt permanently, that you aren't dead. Their caring touches you and haunts you at the same time, but you don't have time to think of that. You're too busy laying on the ground, writhing and shaking and still crying. You hate crying.
It takes all the effort you have to lift your head up and give a small, nearly invisible nod to them. You're okay.
For now, anyway. You're not so sure how much you can take.
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I've never had a high tolerance for pain. When I was little, I wanted to be a princess; and I was, in my parent's eyes. They pampered me, and loved me, and gave me whatever I wanted; but tough love was still the name of the game, and I learned responsibility just like any other child. But I was protected to all costs as a child, and I never had to look after myself. I was never in pain, real pain.
But when I learned of magic, and the possibilities of it, I fell into another world of mysticism and wonder and awe. I fell in love with the power it gave me, to fulfill my dreams and my wishes and be anyone I wanted. I dreamed of being powerful, but only in my own right; I dreamed of getting married, and growing old, and having children, and being happy. I miss those dreams.
Because now, it all doesn't seem so easy anymore. The school, Hogwarts, that I had learned to love so much- it is a broken system, and pool of corruption and deceit and lies that all the students are drowning in. Put one toe out of line, and you'll be sorry- and oh, we are sorry, we certainly are.
We are sorry, because we are hurt. Everyone here is hurt, except those bloody Slytherins who always do everything right. We Gryffindors, they know our past. They know we are brave, and they know we won't give up. They hate us for it.
I almost think my dreams are broken now. I can't help but being afraid I won't grow up, that I won't live to see any children or my husband. I have nightmares about it sometimes, that I'll be left alone in the ground, in a grave where no one will come see me… No husband, no children to miss me. Only the friends I leave behind. What have I left behind that will make a difference?
Corruption has scarred me. It's scarred all of us, and we can't escape it. It's always there. And it will never go away. That's what I'm afraid of.
But we have to be the brave ones. We're the oldest, perhaps the wisest, and certainly the bravest. Some of the fifth and sixth years, sometimes even fourth years, try and help us; but they aren't quite as commited as we are. Perhaps they don't understand the extent of the war.
But we do, and we know that Harry and Hermione and Ron are out there somewhere, fighting just as hard as we are. And that's why we continue. That's why we try so hard to be brave…
It isn't easy sometimes. It isn't easy to sit and watch as an innocent first-year, an eleven-year-old, is tortured because he messed up an essay. It isn't easy to sit back and watch as your friends, your peers, cry for their mothers because they can't help it. It isn't easy to listen to yourself sob and whimper and fall, because you can't help it either. I know the feeling. It doesn't make it any easier.
We all try- the older ones, that is- to support the younger ones. We sometimes take punishments for them, if we are strong enough after our own. We block their path and try to shield them as much as possible. We comfort htem, and dry their tears, and try, try, try to get them out, if possible. It's nearly never possible. But still we try.
We know what it's like to live in war; we don't want that for them.
Why should more children have to learn to live in fear?
And that is why we do it, and why we will never give up. We're braver than anyone thinks, and we'll do whatever it takes.
After all, this is war.
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Written for Nanaho-Hime over at HPFC. Please review.