A/N: Felt like writing something sad today. *shrug*
Word Count: 450
Drabble Twenty-Five: Wishing
On the banks of the lake of Hogwarts, lay a shattered soul underneath the large willow tree. The figure was hunched over, occasional sniffle erupting that would turn into wide-swept sobs. This person was wishing. Wishing, that their world wasn't crumbled to the ground, dead beyond belief. They had no reason to live. Because the only reason that they had was now gone. Their rock, their core, their other half of a beating heart: gone. Dead. They didn't believe it of course. Convincing themselves that their partner wasn't gone was easy: forgetting them was hard. A huge part of him had died.
Everywhere he looked, he found little parts of her scattered around, like little pieces of paper, thrown like confetti absentmindedly, not caring who saw it and who was going to clean it up. He cried over them, those broken pieces. The smell of vanilla and lavender coated her favorite armchair, that now became his that he slept in. Her books, organized in neat rows by author's last name, and the well-worn creases of the pages that carried her love of the objects of knowledge. The orderly way the flat was set up, for the most practical usage was tinted with the memory of them moving in and arguing over furniture. The classrooms at Hogwarts carried the touch of her love for learning. Her friend's memories were forever changed with her in it. She was brilliant, the heroine of a story, the person that people looked up to.
All of the pain was because of a stupid person, a stupid curse, a stupid wall, another stupid person, a stupid battle, and a love that overshadowed all of the stupid things. Hermione Jean Granger's life had been taken May 2nd, 1998 when a wall had been blown up. Fred was sure that he was going to die, as he saw the rubble of the wall collapsing down on him. But the moment of death never came, and instead of a wall, a body and a shield lay on top of him. He had turned to look up, and find a shield charm covering himself, and the porcelain, frigid face of Hermione Granger lying above it. She was too late. Funny, the one time that she messed up a spell, it had cost her her life.
It was dark out. Fred looked up to the sky on September 19th. Her birthday. A shooting star flew overhead, brightening the night sky in a blazing mess as it swam through the darkness and vanished with a wink.
"I wish," he spoke aloud. "-that Hermione Granger would still be alive."
But it was only wishful thinking.