In Forests
by : epiphanies
*
How long have I waited for this time to pass? For this war and this blood and this brutality to cease?
Only it has not. Only for me has it stopped.
*
"Pansy?!" a blond man called frantically, running through the bush, melting away the shrubbery but moving too quickly for it to matter.
"Pansy!"
He heard a muffled cry to his left. He stopped and listened, then moved stealthily toward it.
"Pansy," he groaned as he saw her. He knelt down and offered her a drink. It trickled past her bubbling lips. She blinked.
"Draco?" she said in a minute, weak voice, "Draco..."
"Shh," he trickled some more into her mouth, "Swallow it. Our favourite. Diluted firewhiskey."
She gurgled, then swallowed with difficulty. He surveyed her. Ripped robes. Arms strewn out at disturbing angles. Blood dripping down her temple.
Her hands were cold.
"Who did this to you?" he whispered in growing horror. Her glazed eyes shifted to him. He couldn't tell if they held tears.
"Draco," she managed, "I can't feel my toes."
"Okay," he placed his hands on her bare feet and rubbed furiously, "You're just cold, that's all, you're going to be fine."
"I am cold," she repeated, watching the forest above her, "But you are warm...keep warm, Draco. Please."
"I'm going to make you warm."
"No!" she said, in such an alarmed and strong voice that he stopped for a moment. Her wide eyes were looking rabidly about, reminding Draco of a former teacher's magical glass eye, "No, keep yours, Draco."
"Keep my what?"
She didn't answer. His heart pounding, he crouched over her. He made her look at him. Her vibrant eyes were dull.
"Listen to me, Pansy," he ordered, holding her face in a gentle vice, "Listen, I'm going to keep you warm, you hear? We always used to, remember, in fifth year, in Myrtle's Lav? The Astronomy Tower? And the night before our last at Hogwarts we promised to keep each other warm. Always, both of us."
"When you are as cold, as cold as I am, Draco-"
She coughed then. A violent cough. Blood appeared at the corners of her mouth.
"Blood is warm," she croaked, coughing, "We'll always have that. We'll always have that, Draco."
His eyes filled with angry tears as her eyes closed. How dare she, how dare she go and die on him like this!
He bit his pale, chapped lip, drawing blood.
He could taste it in his mouth. He spat violently, then picked her up in his arms.
When he arrived back at the camp, Bellatrix rolled her eyes, turned and called out, "More fuel, Rudolphus!"
He didn't speak then, only handed his best friend to the Death Eater he'd once called Uncle, and walked away.
*
"Hermione? Hermione! No!"
Ron Weasley dropped to his knees in the Forbidden Forest and cradled his friend's head in his lap. His tears dropped onto her bluish skin in a dizzy waterfall. His hands, already wet with snow, shook as he picked her up with a gentleness he'd always held her with, ever since the first time he'd held her.
As he walked into his camp, all went silent. He laid her - no, not her, her shell - onto the ground before him, and bowed his head. He didn't need them to see his tears.
Albus Dumbledore stepped forward.
A white flower dropped onto her breast.
*
The beauty in war is nowhere to be seen. It does not shine in swords, crackle in fire, bleed from wounds. War is a barren wasteland of ugliness.
And for me, now, with many others, I say - it is finished.
*