We Brethren Are
By Author Gal
Summary: It doesn't matter what side you fought on, or what house you came from. Everyone suffers the same. Two women talk after the last battle.
It has been a week. A week since the final battle and as I push my way through the crowd, I notice that people are still celebrating the defeat of You-Know-Who. The drink is flowing fast, too fast for some of those who seem to reside in this dirty, dank pub. A man slumps across my path, a huge grin plastered on his grimy face. In disgust I step over him, wrenching my coat out of his grasp. Still I try to fight my way through the swarm of people. Blithe people.
It disgusts me.
"A toast to freedom!" A man cries as he lifts his glass in high-spirits, and voices echo the call.
Is that what this wretched feeling is?
I keep moving on, trying to block out the noise of those around me, these people who are rejoicing and yet have no knowledge of what price was paid for their happiness.
All the seats are occupied, every filthy corner is filled with shabby people. With a swift push, I remove one of the drunker residents from his chair and sit down. He doesn't even grunt as he hits the floor.
I observe the people around me, a habit formed from years of living with those you cannot trust and working with those who you do not know. I recognize a few of the people around me, all of them telling wild stories about their role in the downfall of the Darkest Wizard of all time. For hours I sit and watch other people, a mere shadow in the corner. I take neither food nor drink, neither do I celebrate.
The price was too high.
"Two, please." Someone asked the barman. I turn my head slightly towards the voice. Perhaps it is because of the misery in her speech that I must look at her. Perhaps it is because I wonder why she asks for two.
The barman looks at the woman with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. "Two, ma'am?" He asks her kindly.
It isn't a question, it's a reminder.
She stares at him for a few moments and then her eyes start to fill with pain. She hangs her head in humiliation.
She'd forgotten why she grieved.
In her pain of loss and heartbreak, she forgot that she had to adjust her routine. It's easy to do, you carry around the hurt and your heart aches until you block out everything in order to prevent your self from dying inside. Your mind goes numb and you carry on like a shell until you can't even remember why you hurt so much.
"It's mine."
She turns and stares at me. Had this have happened two weeks ago she would have laughed in my face. Instead she stares at me, searching, and then gives the smallest nod. She turns back to the barman to give him her money.
I don't know why I said it. Damn! Someone knows I am here, she is walking my way. I can't do this, I can't interact with her, not now. Not ever. Why did I help her?
Because grief is no reason for humiliation.
She puts my drink on the table in front of me and I nod my head coolly at her. Please don't stay, we can't cope with each other now.
She sits down. How she managed to find a chair in this overgrown hellhole I do not know. It would not surprise me if she had transfigured one. And she probably doesn't even realise she has.
We sit in silence for some time, neither of us touching our drinks. I watch her and she stares away, her focus on something that no one else can see. On someone else that no longer exists.
She is going to start a conversation. She needs to talk, to ask me why. I need to remain silent, I cannot fall.
Silence.
"You lost." She says simply, suddenly, her eyes darting up to mine. I nod coolly, refusing to let her see how much I hurt.
"You won." I reply, emotionless.
This time she nods, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. Then she looks up at me. I know what she thinks. She is waiting for me to talk, to continue what she started. I refuse.
"You chose dark." She says, curious. It's a question.
"You chose light." I replied flatly. She is getting upset, she wants more in this conversation.
She wants acquittal.
She frowns in frustration as her chair shakes unsteadily. I smirk, a piece of her work that is not perfect.
"Why did you come here?" A sudden question. No accusing tone this time.
I ponder her words. Why did I choose to come to this dank, disgusting pub? To hide, I realise. Because at home everything accused me, at home I had no where to escape from my grief.
But I can't tell her that.
"It was raining." I tell her, and she seems surprised by my answer. Doesn't she know I am incapable of truth?
I do not ask her anything, but she still answers.
"I came to remind myself why he died." She says, staring at me, her eyes daring me to taunt her. I won't. Her answer surprises me, and yet I think she is hiding something.
"Not to escape?" I ask, indicating the glass in her hand.
"There is no escape." She replies heavily, and our thoughts wander.
My mask is tight, I will not let it slip.
"Are you afraid?" She asks, her eyes narrowing. She is perceptive, but not enough.
"What do I have to fear?" I brush her question off lightly but she persists.
"Being alone."
I stare at her, barely controlling my anger. What right does she have to question me so? But outwardly I am calm, and I eye her cautiously.
"I always was alone." But it's a lie…
"Did he love you?"
I knock my drink over in my surprise, and glare at her, seething.
"How dare you!" I hiss, gripping the table in my anger. She has questioned the only thing that I felt to be true, the only thing I believed in.
Yet I find myself wondering. It was more than the rain that drove me.
She is shocked by my reaction, but her expression quickly twists into a sneer. "Touched a nerve, have I?" She jeers maliciously.
Our roles are reversed. She is the spiteful one, and I sit here defending him.
But what can I tell her? That the entire time we were together he never said what he felt about me? That even I was unable to break down his carefully built barriers? She is watching me, waiting for an answer. I can't lie, but I cannot speak the truth. Did he love me?
I cannot doubt him.
"What concern is it of yours?" I snap at her, trying to regain my composure. My fingernails are drumming against the table, I have to get away. Yet somehow I am compelled to stay, for I have no one to return home to. The company may not be the best, but it is company nevertheless in a dark time.
"I know that I was loved. I wondered if not knowing hurts less." She says, and I notice that her eyes are red-rimmed.
My mask falls off and I know the truth.
"It hurts no less." I mutter, and my voice is laced with pain at my sudden comprehension. She nods in understanding, and we continue to sit, silent, staring at nothing.
I have to know.
"Why did you fight?" I ask her suddenly, curiously, openly.
"Why didn't you?" She rejoins, mocking me, hurt. I will not give up.
"What did you fight for?" I plead desperately. I have to know why she risked everything. Her eyes fall and her shoulders droop.
"For beauty." She admits softly, twisting a golden ring on her finger.
I have taken mine off.
"What did you remain for?" She asks me, and my chest constricts.
"For truth."
Her eyes snap to mine, and I turn my face away. I hear her take a deep breath.
I am incapable of truth, but it is truth I crave.
"Was it worth it?"
I shake my head. If I had fought, I might have died with him. I might have known if he loved me. I would have known what to grieve for.
Time passes slowly, and suddenly she starts to laugh, softly. I stare at her, confused. When she lifts her eyes to mine, I can see the pain that flashes through them.
"I bought two drinks." She responds to my unasked question, and then she starts to weep into her folded arms.
For some time I watch her and bask in her pain. But then I reach out a hand, hesitant, and touch her shoulder. She looks up at me, her face soaked with tears. I give her a small, uncertain smile.
"I set two places." I confess quietly. She blinks, and suddenly I understand. It doesn't matter what side we fought on, or what house we came from. Everyone suffers the same.
I rise to leave. I have found truth in this bar, I now need to go and deal with my grief. She catches my sleeve, she still doesn't understand. For her the suffering is still too new.
"You lost." She tells me urgently, a final reminder of our differences.
"So did you." I reply sadly before disappearing into the rain.
I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth, - the two are one;
We brethren are," he said
And so, as kinsmen met a night
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up out names.
- Emily Dickinson
A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed "Just keep on Drinking". This is dedicated to them. Please review.