Title: Survivor of the Great War
Author: booknerdguru
Rating: R
Summary: They'd all had their ways of coping with the memories…
Written for the Dementor's Kiss Challenge.
My phobia was Mnemophobia- Fear of memories. This fic was inspired by the poem Survivors by Siegfried Sassoon.
She lay on the bed, shivering. A cold sweat beaded on her forehead as she lay there, unmoving. She just lay there, heedless of time or space, staring, continually staring into nothing. Eyes distantly fixed on some unseen point along the ancient stone wall. She no longer spoke, no longer slept, and no longer did anything resembling ordinary human behavior.
She was numb inside and out. There was nothing left for her.
Nothing.
She still remembered the sound of the screams, the tangy metallic taste of blood, and the smell of the smoke from all of those fires that burned, they burned so brightly. Some of them had tried, tried to warn those they could, as many as they could, of the coming horrors that lay in store for them if they remained where they were any longer. Some had listened and had managed to spirit themselves away in time. Some hadn't. The memory of their blackened and mutilated corpses was burned into her brain. It was seared to her soul. Another soul, another person she'd failed, one more mark on her soul, one more name for the ever-growing list of the dead. One more death that would haunt her dreams, one more face that she would see when she closed her eyes, one more.
She couldn't get warm (numbing cold that seeped into her marrow and down into her very soul, making ice where once was burning fire); she couldn't keep food down (how could she eat when the memories robbed her of any appetite she might have). She couldn't close her eyes and sink into sweet oblivion (the dreams came when she slept, reliving the nightmares, the cursed memories of watching their deaths vividly unfold before her, over and over again). She couldn't speak (who would understand what terrified her so, who could comprehend the absolute terror, the horror of it all and not turn and run the other way?). She couldn't feel (the war had robbed her of that) and so her entire focus, her entire existence had dwindled down to the horrific things she'd seen and done.
Life itself seemed to evade her and all she had was those horrible memories and a list of names a mile long.
Theo's face contorting as he slowly gasped and bled to death from a stray exsanguination curse hurled by one of his own relatives. Natalie as she was slowly worked over by the Lestranges who wanted to add a personal touch to the message they were sending to the rest of the world. The beaten and bruised body of Daphne Greengrass, once a friend, now just another name on the list of people she'd failed, one more face that looked back at her through the black abyss that was her everything now.
She heard the voices sometimes, the nurses clucking their tongues and the doctors assuring whoever cared (if there was anyone who really cared, still) that it was only a matter of time, that she'd snap out of it, it wouldn't be too long before she'd be back up, well in body if not in soul. She knew very well that her main value lay in her admirable ability to see and hear things that many were not privy to and to then convey that information to her handlers. She knew somewhere inside of her that if she were to get up and begin to play at life once more that they would send her right back into the mire. Not even sparing a thought for the effects that it might have on her health, so long as she was able to do her job. That's all she was to them, a means to get information.
What did it matter, really?
The Light side, against all odds was winning. It's not like she would make much difference in the grand scheme of things, besides the Ministry generally preferred its operatives to be if not optimal, than at least healthy enough to get it done. Broken people like her were liabilities, security risks. The best she could hope for, if she went back out there was Azkaban or the Psychiatric Ward at St. Mungos's, if the Ministry was ever witness to one of her 'episodes.' She didn't want to think about what might happen if she had one while undercover…
McClaggen as he was caught boasting about being such an important part of the Order and how he was close friends with the Golden Trio by Death Eaters. Dragged in front of the Dark Throne itself, having his mind stripped away by Voldemort before being gifted to Mulciber and the Lestranges to be made an example of; Voldemort had found nothing useful in his head save that he was practically stalking the Granger girl and had delusions of grandeur because she'd gone with him to a Christmas party. She remembered privately retching the minute she was back on safe ground at the memory of his gutted, mutilated corpse.
They'd all had their ways of coping with the memories; some used Pensieves to forget, some requested Obliviates; some of them had found…other…ways of coping.
For Snape, it was drowning out his memories with firewhiskey, both Ginny and Harry took out their anger and horror by endlessly dueling and training. Hermione closeted herself in her books. Neville just gritted his teeth and funneled all he had into their defenses and taking care of the Herbology greenhouses Professor Sprout had been one of the casualties when the Death Eaters had hit Hogsmeade. Lavender had stopped eating, so had the Patil Twins.
There was not a single one of them that had not been in some way adversely affected by this stupid war. She imagined that she could almost hear Snape's voice in her mind, as he was lecturing them about the qualities of a good spy, "Remember", his silky voice purred, "That anything and everything can be used against you. Do not give them a reason to test your loyalty, because they will find your weak point, your worst nightmare, your secret fears and they will gleefully use it to further their own agendas. When you fear, the fear becomes powerful and that power in the wrong hands can be your complete undoing."
She'd steeled herself against everything or so she'd thought. She never thought she'd come to fear the memories. She quickly realized that sleeping drafts didn't stop these kinds of memory-dreams, they really only prevented you from waking up and ending the dream. Occulumency only went so far, there was only so much you could conceal even from yourself.
The so-called medical 'professionals' had assured them (the adults in charge) that the dreams would soon go away, that they (the kids that fought and survived) were young and resilient and they'd get over it. They had their whole lives ahead of them; they'd move past it, it was only a matter of time.
Only a matter of time. Right.
It was only a matter of time before one or more of them (the aforementioned 'children') decided that this wasn't worth it anymore and left; went Muggle or committed suicide, or had their minds snap and were admitted into the psych ward.
The look of death on Draco's face as he heard the news of Lucius and Narcissa's death at the hands of Percy Weasley, the Light traitor. It was eerily similar to the look that was present on Harry's face more and more often lately. He had his own demons, his own nightmares to fight daily and the toll that took was showing. She bet he had his own long list of people he'd failed; for someone sorted into the 'wrong house' he was showing his Slytherin side more and more often lately. It was a frightening look; the look of someone who had nothing else to live for, but whose strong sense of honor and duty kept them tied to this cursed half-existence. Duty was all that kept them from fading away.
She'd lasted as long as she could. She fought it as long and as hard as she could. She no longer had the strength to try anymore, which was why when the curse had hit her, she'd actually been grateful for it. She'd been grateful that she was going to the infirmary; because that would give her needed respite from the physical stains of her daily existence, so that she could deal with the mental demons that haunted her. It wasn't until she'd been there for a couple of days that she realized that she really didn't want to try any longer, that she was tired of maintaining those inner defenses and barriers that kept her from completely losing it.
She'd become like Harry, like Draco, like Snape… She'd somehow, somewhere stopped caring and just let the memories take over.
How horrific and terrifying it was to be afraid of your own mind, to be afraid of the onslaught of memories that tormented your every moment. And yet how liberating it felt, to be pushed past the point where you no longer cared. To know that there was nothing else for you, except for those painfully vivid specters of the life you'd had.
And so passes the life of Pansy Adrienne Parkinson, daughter of Laurence and Delphinium Parkinson, pureblood spy for the Order of the Phoenix.
Survivor of the Great War.
Survivors
Siegfried Sassoon
No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain
Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.
Of course they're "longing to go out again,"--
These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk,
They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed
Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,--
Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud
Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride ...
Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.