None of it's mine.
Harry was a horcrux. She should have seen it. Realised early. The brightest witch of her age, they called her. Highest OWL scores seen in decades. She should have noticed. By god, it was so obvious. The parseltongue, tantrums where his eyes flashed hostile and manic energy slipped through him. She was his best goddamn friend, for fuck's sake. His best friend. She could have saved him. Realised early. Organised teams to be there to revive him. Warned Ron.
Ron. That was one of the worst. Her boyfriend, her best friend, her lover. A plethora of memories haunted her. Kept her awake, her eyes traversing cracks across the ceiling, sheets tight across, mind lost in the past. Ron's red hair in the sunlight, his voice, his smile, his eyes. The feel of his lips on her shoulder, his hand on the small of her back. His laugh echoed up from memory to ring through her mind. Ron and Harry, victims of her ignorance, now just memories lying in her mind, coiled as serpents. Ready to strike.
Worse. Her memories were fading. Ron's smell no longer rushed to greet her. Had to be evoked with his cologne, carefully secreted in her bathroom cabinet. She feared more loss. Made herself check, every night. Go over everything once, twice, three times. Make sure that she didn't lose anything. That everything stayed vivid. Stayed as alive as the dead can. She could use a penseive, the magical option was not yet void. Many nights she had considered it, lying awake, the cracks on the ceiling taunting her, Ron's laughter echoing. But they were too precious. Too important to trust to dull stone and a locked cupboard. As painful as they were, her memories would remain with her forever. They were all she had left.
They'd been a good team. Hunting fragments of Voldemort through Britain. Three sets of footprints in English mud. She and Ron, Harry and his purpose. At first it was subversive, the stolen snatches of kisses between searches, the act of delicate distance between two bodies. Finally, confronted by Harry, they admitted it. Love. The axis upon which the world turns. At night, then, two rooms were ordered, and she lay warm beside her lover. Lost her virginity in one of the thousands of rented beds. Nightly weaving a cocoon of emotion in which to rest. Discussing the war, the search, their future. What they should do about Harry, the lone figure in the bed next door, and his violent nightmares, Dark Lord directed, which woke them all each night. Wore them down, until her hands shook around morning coffee and Ron's fair skin showed dark rings below his eyes. Too painful to discuss.
And then a breakthrough. Seven discovered, seven destroyed. Voldemort faltered in fragments of pottery, metal and stone. They were ready to fight him. Ready to die, or to live. Weren't sure which would be harder, really. She should have realised. On the hill of the battlefield, as the minions sparred below and their leaders above, the war quivering to its climax in the swish of capes and flash of wands, she had realised. For the warring two were not truly separate. Not truly different. Two sides, certainly, but still the same coin. And she'd screamed her throat coarse and tasted tears as her feet scrambled on wet ground, vision blurred and frantic, but still clear enough to watch the figures fall. First the orange haired one, throwing himself in front of his best friend, struck down pointlessly, as the dark head quickly followed his descent. She'd made it in time to finish it. Scream 'Avada Kedavra' with all the hate flowing through her, and watch a green flash of light, brighter than all before, make the twilight midday and the wizened figure topple. Finally. Made it in time to fall upon the fallen and try desperately to save them. The brightest witch of her age, indeed. Absorbing knowledge like a sponge and regurgitating facts on request. The girl who'd spent seven years in books, had a fierce need to know everything. Who could not even save her friends, in the end. Could not even save her love.
After the battle, when all was done and the smell of burning flesh had receded to memory, the heroes were buried. Laid side by side in a field of flowers. With twin angels guarding their rest, and a space left for their other, cruelly still alive. And she had not cried at the service. Sat stiffly, with her eyes straight ahead, boring deep into twin coffins, as if trying to resuscitate by pure will. It was only later, when all had left, and the earth filled in, stealing them away forever, that she'd given in to it. Lain on fresh earth and cried until she slept. Woke to bird calls and sunlight. Found nothing beautiful in it. Lost herself in vodka, then in men. Slept with Malfoy, the dreaded enemy turned spy, one night in a fit of self-disgust, and woken to a pounding head and warm arms. For one moment, almost believed it was Ron, before the blond hair on the pillow awoke her to reality, and grey eyes silently mocked.
He understood her. It did not mean they were in love, or even ever friendly. They came to the same place at the same time for the same thing. Finding some kind of sanity in the madness of repulsive sex. Finding a way to shut out the past for a moment, yet preserve it forever. They came together with the desperation of trauma victims, wound roots deep in the soil of another. They did not find joy, but they found apathy. Which is kin, if the time is hard enough.
And, for the brightest witch of her age, haunted, hunted by guilt and memories, that was all she had.
A/N - Hope you like it! The plot bunny was getting venemous and so I figured I'd better get it out there, before repression of story became painful. Please review, because I'd love to hear what you think about it, and any advice would be lovely. Thanks - m