Title: Page 13
Author: Karen
Rating: PG (For what? I dunno, really. The Harry Potter books/movies are PG, so this is too)
Genre: Angst
Summary: It was the kind of morning that made you feel so blessed that you were alive. But they weren't. Died a hero's death, the paper said. Would have wanted to go that way, friends and family said. Wouldn't want their spirits to linger around us, haunting our every step with the truth.
Author's Notes: Well, this story was to help put off my project due tomorrow (Eek!), but I had fun writing it. Actually, it may have been written because my friend and I can never get enough of that sappy angst! Yay angst!
THE DAILY PROPHET
BREAKING NEWS:
The end…or is it just a new beginning?
Reporter: Rita Skeeter
It's the moment the wizarding world has waited for ever since they heard rumors that You-Know-Who, The Dark Lord, the one everyone fears has had his reign of terror ended by The-Boy-Who-Lived-Yet-Again. Ministry officials have not yet released any details except for this statement by William Hartford, a Ministry official saying, "It's true, You-Know-Who is gone. Now go away and let me get back to work."
For more on this story, turn to page 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, or 7.
For the death toll, turn to page 13.
When I look back on that cold, brisk December morning I cannot remember what I wore, I can't remember Hermione's weak words of encouragement, I can't remember the trip to the funeral home. I can't remember sitting in the pew numbly, the buzzing of voices around me.
I can, however, remember how Mrs. Weasley's mouth trembled whenever her late husband's name was mentioned. I can remember how Lavender Brown broke down sobbing hysterically as soon as the caskets were in view. I can remember how Hermione sat silently next to me the entire time, never looking at me or uttering a word. I can remember the expression on everyone's face, how their eyes seemed to loose their liveliness whenever someone approached them, saying how they were sorry for their loss. I was unaware that people also came up to me with tearful smiles on their faces thanking me for letting their loved ones rest in peace.
What I remember most of all are those that were absent that should have been there.
But that was years ago. But then again so is this. Every year, on that same cold December day, Hermione and I would go back to Hogwarts, to pay our respects. Five years after the funeral we bought our tickets wordlessly at a train station and took our seats without acknowledging each other as we did every year. Had anyone seen us that day, they wouldn't have known that we'd been friends since we were eleven years old. But of course no one was taking the train to Hogwarts but us. Everyone else was off celebrating like they were every year. The train started up with a small jerk.
Silence.
We sat in the silence for a while. The lines on Hermione's face were rigid, as we both sat in the back of the train, our black clothing clashing with the interior of the train. Just as we always did.
"I'm sorry." Her curt voice broke the uneasy atmosphere for the first time in those five years, startling me. I turned toward her, but she remained looking slightly sideways out the window.
I swallowed. "What?"
"That was the last thing he said to me," Hermione said easily as if she discussed this every day, "He just said 'I'm sorry', and then he left. If I'd known he wouldn't come back—"
She broke off quickly, her cheeks reddening, almost as if she were embarrassed. Of course I knew who she was talking about. She'd been avoiding the subject for years now (though it felt longer) on my behalf, always politely relieving me of having to talk about it when others darted dangerously close to the subject.
"Oh." Oh. What was I supposed to say? He died like a hero? He wouldn't want you fretting about him now? He just wants you to be happy? I'm sorry I got your husband killed?
"Did he—" She would not meet my gaze. "Did he—"
She seemed to struggle to get out the words, something Hermione ever had trouble doing. Her head whipped around without warning. I don't remember what she said after that. All I can remember is her eyes. Her eyes, brown color swirling inside them, showing no sign of life.
"I'm sorry. Stupid of me, really. I do always have the worst timing with these sort of things," I remembered her saying hurriedly afterward in an apology, "It's just that I wish that I could have gone with him when he died."
Unaware of doing so, I bit my tongue harder then I had wanted to. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth as the train came to a stop at the familiar station of Hogsmeade. I stood up abruptly and exited the train as fast as I could. I stood out on the train platform, sleet hitting my warm cheeks, for several minutes until Hermione silently walked out behind me.
We began walking mechanically, not saying anything. We were two strangers to each other, just like we had been five years ago. We still are. We'll never be able to have the same careless conversations about absolutely nothing to pass the time away. No more gay laughter exchanged between friends but forced laughter exchanged between a wife and her husband's murderer.
I remember being aware of the creeping feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach surfacing as we approached the graveyard. Shadowy figures of gravestones and willow trees were in sight when I saw a tear roll down Hermione's cheek out of the corner of my eye.
I said nothing, not knowing what one should say in a situation such as this. I had been prepared in potion brewing, transfiguration, charms, everything one could almost thing possible, but when it came to moments like this, I was a novice. A clueless novice.
Clumsily, I stuck out my gloved hand and wrapped it around her limp one. We still said nothing, just continued to walk toward our destination. No more tears were shed from either of us.
We reached the graveyard in silence. I opened the gate, and she passed by me. My heart beat madly in my chest. She didn't know. She didn't know.
The gate closed with a loud creek. Hermione had already started walking to the back of the graveyard, the place I dreaded most in the world. We walked passed graves with familiar names on them. Susan Bones, Nymphadora Tonks, Mundugus Fletcher, Oliver Wood, Ernie Macmillan, Dennis Creevy, Arthur Weasley, Billius Weasley, and many others. Finally we stopped, staring intently at the grave in front of us, year old roses sitting by it.
Ronald Weasley
A husband, a brother, a son, a friend
Neither of us said anything, just as we always did. We stood in silence, staring at the words each of us secretly hoping that this time when we'd go home that night we'd actually be able to sleep in peace.
A sick feeling spread through my body and even though it was freezing outside, I felt unhealthily warm. Hermione stood there, small a frigid against the neighboring willow tree. It was a pitiful sight to see. If she should have cried, I (though it pains me to say it) would have felt better, relieved almost. But she stared at the grave blankly. At one moment, her face was so similar to her husband's empty one when he'd died, I wanted to flee and never have to see her again.
"We'll never know," Hermione said softly, voice quavering slightly as she broke the silence once again, "Will we? We'll never know how it happened? If it was painful or…"
I swallowed. The next thing I said came out before I could think. It was as if the devil had possessed me, which he had, but only worse. "I know."
Hermione's eyes widened slightly in shock. "You…know?"
Forcing myself to stare harder at the ground, I nodded slowly.
"How could you know?"
"He wasn't killed by a Death Eater, like I told you."
Hermione gasped softly. "Then it was Lord…Lord Voldemort?"
I shook my head, clenching my fists inside my pockets.
"Then who? Who else is there?"
"Me."
She made a sudden movement that I only half saw. She stood there lifelessly, staring at me. I couldn't have imagined what was going through her head upon hearing that her best friend had just killed the man he loved.
"It was an accident," I said hurriedly afterward, like a guilty child, "I didn't know it was him, I thought he was…so I…" I broke off, heaving slightly.
Hermione did not move. She stared at me, eyes pouring into my head. I could not face her.
"Then afterward, I went up to the body, and when I pulled down the hood, I didn't see a mask…I saw...my best friend's face, dead because of me." I heard her give a whimper.
"It was painless. The Avada Kedarva. But he had to have known it was me who did it. His last living thought was that his best friend had killed him. I just thought he was…when he wasn't…"
I trailed off, unsure of what else there was to say. I stood there, staring at the grave of my victim numbly. Hermione said nothing.
They say the truth helped you heal, but at the moment I don't think I had quite felt worse in my life. I turned on my heel and left the graveyard. I was already passing the lake when I heard her again.
"Harry!" I kept on walking. "Harry!" She wanted to kill me now for what I had done. Who wouldn't? "Harry, wait!" She didn't want to forgive me. It was stupid of me not to tell her earlier, rather then carrying on the lie for all these years.
A hand wrapped itself around my arm, and I spun around and jerked out of her grasp. Hermione stared at my breathlessly, cheeks aflame.
"Oh, Harry," Hermione said softly. She smiled at me, something I had not expected. The sick feeling in my stomach increased. She would hate me forever, of course. There was no avoiding that. But she had to know. She had to know.
"I'm sorry," I said, realizing I was saying the last thing Ron had said to her.
She sniffed. "Please don't be. Not now."
She wrapped her arms around me, and for the first time in years, I felt myself relax. The pain numbed slightly. I dumbly let me arms hand at my side and laid my head on Hermione's shoulder as she hugged me.
I tear rolled down and fell into the snow.
Whether it was hers or mine, I do not know.
A/N: Well, that sure was a foot in the trousers, eh? If you don't get the title, go back up to the Daily Prophet article then tell me how I pick such queer titles.