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"You won't be needing it."

"That's ridiculous, Tom, of course you'll be needing it. A patronus is very useful."

And he continues saying it's not necessary and she continues saying it is. And he continues saying it's useless, pointless, and she continues saying it's powerful, important. And he continues saying it's dumb and she continues saying he's childish. And he says he can't do it and she says she can teach him. And he doesn't have any happy memories and she knows they can find some. And there aren't any, but they can make some. And he's frustrated and she's calm. And he's angry and she's patient. And he's mean and she's gentle. And he's upset and she's glad.

"What's your patronus?"

Maybe the words would distract her long enough for him to get out of this ridiculous, impossible task and, with her being so committed to it, it must be special, must be important, must reveal something about her, must mean something to her, because nothing ever seems to, nothing is ever special enough, good enough, important enough.

And, instead of answering him, of moving her mouth for the simplest of words, she smiles and a brightness that he has never seen before overtakes her and he desperately wants to know what her memory is, what makes her so happy and so relieved and so perfect and beautiful, but he doesn't ask, doesn't interrupt, doesn't question or pain her. He stays in his darkness and doesn't allow himself to revel in her light, only watching it from afar, the tiniest fragments of it burning and scratching at him like the embers of the hottest flame.

A silvery otter escapes her wand and plays in the air, the mist its tools and the breeze its breath, its joy reflected in her eyes and its lightness in her smile before it disappears into a swirling dust that covers them both and she's still beaming as she turns to him and asks him to try, the brightness around her slowly fading into her hair and skin and the walls and the floor and everything in between that and them.

He raises his wand and he closes his eyes, his mind racing along its blanks, desperately searching for a memory, a thought, a moment, anything that would work, anything that could possibly be happy enough to produce such a corporeal form and he thinks he's found it, at least it, unlike so many of his memories, can bring a sort of spark to his mind, something near happiness, something near what he needs, but the possibility of real and pure happiness had never occurred to him and so this will have to do, and so he opens his mouth and he yells the phrase and-

He gets a wisp of smoke and it disintegrates into dust and the spark dies away quickly, the possibility of warmth leaving him with it.

And she tries to help him but he's upset and it doesn't matter anyways. He won't be needing a patronus. It's useless, stupid, insipid, something only used as a pretty show of vague power.

He asks her what her memory is, to distract himself, to distract her, to try not to think about his obvious failure, and her smile, which had held strong throughout helping him and angering him and him yelling and breathing hard and near crying, finally falters. She shakes her head and says something vague about her friends and he wants to know what brings her such joy, about her life in the before, about her life in light, but he doesn't push it, his mind so focused on his shortcomings and on the strange emotion that overcomes her face, the golden shade of sunshine from the happiness of her memories mucked up and tinged with the grey hue of the most heartbreaking sadness and hopelessness and he'd like to understand, but the words and memories belong to her and it'd be cruel for him to take them and stupid of her to give them.

It's quiet now and she takes a breath. He hears it shake, just the tiniest bit, and then she speaks, a weak attempt at her regular tone, a mock of inquisitiveness.

"What did you try to use as your memory?"

He doesn't even hesitate and, at her reaction, torn between laughing or crying, he realizes it would have been better to lie.

"Creating my first horcrux."

Her voice sounds choked, its release cracked, flowing out of her immediately after a twisted chuckle and accompanying tear-filled eyes. She shakes her head, a broken smile on her face.

"That won't work."

He looks down, caught between shame and confusion and frustration, with himself and with her and with this stupid patronus. He almost throws his wand down but he knows that would only seem childish and it would only make her more concerned, make her ask more questions, and he doesn't want that now. He's found something he can't do and he has no desire to prolong his embarrassment or to have her attempt to comfort him or to continue trying to perform the ridiculous, stupid spell.

"It's a useless spell, it doesn't matter if I can or can't do it."

He knows his voice sounds childish and he wishes he had considered his tone before speaking, but it is too late now and he begins leaving the tower, leaving their shared space, but he knows she'll call him back, he knows, and he doesn't know if it's what he wants, but he knows it'll happen, nevertheless. She takes her time. He's almost out the door when her voice reaches him. And she's not comforting him, not telling him it's okay or it'll be okay or it's always been okay. She's prodding him, trying to anger him, embarrass him. She knows just what will work, she knows him too well, understands too well. The thought scares him, a notion he launches to the furthest reaches of his mind.

"How do you expect to be the most powerful wizard to have ever lived if you can't even cast a simple patronus?"

Her head is tilted to the side, her eyebrow raised, the lightest smirk outlining her lips, her tone just stepping a toe into the cold lake of condescendence, and he has to try again, he has to wipe that smirk off her face, has to push her out of the water, he has to prove himself. She knows him too well. She understands him too well and it's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

He tries to cast a patronus, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and he's exhausted.

He's breathing hard, panting, hardly understanding what's happening anymore, and she's rubbing his back, whispering to him, still encouraging him, after yelling and tears and fears, she's still there, and he still can't do it. He's tired. He doesn't want to try again, and she tells him it's okay and it's so soft and so far from what he had come to expect from her, her fiery anger fades into the warmth of the sun in spring and his eyes are threatening to close and his muscles threatening to fail him and her face is so close to his and he's so, so very tired that, weakly, without thinking much about it, or at all, he kisses her forehead, the idea never even crossing his mind before he does it, he never has a chance to debate it, it coming to him so quickly and automatically. And he's left with his heart beating faster than it should, his face feeling warmer than it would, his lips tingling in a way they never had, and she smiles at him and he's too tired and too nervous and too afraid and too anxious to tell if it's real or not, to even want to know. She brushes her hand through his hair and he closes his eyes and wishes the moment didn't have to end but, he feels her hand hesitate halfway through before stopping and pulling away, the movement tugging at him, begging him to follow her hand, but he keeps his eyes closed, nevertheless, not wanting to see or feel the end of this yet, not wanting to deal with the reality of his emotions and what he is and the reality of all that she is. But, he has to. Reality is not an option and our dreams are only temporary distractions. He feels more than hears her sigh and he listens to the shuffles of her standing up, her hand brushing against his and her lips touching his cheek so lightly, he's not sure it happens at all, and he hears her steps growing quieter and further and, still, he doesn't open his eyes. He stays on the floor, his body grows colder and the world quieter, yet still there he remains with his eyes closed, because as long as he doesn't open them, the truth is merely a possibility, a choice. But, of course, it's not a choice that's his to make, nor one that even exists anymore. The truth exists without consent and with the raging fury of a tsunami and he is merely a tiny boat caught in the middle of the storm, and so, he must open his eyes, must watch his demise, must see that he's alone and he's tired and he's confused in a cold room on a cold night in a cold world.

He's sitting on the ground, his back resting against the stone wall, his shoulders slumped, his eyelids drooping, his hair mussed, his lips chapped, his brain threatening to fall into the sweet bliss of sleep, his eyes ready to follow, his mind filled with her. Her eyes, her skin, her hair, her voice, her skill, her duel, her intellect, her smile, her light, her laughter, her jokes, her mind, her soul, her-

He casts the patronus, one more time, and an almost-corporeal figure appears, but it fades too quickly to be certain and he's far too tired to try it again, far too tired to admit to the happiness the very thought of her brings him, far too tired to face the reality of truth, fully and completely just yet, far too tired to exist in so cruel a world where, even if he learns to love, he will not be loved back. He closes his eyes and let's himself lie to the world.