You would never guess, looking at me now, but there was a time that I liked funerals.

Back before my world crumbled and dissolved into blackness, when I had only ever watched the burial of the old and sick, I thought they contained some joy. A hope of sorts - hope for the future, for eternal life, for light and love and happiness that could never be found in this mortal, evil world

I always have been dumber than I let on.

Because now I see. Now I know. And I hate funerals.

Someone once said that no parent should ever have to bury their child. That person never buried a parent – I am sure. I know this because if they had they wouldn't say something like that – something so stupid. This pain that rips through me like a fire of misery is crushing in every sense of the word. I wish it was I being lowered into the ground.

But it isn't. That is my mother. That is my father.

They are both so young, so healthy, so not dead. It is as if, even after it has accomplished its wicked goal, the curse is causing pain. If I did not know better, if I had not been the one to see that hideous, horrible, evil mark above the house, had not rushed through the door of my childhood and found the two still, unmoving bodies, I would think they were merely sleeping. Some part of me – a masochistic part that must wish me more unimaginable pain – is still unsure.

Perhaps I could Enovate them…

Of course I don't. Rather, I stand here, in at the front of the gathering, and watch with parched emerald eyes. I can't cry. My tears have dried up, leaving me with aching, stinging, itchy, self-betraying orbs that won't even allow me the release of crying. I hate my eyes, a little. I hate everything a little.

The time has come to place the flowers on the grave. There are only two left in our small family – Petunia and I – so it is our job to place the first bouquets. My hand shakes a little, wrapped tightly around my roses, and my legs seem to be made of rubber. But I manage to walk, right behind Petunia, and lay down my flowers.

My sister turns around, away from the twin mounds of dirt, with her hands over her face. She is crying. I am jealous.

I want to reach out to her, to wrap my arms around her and sob – even if I have no tears. I want to hold her tight and never let go, to keep the last of my once-whole family right here, where I can at least try to protect her.

But I don't. Because she wouldn't like it. And I understand that.

I understand because, don't worry Petunia, I blame myself too. It's my fault – I know. Had it not been for me, what with my wand and owls and general freakishness, they would still be here, alive. I know. I know.

"I'm sorry."

It's all I can say. I'm sorry.

She doesn't even look at me. With brisk, teetering steps she crosses over to her boyfriend and falls into his large arms. I watch, and I feel my heart break.

Soon it is over and I am alone.

I stand, arms wrapped around myself, and stare at the mounds of freshly overturned earth. It's a normal day today, and I am grateful. There is no rain to overplay my misery, no bright and happy sun mocking the sorrow I am drowning in. It's a normal day. I thank God for that.

It's as I stand here, in solitude, that you find me.

You're here. Of course you're here. No matter what I do, no matter what I say, you are there. Always. But, still, I am vaguely curious (vague because, right now, everything but pain and sadness is vague), because this is a very strange place for you to be. This isn't Hogwarts, this isn't even the magical world. This is my world. My place. My parent's funeral.

But you're here. And you're speaking.


That's all you say. I turn to look at you, my eyes pulling themselves up as if they weigh one thousand pounds to meet your own. I look at you and I take in your smart suit that is so completely muggle I am a bit shocked, as well the fact that it looks like you tried to tame your hair. Mostly I look at the complete understanding radiating from your face.

I remember. You've done this too. I want to apologize. Because this pain deserves to be acknowledged.

I don't, because I can't. My throat hurts and my voice is gone. I hope you understand.

I look back at the ground. But I still feel you at my side. I am grateful you don't leave. Because when you do, I will be all alone. And I don't think I could stand that right now.

As we stand there, I begin to think. I think about my life, all the twists and turns of Fate that have dragged me to this moment. You are in these thoughts.

It's funny, because you always have claimed to need me. Ever since – when was it? Fifth year? You've chased my, goaded me, pined for me loudly enough for the entire school to hear.

You have always insisted you needed me. But you don't. You never did. I have no idea how you could be so blind.

But I think I might need you.

We're standing so close that when you shift, our shoulders brush. As they do, I feel a surge of irrational panic. I think you're leaving me. Like everyone else. Maybe you won't come back.

My hand twitches and brushes yours. It is the most natural thing in the world to reach out and curl my hand around your two fingers. I hold on tight, never looking up at you. Forgive me, I'm still weak.

But you don't leave. You stand there, right next to me, until my legs are sore and I feel my body sagging in exhaustion. The entire time, I hold your fingers.

Now I wonder; Will you let me hold on forever?




AN: If you like it, tell me. If you hate it, tell me.

And I'll appreciate it 8DD