A Long-Gone September

A Long-Gone September

A lone girl stood at the edge of the lake, fighting the pull she felt to step into the lapping water and sink into its numbing depths. Death seemed to lie heavily over this place, faint memories lingering in the darkness, shadows of what had been. She felt its morbid presence acutely, ghosts of the past tugging at her soul and sending chilling whispers down her spine. Shuddering, she took a forceful step back, the longing in her eyes betraying the careful control of her stride as she made her way slowly to the great oak that stood meters from the waters edge. It had been long years since she had rested her back against the old, worn trunk, but even after so much change and so much grief its steady presence still gave her some semblance of familiarity and comfort. Settling herself, she pulled a piece of parchment and a quill from her robes, regarding them solemnly before beginning to write.

I'm not quite sure what I'm doing here. It's all over now, the fighting and the dying, the secrets, the lies. We won, but to me, winning is overrated. It is not those who fight that enjoy the victory. No, those of us who have survived are scattered and broken, an irrelevant number compared to those we have lost. It is future generations, children and grandchildren, who will enjoy the peace, and for us that knowledge must be enough.

The girl set down her quill, her flaming hair falling about her shoulders as she brought her knees to her chin and gazed blankly into the night. The moon reflected surreally off the lake below and the stars encased in the velvet sky above blazed brightly. The beauty of it was lost on its lone spectator, however, her eyes glazed as some distant memory replayed itself in her mind. She stayed like this for a while, unmoving, as if in a trance. She came back to herself slowly, straightening her legs and tucking her hair behind her ear, then picking up her quill once more.

I close my eyes and strain my senses, and do you know what strikes me the most? The silence. It was the sound I had most missed - the absence of screams and curses and spells - though now that I am so deeply surrounded by it, it's unsettling. It is the absence of laughter and mindless chatter that unnerves me, and now it hits me stronger then ever that things will never be the same again. They say that war separates men from heroes, but in reality, does it truly matter? Both are dead, and both have left me alone.

I'm so tired. Too tired to mourn, too tired for anger. Nothing seems to matter anymore. Hogwarts, or what is left of it, lies behind me, a jumbled pile of rock and memories, defeated like so much else. The lake lies before me, silent and still, even the giant squid gone.

I'm not a writer, but for some reason I feel compelled tonight, of all nights, to put my thoughts to paper. When the last of us are gone, when the witnesses have faded into history, those who fought must be remembered.

I suppose it is best to start with the most conventional hero. I think at some point or other, we were all in love with the boy who lived. I, for one, was never aloud to forget that particular infatuation, though now it's more of a fond memory then an annoyance. Harry was good, in every sense of the word. There were no gray areas, no waver of self-doubt, or at least none that he allowed the world to see. Of course there were times when he thought he couldn't go on, when he truly believed the world was against him and he wanted to wash his hands of the whole affair, but he was too stubborn to give up. Deep down he believed the world was his to save, and in the end, I think it was this that saved us. Not his courage or his superior knowledge, the boy was just too damn woolen-headed to let someone else do the job. I don't mourn for Harry Potter. He was born with a destiny, and even though it was one he never wanted, I don't think he could ever find happiness had he not fulfilled it. I was there when the ill-fated curse took him down, and his expression was not one of pain. It was one of peace, of someone who had finally broken the bonds that held them captive in this world. He had found acceptance, and in the shadows of his clouding eyes I could see what he saw, the family that he had loved and never known finally reunited. The world will remember his final valiant deeds, those last spells uttered from his mouth. They will forever see the hero, but in my mind, all I can see is the boy. A boy who was lost, abandoned, and now finally as those brilliantly green eyes dimmed, saved.

A tear coursed down her cheek, but she smiled softly in spite of it. The war had caused more grief in two years then most people knew in a lifetime, ripping families apart- parents from children, husbands from wives- and cracking friendships that had previously been wrought in stone. In death as he had in life, however, Harry Potter had managed to defy the odds, finding happiness and love as he never could have while he was alive.

Leaning back, she allowed herself to savor the memories - the laugh that had become so rare these past few months, the tiny lines of worry that had become permanently etched above his brow, and the scar, the accident of birth that had demanded so much from him, and given back so very little. It amazed her how quickly his image came to mind, how clear and detailed it was among the foggy haze of the rest of her thoughts. She knew that in time she would forget, the brilliance of his emerald eyes would fade and the sound of his laughter would disappear, and it was that, perhaps, that saddened her more then his absence. Indeed, the world had already forgotten. As she had said, they would remember his deeds and his scar, his triumph over the Dark Lord, but the world would never know the way his eyes had lit up when he was with his best friends, nor the way one brow quirked when he was confused, or a hundred other things about him. If anything, the war had made her realize that there was so much more to people then met the eye. Sighing, she slowly let go of the memory, storing it in the back of her mind and then pausing as she considered her next words.

Many times, friends of such heroes are over-looked, unseen next to the glory of one so obviously destined for greatness.

Her quill shook after the first sentence, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. She had thought herself hardened against such strong emotion, but grief rocked her very core as she set her quill to parchment once more. Tears began to fall, but she forced herself to ignore them, forced herself to write.

In the end, however, it is often these people who are missed the most. My brother was stubborn, hardheaded, clueless, and at times an insufferable prat, but he was caring and fiercely protective of those he loved, and you could ask for no better by your side. Ron Weasley loved life, and though he constantly complained, he was every inch the hero his best friend was, if for different reasons. Ron knew fear, but where Harry had destiny, he had loyalty. He died where he would have wanted to, at Harry's side and fighting for his best friend's life.

She found that she could write no more on the subject, the tears falling harder, and she grasped the quill so hard she feared it would break. His final words came back to her and a bitter smile temporarily lit her features. "Don't worry, Gin, at least I lasted longer then Malfoy." The war hadn't changed his views on his most hated enemy, and in a way she was glad. He was still the big brother she knew and loved, right until the very end. He should have been there to comfort her now, should have been alive, but the thought that he was somewhere beyond the world of the living and still cursing the blond haired Slytherin made her smile softly. Shaking her head, the smile faded as his rueful grin swam into her minds eye. She pushed it away, refusing to relive his memory. That particular loss was still far too raw and painful. She instead gazed down at her parchment and tapped her quill thoughtfully. Draco Malfoy. Where to even begin?

For every good there is evil, every black there is white, every hero a villain. With Draco Malfoy, however, things were never so cut and dry. He was cold, calculating, and arrogant as all hell, and each and every one of us was positive that there was a Death Eater lurking just under his pale skin. That he defied the Dark Lord in itself probably isn't all that surprising, I don't think he could bare the thought of having to answer to anyone but himself. That he chose to fight along side the Order, however, shocked us all. We were all glad of it in the end, he was a demon on the battlefield, and more then one of us owe our lives to him. He died alone, his trademark smirk engraved eternally on his pale features, his father's crumpled form lying meters away. He would not want to be remembered a hero, the very thing that in life he had despised. Draco Malfoy died the same selfish, sadistic bastard he had always been, but I think that in death he has finally gotten the better of us. We are eternally indebted to him, and I positively know that just beyond the veil of the living he is having the last laugh.

Rereading what she had written, she shook her head slightly. It was not completely true, but no one had to know that he had not been completely alone when he had died. That she had been there, kneeling at his side and yelling at the damn bastard to live. That in that inevitable moment just before death had taken him she had leaned down and covered his lips with hers. The startled surprise that had registered on his face had been enough, and he regained his composure quickly, smirking as his eyes clouded and he became still. That last smirk had been for her, and her alone, and she would take it to her grave.

Sighing heavily and wiping a last tear from her eye, she set her quill down on the ground next to her and closed her eyes. A poem wove its verses through her mind, something she had heard long ago but couldn't quite place.

"Somewhere in Time, You'll stop to watch the ebb and flow of Tide," she whispered, the only words she could remember.

There were so many more who had died, so many stories still left to be told. For tonight, however, she felt that she had done all she needed to, and it was as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She still felt the ache of unfathomable grief in depths of her soul, but the raw edge of the pain had dulled. The faint fall of footsteps approached and she folded her parchment carefully before tucking it into her robes. The bushy head of Hermione Granger came into view, and she knew that it was for those of them who were left to experience the loss and repercussions of war that she should grieve. The pull that she had felt earlier had subsided, and she sent one last longing glance at the lake. One day she would join them. For now, her journey was not yet quite over.

She turned to join her friend, pausing as a sudden gust of wind rustled the leaves of the old oak, and she could have sworn that a faint whisper recited softly:

"Somewhere in Time

You'll stop to watch the ebb and flow of Tide

As I was wont to do, and there beside

The Sea, on lonely stretch of beach

On distant shore now out of reach

I shall come, heralding the Dawn

Or hiding in the gentle mists

That rise to greet the morn

Listen for my Voice upon the Wind,

That shakes the leaf

Or bids the bough to bend

Familiar sounds will stir you to remember

A long-gone September"