A Prayer for the Dying

The glasses were lined up like little soldiers on the crescent table. He smiled bitterly; it seemed almost too appropriate.

Each small shot glass glittered in the low lamp light of the tavern, the alcohol dancing in their cups and sparkling at him in a mocking fashion. We're here, you're here, but they're not, and whose fault is that? He glared blearily at the row of glass cups, wanting to take each and everyone and thrust them into the fire. Instead, he counted to make sure that they were all there, waiting to corrode his memory for that night. Like they did the night before, and how they would tomorrow night, and would continue to do every single fucking night until his liver was finally washed out of existence.

He gently picked up the first glass, letting the cool glass roll in his brittle fingers. The butterscotch schnapps glinted slightly as it caught a flash of light; he grimaced and took it in one go, letting the syrupy-sweet drink slink down his throat.

Damn. Damn it all. Neville.

Neville, virtually destroyed. Not a god-damned thing left. Neville, one of the best people Harry had ever met. Killed without remorse, like a candle snuffed out by a dash of dirty water. He missed Neville a lot, these days. Neville had tried so hard, and he had lost so much. He never got to avenge his parents, or see the end of the war.

Harry had failed him. He slammed the glass on his table, silently demanding a refill of the schnapps. He got it, and he wryly thought that, if nothing else, being a fucking hero had the advantage of no one ever telling him that he'd had enough. Where was he? Oh yes. He failed Neville, his friend of nearly seven years. Let him rot in a prison cell while he went off and killed people and saved the whole GOD DAMNED world one last time.

Assholes didn't even deserve it. And the angry, twisted part of him thought that he would give up all the victories to have Neville back again. To have all his friends back again. Now, it was just him and Hermione, trying to slog their way through the bullshit day-to-day 'living' they were struggling with. Hermione, his best friend, his only friend left, by his side and trying to get through what remained of this massive joke people referred to as life.

He let the glass fall from his scarred hand as the alcohol began to burn. He hated it, the heat; it reminded him too much of the sunny days of the Burrow, playing Quidditch and relaxing between Ron and Hermione. But the cutting, twisting feel he liked. He could feel it sear into his bloodstream, into his brain, and slowly fuzz his memories.

Groping around, he found the second glass. Snatching it and holding it up, he poured the liquid down his throat, smiling lazily as it raced into his stomach. It churned and frothed as he let the memories fall apart. The drink, rum, left trails down the corners of his mouth, but Harry, unheeding of how he looked, merely licked them with the side of his tongue. The brown stains discoloured his pale chin, but Harry was walking down the path of unconsciousness, and frankly didn't care how bad he'd smell in the morning.

Colin Creevey had always been annoying, but he made people laugh. Secretly, as Harry had gotten older, he began to think that Colin made an ass of himself to endear himself to people, to amuse them. He didn't really need to; in the end, Colin had endeared himself to Harry by taking pictures of Ron and Hermione and Ginny with Harry and making a small picturebook that Harry could carry with him. And wouldn't you know it, the midget really did belong in Gryffindor, taking on a horde of Death Eaters who had attempted to overrun their camp. There was an awful lot of braveness in shrimpy little Colin, and a shitload of help it did him. They hung him up to dry. Literally. Harry had discovered Colin, tiny, squeaky, hard-working Colin, waving in the wind, his withered body slowly crumpling into dust. Hermione had screamed in horror, and Ron had flat-out fainted. Harry had to restrain Dennis from attempting to resuscitate his brother.

Harry reached out for the other glass of rum. For Dennis, enthusiastic Dennis with a bright smile and a hyperactive sense of humour. He'd buried his brother and then buried himself right next to him, wasting away in front of his grave until he passed on, clutching the straps of Colin's beloved camera as he died.

What a waste.

Harry knocked the first three glasses aside, only dimly hearing the shout of outraged customers yelling in irritation. They turned to face him, only to shut up and take a step back as the blotched red and white face of the boy-who-lived glared at them, his fists curled. Ah, yes. Fear the Hero of the century. He heard whispers of how he was falling apart. Well, the hell with them, he had earned the right. He only reacted when someone talked about Hermione; no one was allowed to speak about his best friend.

Harry angrily searched for the next shot, knocking his glasses off in the process. He finally found it; a sparkling clear, clean, shot of the purest vodka. He sucked it down, his eyes tearing up and his nose running as it punched through his veins.

Luna. Insane, wonky, precious little Luna. She of the Quibbler, heliopaths, but also of enduring, boundless faith. How many times had she been there for him? How many times had her gentle words and soft but firm arms carried him through the darkness? And she was gone. Forever. Her lovely body desecrated by the enemies, left to rot in the frigid sun. How many times had he wished he had been at Hogwarts that winter? He had lost her. How many times had he, and Hermione, and Ron, vomited as they buried her body in the Forbidden Forest, buried her there so she could be near her beloved faeries? Little Luna, more delicate than finely-woven lace and stronger than the walls of Hogwarts itself. Dead. Happy Christmas, world, I'm burying my friend's decomposing corpse.

He had lost his faith then, when he watched Ron gently pick her up and dump her in the hole. Death had dug itself into their clothes, their hair, everything. He threw the glass across the room, watching dully as it exploded in the fireplace.

And she was there, floating into the tavern. Hermione walked in, sitting next to him as he searched blindly for the second to last glass, tears avalanching down his cheeks as he sobbed. The memories slowly broke apart, but the worst was yet to come. Hermione merely sat silently, staring thoughtfully through the wall.

He gripped the shot of gin, bringing it to his chest and cradling it protectively, as if the other patrons would come and snatch away his treasure. He stroked the smooth curves of the glass, as if he could feel strands of thick red hair run through his fingers. His Ginny. Gone. Dead. Destroyed.

He drank greedily, inhaling the scent of the alcohol as if it were salvation. It smashed headlong into his senses, and between the dancing lines of other patrons, he saw her lovely form lying mangled on the ground. A threstral had been eating quite calmly on her corpse, her left leg already gone.

He had only turned his back for a moment, to call to Ron, and she was gone forever. A blast had leveled part of Hogsmeade. He had been running to catch up with her, a quiet moment in the war, his two best friends running behind him as he tried to catch her and kiss her. One moment in time, one turn of the head, and she disappeared. The snot from his runny shirt coated his chin as he slumped, groping for Hermione's hand and trying to expel the memory of Ginny lying there, her eyes open in total shock and disbelief. She had seen her own end. Harry had been knocked out in the blast.

If only he hadn't chased her. If only he hadn't tried to kiss her. Everything he loved, everything he touched, died. He cried noisily into Hermione's shoulder, spit mixed with many alcohols slathering itself into her hair. Hermione only kissed the top of his forehead, calmly stroking his head.

Harry thrust an arm out, searching for the last shot. His hand closed around it, and he convulsed. One shot, slightly taller than the rest, for his tallest friend, his oldest friend, and his best friend.

Ron.

Harry bit into Hermione's shoulder, letting the tang of her blood wash away the aftertaste of all his drinks. He lifted his arm high, gripping the glass of firewhiskey and waving it.

"To my best friend!" he whispered harshly, slopping the drink on his arm. "To the real hero, to my best friend, killed because I'm a total arse!"

"It's not your fault, Harry," said Hermione softly, putting an arm around Harry's waist. He tilted the glass and let the drink dribble through the air and into his mouth, splashing on his lips and going up his nose.

"More," he shouted, twirling the cup in the air, trying not to remember the way that Ron would toss the Quaffle up in the air and catch it. "MORE, DAMMIT!"

As the nervous barkeep refilled the glass, Harry cried, pressing his wet cheeks against Hermione's clammy ones, the two sitting with arms twined around the other's shoulders as Harry drank and demanded more refills, trying to dash away the past.

Ron. His greatest friend. His greatest ally. His greatest failure.

He had let Ron die, almost let Hermione die, in order to defeat Voldemort. He watched the green flash of swallow his friend whole, eating him away, freckle by freckle. He watched Ron fall slowly back, slumping over Hermione's prone form. And Harry could have saved him, pushed him out of the way, but he was too god damned busy trying to protect the world from evil that he had sacrificed his best friend. He had killed Voldemort, but he had lost Ron, and he didn't know which one was more important anymore. He had let everything good left in the world die, ignored it, LET IT HAPPEN to save a place that looked at him in FEAR and treated the only good thing left to him like total shit.

How could Ron leave him? How could any of them leave him? What kind of fucked-up world let great people like Ron, or Neville, or any of them die while they cowered at home? What kind of world made Harry into a person where he had to decide over them and his best friend, his first ally, oh God, Ron, come back, please, I'm sorry, I promise I won't do it again.... Harry drifted, washed into a sea of liquor of self-hatred, of bitterness and loss. Only Hermione kept him afloat, kept his head above water now, but she was starting to drown under Harry's weight. One more death on his conscience. Wonderful.

He hated himself. The faint words of lies stood out out on his flushed hand as he squeezed the shot glass. It shattered in his hand, and he threw the pieces of his memory across the table, the bright blood from his hand shining like Ron's blaze of hair.

Wordlessly, Hermione put her back around Harry's waist, pulling him up. After he steadied himself, she started to shuffle them towards the bar counter, her free hand digging out a few galleons from a pocket and pushing them towards the bartender.

"Four more shots," she said neutrally, her dulled eyes shining darkly from too-sharp cheekbones and an emaciated face.

"Are you sure, Miss Granger?" the barman asked nervously. "I don't know if Mister Potter can take four more shots..."

"Two of them are for me," she said calmly, depositing Harry in a high chair. "Two shots of absinthe, two shots of brandy."

"Miss," said the man, "We don't carry ab-"

"Bullocks," she said matter-of-factly, pulling herself into a chair. "I know you do. Serve us, or I'll call the authorities."

The man hurried and poured the two shots, setting the glasses in front of Hermione. She gently put two in front of Harry and propped him up. "Here," she whispered, offering the two glasses, which he took in hand. She took her two, and they raised their glasses as if to toast a happy event.

"To us!" she declared, and Harry nodded vigorously, almost falling off the chair. They drank greedily, Harry allowing trickles to find their way to his lap. He slumped again, and Hermione helped him get to his feet, proceeding to half-drag Harry to the front door.

"That girl's cracked in the head," whispered a female near her. "Letting him drink like that, drinking absinthe! Mad, I tell you. What is that, 'For us'?"

Harry turned around with a drunken roar and kicked the woman's chair from under her, grinning maliciously as she fell with a spectacular thump. She wormed her way back from him, averting her face from his alcohol-infused rage.

"Harry," she said patiently, and Harry tottered back, collapsing on her.

" 'Mione," he slurred, slobbering on her messy brown bun. " 'Mione... love you lots.... sorry about this..."

"Love you too, Harry," she said, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek.

She turned to look at the frightened barkeep.

"What... what was that?" he sputtered, looking at the almost-gone Harry as he wobbled and hugged Hermione clumsily. Hermione looked at him blankly, then reached over and picked up the last two shots she had taken.

"Those," she said quietly, pointing at Harry's table, "are memories of the dead. But these...." she let Harry bury his face in her shoulder before continuing. "These are just a prayer for the dying."

She held Harry close, like an over-grown child, ignoring the scents of dried sweat, tears, alcohol and blood as she cradled his torso. She looked like she was about to fall apart, held together only by her love from her best friend and sheer will. Her overly-thin frame stood out, bones sticking out sharply, as if Hermione had forgotten how to eat after the war ended.

"Come on, Harry, let's go home," she whispered, as she led him from the tavern, leaving behind years of friendship and sunshine in a few glasses, some shattered beyond even a good repairing spell. They left behind the fragments of their soul on the bar counter as the Boy-Who-Lived and the Genius made their way home to die a little more.