Haunted

Haunted

It’s summer, hot, and I can’t sleep. Again. Harry, of course, is out like a light. It’s a cruel irony, that. He’s seen more horror than is imaginable, yet his slumber is as peaceful as can be. I, on the other hand – she of the ivory tower – am plagued and tortured with dreams and visions of the ghost of a girl I never knew. Then again, maybe that’s not so cruel, to him anyway. He already carries so much hurt during his waking hours, and I carry so little. Is it so unfair that in sleep that should be reversed? Every time I wake suddenly – heart pounding, tears on my cheeks, feeling like my heart has been ripped out of my chest – well, I like to look down at him and say to myself, Better you than him - this is one time he doesn’t have to feel it. It’s fanciful, I know.

Goddamn, I am furious with her. It’s blackly humorous, that. I’m angry at a dead girl, a fourteen-year-old child who felt that things were so bad that she had to sit in that bath and open her veins. I’m angry enough to kill her. And more than that – I’m jealous of her. I’m madly jealous that she’s taken such a big chunk of my fiancee’s heart with her. How dare she? How dare she drag him down with her? I think, you didn’t want to live, fine. But why did you have to take Harry down with you? And like that? To make him witness the stark ugliness of it all, you selfish, selfish girl. It was alright for you, you just slashed, bled and died. You never had to see yourself drenched in blood, as cold as ice. Lips blue and the water pink, in a gross reversal of everything good and true. But he did. And if you had truly loved him, as everyone says you did, you would never, not even for one second, have considered putting him through that. Because he can’t forget you. And I can’t forgive you.

Oh my – I’m trembling with rage. Calm. This isn’t good for me, in my condition. That sodding little bitch – deep breath – calm. But I know, that despite all my anger and hatred of her - underneath those black and red swirling mists of rage that blind me so – I cry for her. I think, fourteen. She was only fourteen. What could have possibly been so bad at fourteen? I think of how I was at fourteen, and I can’t fathom it. Not at all.

Harry wouldn’t tell me about her for so long. I knew her name was Hermione, and she did it the summer after their fourth year at Hogwarts. And that was it. Then, a few weeks ago, I pushed him about her. I asked him how she did it, where, when. I don’t know why I needed to know all of a sudden. But I did.

And he told me.

He told me how he’d been visiting her for the summer. He said he didn’t notice anything different about her on the day she did it. Not sadder, not happier. Nothing. He went out with her father, he can’t remember where. When they came home, her mother was gardening. The father stayed outside, chatting with a neighbour. Harry entered the house, alone. He can’t pinpoint when he knew something was wrong. He couldn’t find her – her room, his room, downstairs. The bathroom. And she was there, the water bright pink with her virgin blood. And he screamed and screamed – and I don’t think he’s ever stopped screaming, since that day. Not really. Not inside.

I think he blames himself, somewhat. I think he thinks, I was her best friend – how could I not know that something was so deeply awry? He said he knew she was sad, a bit depressed – but then, he figured, weren’t they all at that time? I said I wouldn’t know. Which wasn’t the best response. He looked at me in a way that he’d never looked at me before. Or since. Like it was my fault that I never had to live through the horror of that time at Hogwarts. It was almost like he was angry at me for not having to go through what she went through. As if he was thinking, Why did it have to be Hermione? Why couldn’t it have been you?

I worry that he resents me because of that. And somehow that worry has grown into a secret guilt that I had such happy teenage years. And now, sometimes, I do wish it had been me instead of her. Because then Harry would still have her, and she would be able to give him so much that I can’t.

I hate that I can’t do anything about it. I can’t take it away, and I can’t fill this huge Hermione-shaped gap in his life. She was his friend. They were children together. No matter what I do, in the here and now – I can’t beat that. I started out with him as his lover, as an adult. Of course we’re happy. I love him, and he loves me. But not in the way he loved her. There’s something different about children’s love for each other. Sometimes I’m even angry at him for not loving me like he did her. And I know that’s monumentally unfair of me. So I push it to the back of my mind and channel my anger at her. Is that more or less unfair of me? I don’t know. But I have to be angry at someone, and better her than him.

I’m looking down at him. He’s got his head on my stomach, and in the moonlight, his hair is so black against my skin. I’m not sure if I think that symbolizes anything, but it does look nice. Oh - he’s just unconsciously trailed his hand across my belly. I wonder if, on some level, he knows. (If he’d paid a bit more attention in Divination, I’d say he would have figured it out by now. But from his account of how much attention he didn’t pay in that class…I’m guessing he’s still ignorant). I haven’t started to show yet – I’m only seven weeks. It’ll be such a nice surprise for him after the wedding. Now, there’s a topic that always puts a smile on my face. Our wedding. Only eleven days to go. And then, seven months after that – there’ll be a baby.

Love. Marriage. Baby. I slip down next to Harry and he opens his eyes, sleepily wraps his arms around me and kisses me before dozing off again. I pull him as close to me as I can, until I can’t tell where my body ends and his begins. I begin to cry for her, so softly. She’s missed out on so much.