Golden One

Where are my angels? / Where's my golden one? / Where's my hope/ Now that my heroes have gone? / Some are being beaten / Some are being born / And some can't tell the difference anymore / Amen / Hallelujah / Hallelujah

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It wasn't a choice. It was never a choice.

Not a choice to have to sink to the ground, fearing for my life and going to live among the basest of Muggles; not a choice to run out of money, be afraid to use your Gringotts vault, and have to turn to the oldest profession for a means of earning a living. No face, no name; I was just "Heather". And it was a living Hell. Now I'm afraid that my will to live is gone; I can't deal with life the way it is. No more. Never again will I arise to walk the streets, to leave my books and wand behind in the tenement room and go out into the life of another slum girl.

Luckily, I've made some friends here: Tanisha, Ally (who goes by the name "Amber" when she's in the nightclub where she works), Apollonia. They've taken turns nursing me, as much as they know how; their skills are limited as their educations were, but they care about me and want me to live. It's a strange feeling, and a new one: wanting me to live, not asking me to put my life and honor on the line for them. I'm not used to it.

Ever since that day when Harry left me, I knew it was going to pot. "I'm going a-questing like the knights of old, Hermione," he said. "Buck up. I'll only be gone for six months, maybe a year." Fat chance, Harry, I thought, but I didn't say anything. He was looking for Voldemort, searching for wherever the Dark Lord was hiding. He made me and Ron stay in England, in Hogsmeade where us and several other poor but talented wizards jointly paid rent on a huge old mansion-house. It had been a good deal, and as we all were used to dorms and wanted to be away from our parents as soon as humanly possible.

He was gone for three years. I got a job as the librarian at Hogwarts when Madame Pince died, with the assurance that I would be promoted to a teacher as soon as a spot became avaliable; Dumbledore knew my talents but wanted to give me a job in the meantime. Then, during the third year, Ron left. He was never seen again, either. This time, he made no promises. "I've got to follow him, Herm," he said. I sighed, and went about my usual tasks as librarian.

Then Voldemort returned, and I knew that Ron and Harry weren't coming back. Without them, I knew that I would be an easy target.

I changed my Gringotts gold for Muggle money and went underground. At first I lived well, middle-class, but then the money began to run out and I had to find a way to get a job where nobody could trace me. I found a buisness that would hire illegal immigrants and said I had just immigrated; I got fired, as I'm a lousy housekeeper. And thus I became how I am now, on the street, in the tenement, tired, sick in both mind and in body.

I just don't care anymore. It's not worth it. I haven't got any news from the magical community in days; I don't know if anyone remembers me. And Voldemort is still there, and I'm still here, in exile. My friends are all dead or gone, and I can't fly on my own. I used to dream about a golden prince who would come to kill Voldemort and allow me to return to the world of Wizardry: a mix of Harry and Dumbledore and every Prince Charming there ever was. A golden one.

But the golden one hasn't come. And I can feel, now, that he never will.

Where are you, golden one?

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In the Bible only angels have wings/And the rest must wait to be saved/A dry tongue/Screams at the sky/But the wind just breathes words in/As a strange bird tries to fly/Amen/

-----finis 1/1