The Deep End, Somewhat Shallow

The Deep End, Somewhat Shallow
Lanni Weasley

Death is a funny and tricky thing. Rarely anyone speaks about it until it's actually happened, and then you sob your little heart out until you suck it up and try to "move on". After that, you get touchy about it, not really moving on like you want, and you get all teary-eyed if someone pokes you about it. Perhaps, after a while, you'll finally move on and get over it. But until then, you're left with that sinking empty feeling of baffling feelings of pain, misery, and calmness.

I don't like poking. Never have - physical, mental, or emotional. You might not realize it, but there really are three types of poking. When I was younger, I was treated with physical poking (usually courtesy of Fred and George); it was painful. I'd wail when I was very young, and Mum would have conniptions. As I grew though, I was subjected to mental poking. Fred and George loved teasing me, and then at Hogwarts, my insecurities were thrown at me almost flippantly, smacking me over the head and demanding to be dealt with. Dropping Quaffles in front of a large crowd is never a fun thing.

I'd had my taste of emotional poking when I was fourteen. June 6 - the night I found out that my dear pet rat was the man that had betrayed Harry's parents to Voldemort. I might not have acted like it or said anything, but I did care about Scabbers a lot. Seeing my "beloved" pet turn into a horrible, disgusting man had hurt me like no one will ever realize because I'm not stupid enough to pour my heart out.

When Sirius died, you can bet that I wasn't prepared. Harry was already a bit difficult to deal with, but I was afraid that he'd be very easy to upset now that Sirius had died. Hermione didn't seem to realize that some people need time to deal with death on their own; she wanted to talk about it immediately. I, myself, had not wanted to talk about Sirius either, even though she pressed me almost every day to talk to Harry about him. Did I do damage for not helping Harry for my own selfish reasons of wanting to try to forget? Would Sirius still be here if I had been more competent that night?

Dumbledore's dead now. Hermione broke down in my arms at his funeral; Hagrid broke down, too; in fact, a lot of people just broke down. Harry continued to clutch the fake horcrux in his pocket like a lifeline, as if he would've died, too, if he had let go of the one thing that he had left to remind him of Dumbledore. Ginny is so strong; I wish I was as strong as her sometimes, my little sister. I am the most pathetic excuse of a seventeen year-old wizard, but I suppose I'll just have to do.

I'm not sure what to think about Dumbledore's death. Things are just flying by so fast. We're leaving Hogwarts soon - for good. I told Harry that Hermione and I would follow him. And I will do so, just as I had promised him - I will follow him to the ends of the earth if I have to, the deep end, if I must, to ensure his life. It is the only way I can think of to be a good friend to Harry and to honour Dumbledore. Perhaps if I help complete his work with Harry, I will show my respect to him the way I never did.

Hopefully, I sound very noble; I'm trying my best when I feel so scared and angry. I wish Dumbledore luck in the after life, heaven, wherever he's going; I hope he has a good one, filled with many lemon drops and no hook-nosed people. Death is the next greatest adventure my arse; it's probably paradise compared to the living hell earth has become as of late. But I mustn't be so bitter. You can't always get what you fancy or want; life just loves to be unfair and ironic.

Right now, I sit at the edge of the lake, away from where Dumbledore was just buried. The lake is very comforting; I found that out last year, after a particularly horrid Quidditch practice. It's peaceful and unmoving, like it's saying in a soothing voice, "Everything will be all right in the end. It'll be over soon." Except it lies; many people and things lie - and now places, too. I've been lied to a lot; I know when someone is lying to me. Half of everything Fred and George say to me are lies. Harry lies; Hermione lies; Snape definitely lies; You-Know-Who lies.

I lie, but mostly to myself.

I pick up a rock and run my thumb across the surface. It's smooth on the top, but a bit rough on the bottom. It scratches my skin until it pricks it. I swear and toss it out into the lake, glaring at it furiously, like it is the source of all this trouble. I wipe my thumb on my sleeve absentmindedly, not caring that I've now stained a perfectly good shirt. Blood is a Gryffindor colour; blood is the colour of my hair, too. Bloody shirt. Bloody problems. Bloody death.

"When you wake up in the morning, things will be better, you'll see," the lake whispers. A breeze blows through my hair, making my red hair slid across my forehead; it almost feels like Bill is ruffling my hair like he did when I was younger.

I miss the days when Bill was my absolute hero, and he would walk around the Burrow with me on his shoulders. I hope he's okay. Bloody Greyback. I hope I'm not next. I hope he dies. Should I be so vindictive? (Yes, and when I find that bloke, I'll kill him for Bill.) Things will not be better in the morning.

The rock I threw landed close to the middle of the lake. Must be the little muscles I gained from Quidditch. The ripples dance in the lake water, trying to tempt me to dip my feet in the cool water that guarantees relaxation and peace of mind. I remember the time in my fourth year when Dumbledore asked me to participate in the Second Task - my confusion, glee, and happiness to do more than sit back and watch the show. Imagine my surprise when I found myself being dragged to the bottom of the lake.

The deep end. I'm not overly fond of water, mind you, having almost drowned at the creek near the Burrow when I was younger. However, it doesn't matter anymore. Shallow water can be just as bad, if not worse sometimes, that deep water. But I will do both if I must. I promised Harry - and I will never break it.

Where he goes, I go. He is my brother now, I think. My messy raven-haired, green eyed, bespectacled brother; he takes after a long-lost uncle, perhaps. To the deep end I'll dive - to the shallow I'll walk - to the ends of the earth I'll crawl - if Harry goes.

But at the ends of the earth, will the deep end be any different than the shallow if we are there for the same purpose?