Immoral In Devotion Skies

CHAPTER TWO: Grief Beyond Mourning

Wishing you were somehow here again
Wishing you were somehow near
Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed
Somehow you would be here

Wishing I could hear your voice again
Knowing that I never would
Dreaming of you won't help me to do
All that you dreamed I could

The Phantom of the Opera "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again"

What happened to us makes no difference. We are where we are today and there's no way to turn back, for everyone except us could see what was to come. Now, we are in the midst of an oceanic heartbreak, caught within the storm that is tossing us around whilst we're swirling in the same old mess time and time again. So, what are we to do? The heartbreak will last awhile and in the mean time, what options do we have? To repeat the same old mistakes or to finish off for good and try not to dwell? Or to be open to the options we closed off when we were together? Is this right? Or am I wrong? Have I been making the wrong choices all this time? What would I have done if I had known what was to come? There's no way of changing all that happened so we will now have to deal with the consequences we created.

So, here I am sitting and crying as I write this - tell me, what good will this do? What good is to come? I won't be left forever seeing my heart taken away from me like a mother watching her beloved child being torn away from her. But, I'll survive...eventually. I will overcome this because I deserve much more than what I am receiving right now.

*

Three Years Later...

Flourish and Blotts stood as proud as it did before the War came and destroyed it. The bookcases were newer but were now caked in an old dust that had not been wiped clean for at least a year. The shelves of books consisted of fewer new authors and books. Nobody had the heart to write, and whether there were even enough people to write was altogether a different matter.

A man stood by a bookshelf, observing a book in his hand; he seemed to appreciate the author's skill in writing and because he was so mesmerised by this, he did not see a young woman behind him slip and fall against him. The book fell to the floor with incredible slowness and the man caught himself just in time before he fell. He also grabbed the woman to stop her falling onto him.

Gratefully, the woman looked up at the man who'd saved her from making a ridiculous fool out of herself. The sight before her eyes made her draw her breath in shock. Not because the man was disfigured (unless you count age as a disfigurement) but because of who he was - she had not seen him since the Trial, and he had aged considerably. It was hard to believe the man was the same age as her, but the War had aged many people for so many had taken on grief beyond their years. The woman swallowed and she choked, "What are you doing here?"

The man stared at the woman, speechless, unable to register his astonishment; she was the last person he expected to see, and she looked no older than the day he'd last seen her. Her face had been contorted in sadness, in pity and in grief during that time. Somehow, he'd felt at that moment that the pity had been for him, for everything that had happened between them and between the world. If she had pitied him four months before the Trial, he would have lashed out at her in anger, asking her why filth like her would be sympathetic towards such greatness as he. However, the War changed everything; he came to realise the boundaries between blood weren't there anymore. He would have helped her side if he could have. Instead he became their worst enemy. Blood, after all, was just a thing to keep life flowing; it was not a distinguished border between who was better than another. He had been wrong in judging her, but he had been brought up in a life full of wrongdoings. Although he would undo them if he had the chance, he couldn't, and the mark was left on his soul and in the eyes of others. He bent down and picked up his book, speaking as he did so. "Looking for a book." He showed her the book as if to prove he was honest, because he thought she wouldn't believe him.

The woman watched the man's eyes. It was unbelievable how they had changed. His eyes were truly the windows to his soul. They were cold and harsh when they were young, and then they became black. Now they were blank, the grey covering up what was inside. There was no hatred, no evil and no life in them. His eyes were dead; this meant his soul was dead too. Watching his eyes, however, brought back the memories, terrible memories, horrors she saw every night - the killings, the fire, the laughter and the torment that had surrounded her. She wrenched her eyes away from his and turned around and started walking. She stopped and looked back at him and said softly, "I can't look at you." And she carried on walking.

The man stood rooted to the spot; seeing her had brought back the guilt, the shame and the burden he carried ever since the Times. He had been cursed to do those things he did, but it didn't change the fact that he did them. Or the fact he had taken away innocent lives. He helped take away the lives that meant everything to her, and he was sorry, and somehow it seemed important that she knew this. He ran to catch up with her, the book still in his hand, and he touched her arm. She knew it was him and winced at his touch. Of course, who would want to be touched by the hands of a murderer?

She didn't turn around to face him, just stood there and whispered, "What do you want?", her voice filled with the sadness and grief she had endured; her voice also sounded tired - tired from mourning all the people she'd loved. This is how Harry must have felt as an orphan. Harry...

The man said, "I'm sorry. I know I hurt you and everyone else. I didn't mean to do the things I did but it doesn't change that I did them. I can understand why you cringed at my touch and I can understand why you can't look at me. I just wanted to say I'm sorry, not only for the things I did and how that has hurt you but also for when we were young. I know I was a harsh, insensitive, cruel person. I'm sorry I made your life hell then and called you all those names. I was brought up cold, in a world with no love, and I couldn't understand the lives of those who could. I was influenced but even so, that doesn't justify anything, and I wanted to thank you. Thank you for giving me the chance to be standing here right now instead of rotting in a cell." The man sighed tiredly. "I'm so sorry."

Surprised by his answer, she turned around, "I don't think you've ever said sorry to me before, and you were never sorry when we were young. You took joy and pleasure from laughing at my background, Ron's lack of wealth and his disgrace as a pureblood and Harry's - Harry's..." The woman burst into tears but they were silent tears, she made no sound as the tears rolled down her face. The woman was angry that she was crying again, hadn't she cried enough in the last few years? How could she let him see her like this?

The man looked at the weeping woman, knowing he had somehow caused her the grief she was crying over now. Even though he knew there was the possibility of her shoving him away in disgrace, he thought she needed someone to hold her, just the thought that there was someone there for her right now. Though she probably wasn't alone, he figured, Weasley would always be there for her. They would have shared their pain together. But, right now, he wasn't here so the man did what he believed the right thing to do even if in the process she'd scream at him for doing so.

The man stepped forward and took the woman into his arms, the woman protested at first and tried to push him away but he held on and she relaxed; she relaxed into his arms and cried...