Aftermath

The room was still and silent. It was late, well past midnight, and the school was fast asleep. The curtains at one end of the room were drawn and candle light played on the walls from a small lantern sitting beside the only occupied bed.

A tall young man sat beside the bed in a large chair, his gaze intent on the person before him. He was bathed in light briefly as there was a bright flash outside and the panes of glass in the windows of the room rattled. The girl on the bed did not move.

The boy turned his gaze out the window as another flash of lightening illuminated the sky. Rain drops were starting to splash against the grounds and the castle walls; the wind picked up and began to push the droplets against the closed window beside him.

Even the weather seems upset, he mused silently to himself as he watched the lightening and rain, feeling the thunder as it rumbled the castle and shook the air. He turned back to the sleeping girl before him, brushing a hand along her cheek. Her red hair cascaded across the pillow and her sweet face was blemished with cuts and bruises.

He watched her chest rise and fall slowly. She was breathing. As long as she was breathing, she was alive. And as long as she was alive, he could hold it together. But he was coming loose at the seams, slowly unraveling as the stitches fell apart. He closed his eyes to fight the tears that had been threatening him for days now.

She hadn't really moved since she had been brought in, almost a week ago. Madam Pomfrey told him over and over that her body was just in shock and must be exhausted from the ordeal. He would just nod in response; he had to believe her. He had no other choice. He couldn't believe that his precious Ginny could be gone. He had to believe that she would wake up. He had to believe that she would wake up soon.

Seamus lowered his head, balancing it on his forearm as his hand gripped hers tightly. They had lost so much already. He wasn't about to lose her too.

The Ministry had confirmed it in the Daily Prophet on Monday. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and most of his supporters were gone, dead. But so were many people who had fought against him - among them teachers, former teachers, family...and friends.

Seamus took a deep, shaky breath as he thought about them. He hadn't let himself think about them much this week - he couldn't. He needed to concentrate on Ginny and her recovery. He didn't need to be falling apart himself.

But he could hear them.

He could hear Ron's hushed laughed drift by the doorway on the way to another class, or Quidditch practice, or maybe dinner. He could hear Neville's whisper drift towards him from the corners, telling him about another plant or potion or spell that he had found, something that one day might help him cure his parents.

And he could see them.

He could see the spark of Harry's wand as he lit the way through the dark corridors on late night escapades none of them ever should have even thought of, much less attempted. In the shadows of the Hospital Wing, late at night, he could see the glint that would always pass over Hermione's eye when Harry or Ron were up to no good, the glint that told them all that she was greatly amused, though her mouth coiled into a disapproving frown.

And he could feel them.

He could feel them right there with him, silently waiting, watching for signs of movement and life in their dear friend, who wavered on the edge between life and death. He could feel Ron's breath as he stood in the corner and prayed to anything and everything that might exist for his little sister to be alright. He could feel Hermione's touch on his own hand, offering in silence the support and hope she had no words to voice out loud. He could feel Harry's hand on his shoulder, the two boys supporting each other the only way they knew how. He could feel Neville, could feel his presence across the bed, poring over his texts and notes, trying desperately to find anything that could help her, that could help them, that could help anyone

All they wanted to do was what was right. And they had paid a dead price in doing so.

Seamus turned his gaze toward the ceiling as he let out another shaky breath, desperately fighting the sobs that filled his throat and the tears that pulled at his eyes.

"They were seventeen," he whispered aloud, to no one in particular.

No one is supposed to die at seventeen. It is too early. They were too young. They did not deserve to die.

Seamus tried desperately to find a single memory of them - of any of them. A single thought, a single image. But everything in his mind was a jumbled mess. Voices drifted through his thought from nowhere. Images faded together. He could no longer distinguish one memory from the other.

Maybe it is easier this way, he thought to himself. If I don't think about them, maybe it won't be true. Maybe they'll come walking through that door at any moment. It's all a mistake. It's all a misunderstanding. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.

Seamus shut his eyes tightly and opened them, staring directly at the door to the Hospital Wing. All he saw was the dark hallway beyond the open door. The room was silent. There was nobody coming.

It's real.

Seamus pulled one fist to his mouth, his shoulders trembling, the lump growing in his throat, his eyes filling with bitter tears.

It wasn't fair. He should have been the one to go after Ginny, instead of finding out third hand from a portrait who overheard a professor. He should have been the one, or one of the ones, to help save her and bring her back. And if saving her meant dying for her, so be it. But it should have been him. They were needed for other things; they had so much left in their lives. They mattered.

It should have been him.

But He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named didn't want him and he knew that.

But Ginny needed him, and would need him when she woke up, and he knew that.

So Seamus took a deep breath and bit his lip, tears sleeping from his eyes and trailing down his cheeks. He closed his eyes tightly and whispered softly into the open air.

"Solas na bhFlaitheas ar a n-anama."

Seamus dragged the back of his hand across each cheek and bit back any more tears. He could not cry. He could not fall apart. He had to be strong. He had to be strong for her. Because, right now, he might be all she had left.