Him and You

You never meant for it to end this way. You run a hand through your red hair, frown, and think that you never meant for it to end this way. She's crying, kneeling, and crying. You don't cry. You don't cry because you can't. You didn't kill him. Why would you kill him? He's got a half-smile on his face and you can't cry because he's happy. That would be sick. It would be unfair to Harry. It would be unfair to Harry because he would feel bad about making someone cry. That was how he was. He's dead. Dead and in some better place, but he'll still mourn for bad things. He'll have Sirius back. He'll be with Sirius and still wish he hadn't caused so many people unhappiness. By not rejoicing, they'll spoil his happiness.

His messy black hair is gone, now it's messy red hair. Blood red hair because it is tainted with blood. The red reminds you so much of your own hair.

Did it start when you were fourteen? Fourteen, fighting, and frigid. You became good at hiding. You apologized at the fourth task. You said sorry; complimented him. You apologized, complimented him, and made him feel good. Then you were friends again. Friends cause you made him feel good. Happy. Yes, that's when it started. You never touched; never felt, until fifth year. It truly started in fourth year, but you didn't know. Not until fifth year did you know. She cries, you stare, and he's dead. You Know Who is dead too, but at what cost? Was it worth it? You berate yourself. You berate yourself for even thinking it. But seeing him so innocent, blank green eyes staring. You loved him. You loved him with raw, fierce passion. No one ever knew, they couldn't have. They wouldn't have accepted it. They wouldn't have accepted love, even though love was what they fought. When we got together people kept searching for a girlfriend. People who fight hard deserve someone to l ove. They do, don't they? Right? But he already had one. You.

You once again rumple your hair. You rumple your hair and remember how many times he did it. You reach into his boot. You bend down, reach into his boot, and pull out a dagger. She watches you, eyes wet. She watched, horrified, fascinated, and teary-eyed. Invisible dried tears sit on her face and her normally rumpled hair is even more unruly.

"Don't cry. He wouldn't want you to cry."

You say this and wait for her reaction. You get none. She blinks. She blinks and, for the first time in her life, looks stupid and lost. You open your hand, palm exposed. You expose your palm and rest the pointy ridges on it. You'll die slowly. You'll bleed to death, and the whole time you'll stare at him. You make the first cut and she screams.

"Ron, Ron?" She's terrified, and you look down at your arm.

It's covered it red. Where did that come from? Did you spill something? Wooziness engulfs you, and you slump against something sharp. What hurts your back? Nothing hurts. Maybe you'll sleep. You like to sleep. Sleep makes you forget. Sleep makes you forget all the pain, suffering, and worries. But you don't want to leave a mess. You should clean that up. You

"Ron, wake up?" She screams but you're gone. She collapsed and cries, but doesn't reach for the dagger. Why would she do that? Even in despair, she's not irrational. Neither are you. The first thing you see when your eyes open is your black-haired angel.