They

They

The worst part is the looks they give us. The pity. The fear. The worry. The same people who used to look at us and see hope and bravery and purity now only see loss and desolation and lunacy.

They say we are mad. That we are insane. And if they say it then it must be true. But they don't understand. They couldn't. They weren't there.

They didn't see what we saw and they didn't do what we had to do. And all things considered, I think anyone else in our position would have lost grip on reality long ago, while we still hang on by a fingernail.

They say it changed us. It must be true. How else could you explain the things we have done? The things we do. The way we can change from indifference to rage and back again in an instant. How we can go days without saying a word out loud to anyone and then pick up an unfinished conversation as though minutes and not days had passed. Ron hexing and sometimes physically beating anyone who simply looks at us in a way he doesn't like. Harry using Unforgivables on anyone he remotely suspects is thinking harsh thoughts about us. Me, not only not stopping either of them, but revelling in their actions.

Sometimes I see things that aren't there. Ron hears voices, whispers that torment him. Harry can't sleep a full night, dreams and memories forbidding sleep to claim him for too long, making him walk around all day like a zombie.

Is it mad that the only peace we get is when we are in each other arms? That the only time things are still and silent and sane is when skin rubs together, mouths press to mouths, hands roam. When we kiss and lick and suck and touch and fuck.

We used to do this before. At least I think we did. We must have. How else could we be so practised and knowledgeable and in-synch. I want to remember it. I'm sure it used to be sweet and gentle and loving, while now it is rough and urgent and hungry. But I suppose the feeling, if not the knowledge, that we used to do this before is some kind of comfort.

They say we need help. That there is still hope for us. But I know that to be a lie. There is no hope for us. We did what we had to do and we did it for them. Isn't that enough?

They want us to get better. To return to the people we used to be. They plead with us, talking of Harry's parents and Sirius and Dumbledore and Hagrid and Remus, people who loved us and fell by the wayside. But then Ron kisses me, a bruising kiss that invades my senses, and Harry puts his mouth to my neck and begins nipping, and they back away, disgust clear on their faces.

Maybe they are right. Maybe we do belong in a white, padded cell, tied up in Muggle straight jackets. Maybe we do need to be kept away from society. Maybe we need to be locked away, for their protection, not ours.

I can understand their fear of us. We must look terrifying, all pale skin and dead eyes. The things we do, random acts of violence and insanity, must be scary as hell. Maybe their fear is warranted. We are yet to hurt someone we cared about. And I guess they are afraid that one day that will change. That someone will cross us on an extra bad day or that it will all become too much and we will retaliate for the things they have done in our 'best interests'.

We don't go out much anymore, and for that they are glad. Far less chance of us doing something stupid or dangerous or wrong if we are confined to this prison. This house, Harry's house, which in the past confined Sirius, now imprisons us. Though can it really be imprisonment if it's voluntary?

We waste away the days. I refuse to look at the photo albums that Harry stares at for hours on end. I ignore Ron as he sits on the floor, surrounded by old school things and Quidditch paraphernalia. Instead I sit in the silence, until the silence becomes too much and I need a distraction. So I crawl over to my boys, shedding my clothes as I go.

They ask us questions. We have no answers. They want gaps filled and theories confirmed. We make no reply. They want to know what happened to us, how we ended up this way, what on earth it was we saw or did to push us this far. We answer with silence.

The worst part is the looks they give us. The best part is that we don't care. We have left behind all the responsibility we took onto our shoulders at too young an age. We don't care about anything or anyone, other than each other. The three of us is all we have to live for.

There is freedom in abandoning all your attachments and responsibilities. There is a kind of clarity in letting go of everything you knew and focusing on the only things you care about.

They can't understand. We left our old selves behind so long ago, we can't get them back. And nor do we want to. Because in the here and now, all we have is each other. And that is the only thing we ever wanted.