Blank Paper

It scares me halfway to death.

The empty page in front of me seems to have a life of its own; it seems unwilling to allow me to taint it with meaningless words. Words are forgettable; they change you and then you belong to them, they imprison you and throw away the key; they mould your brain into a cup to contain them.

I am a master of words.

The empty page seems to mock me. I will start writing as soon as my brain relaxes. This might take a while.

I finally write the title down, the last letter a flourish. It's not like me to adorn my words; I have never done it before. My mind seems to be stalling.

I wrote the first sentence. He was the savior of all but himself. It doesn't sound half bad, but I don't really like it, so I cross it out. He never knew what he meant to the world. This is a lot worse. I should stick with the first version.

I'm not doing this right. I should write anything that comes to my mind and then sort it out into a readable text.

He was the savior of all but himself. He knew very little about his mission, but managed to accomplish it somehow. I was there all along to see him fall within himself; he fell into a pit of sadness so deep that no one could pull him out. I was there. He stared at me with hollow eyes, and spoke hollow words, walked aimlessly around for hours, his mind always focused on the mission. I was there through everything.

I was there through everything?! What kind of a sentence is this? Okay, enough of pouring words on the paper.

A few tears stain the bottom of the parchment. I can't remember shedding them, but I don't care very much. This happens often nowadays, almost every time I think about him.

The paper is blurry.

I loved him.

What am I doing? All right, Hermione, act professional. It's not the first chapter you've ever written. It's the first chapter about him, though.

Is my brain sabotaging me? First, it stalled, and now it's reminding me why I can't write this at all. So much for a neutral, professionally written text. Why I thought I could write it that way is beyond me.

Pictures of Harry start flashing in the back of my mind. Harry, the Seeker; Harry, the Prefect; Harry, the friend; Harry, dueling Lord Voldemort. Harry, winning the battle.

Why am I trying to write this book? Does my mental well-being come so cheap as to throw it away willingly, or am I simply a masochist?

I want to tell the world what happened. I want to tell them what they did to Harry, how they almost broke him. I want to tell them how they eventually pushed him over the edge. I want to tell them... but I can't.

I've been Harry's best friend throughout his years at Hogwarts, and then up until his death. I saw him on his final day. He was dead on the inside, and had been dead for a long time, but his body wouldn't give up. I saw him getting drunk for the first time.

I saw him getting drunk many times afterwards. When we shared a flat in London, I could hear him weeping and screaming in his sleep every night. I would always go to his bedroom, cradle him in my arms and comfort him.

When he left Britain for Amsterdam, I knew it couldn't be good. I knew he would use drugs to drown the pain, I knew he would cross the line and destroy himself; but even I, who knew him so well, couldn't have predicted that the first two months he spent in Amsterdam were to be dedicated to writing a book.

He published the book six months later. The six months were spent on getting high on almost anything in the city's many shady dens.

He was a wreck when he got back. It took me a whole year to get him back on track, and then he started abusing painkillers. I didn't try to help him myself this time, I sent him to St. Mungo's for a treatment instead. The best doctors can't do anything to a patient that simply doesn't want to live anymore.

He stayed there for about two months, and left the building in a coffin.

I want the world to know this. I want them to feel the way we did, having to watch him fading into oblivion.

I want to write this book without censuring my feelings. I can't spare any strong words if I want the truth to show through it. Harry was a strong young man, a hero, at the time he killed Voldemort, and he died two years later in a hospital ward due to an overdose. Nobody understood what had happened during those two years.

Nobody understood him the way I did. I knew the way he felt because of his eyes, the true mirrors of his soul. His eyes alone remained full of life after he gave up. They were deep, they could see right through me; I never lied to him. I couldn't.

I didn't lie to him on his last day, when he was drifting in and out of consciousness; I told him that he would live to see another sunrise. I cried, I screamed, but I didn't mourn. I had mourned him when he left for Amsterdam.

They had to keep me in an isolated ward for three days, heavily sedated. I have no memory of those days. It's better this way. I heard Ron tried to kill himself, but Ginny saved him at the last moment. We were all devastated.

I want the world to know all of this, but words are meaningless. They can't express things properly, no matter how well-chosen they are. Words are perceived differently by those who haven't witnessed things firsthand.

I want to write everything, but I can't. The blank paper stares back at me patiently, already knowing I gave up.

The world isn't ready for this yet.