theodoradash

I’m sorry. There was nothing we could do.

Lies. It was all a bunch of fucking lies. Why? Why him? What did he ever do wrong to the world? He was just a sweet, innocent little boy. Sweet little boy. Seventeen. But all he could see was a little boy on his first broomstick. A little boy, pleading not to be sent away to Hogwarts. A little boy, eyes alight, talking non-stop about how cool his friends were and how much fun he had at school year after year. His little boy. Gone. Forever.

He should be angry. He should be so fucking angry. But he’s not. He just can’t. It’s just too much. He likes this feeling though, like he’s dying. It’s comforting. It means he could be on his way to see him, and it would be like none of this had ever happened. He didn’t need to be here anymore. No one needed him.

She didn’t need him. She wouldn’t want him anyway. She’d be happier alone; she always was. In the garden, in the parlor, drinking tea, redecorating rooms, throwing extravagant dinner parties, never smiling. But he couldn’t think about her right now. It meant remembering him. Her eyes, blue, like icy seas; his eyes, blue, like a summer sky. Completely the same. Completely different. Too hard. But she had never felt like he did. He was just a duty to her. They both were. She didn’t care the way he cared. Why had he let himself care? He had set himself up for ruin. He had slowly, gradually, learned to let his emotions show. He had tried with her, not that she reciprocated. She was all "yes, dear" and "me too, dear". He gave up hope of her love. 

But then he came along. At first it was difficult, so very difficult. What could he hide from that sweet, innocent, so fucking sweet little boy? Nothing. He shared everything with him. His happiness, his anger, his sadness, his love.

Oh Merlin, his love. Now that place - somewhere inside he could never quite pin point, where it used ache with joy every time that little boy looked at him with big excited eyes, or grabbed his hand with his tiny fingers - was filled with nothing. It didn’t exist anymore. It had disappeared into the unknown and he knew he could never have it back. He had lived for that little place inside; that was all that kept him waking up in the morning. Now all he could think about was smothering himself in duvets and sheets until all was black.

He walked into the room. Breathe. Fuck breathing. Fuck the world. His little boy was gone, lying there in that damn bed. His skin as pale as the hair laying on the sterile white pillow. He looked like he was sleeping. If only. The tell tale sign of life, the rise and fall of his chest, absent. Still. So, so still. His legs involuntarily took him to the bedside, and suddenly he was on his knees, face buried his son’s shoulder. One hand combed through silky strands, the other clasping slowly cooling fingers. Somewhere in his mind there’s a voice telling him that he probably should be crying. But he’s just numb. There are probably tears on his face, but he can’t remember shedding any and he doesn’t really care. Showing of emotions are the furthest thing from his mind right now. You should care, a voice echos from another corner of this mind. You should care. People could be watching. Men don't cry. But that voice can really just go get fucked. My little boy is dead. He couldn’t give a flying fuck about social standards right now.

Suddenly, he hears screaming from the hallway. Footsteps running, almost sprinting. They stop outside the door and he looks. He sees a woman and a girl looking through the small window. The woman opens the door, and the girl collapses in the doorway, tears flooding her eyes. She looks almost as if she can't breathe, or bring herself to try. The woman drops beside her and cradles her in her arms, pulling her in close, whispering words of comfort only she can hear. But still she cries.

She’s saying his name; his son’s name. The woman brings her to her feet, encouraging her to stand. The girl walks to his son's bed, showing a determined steadiness. She stares at his son’s face with deep brown eyes, hidden in shadow by dark red waves, hand over her mouth. She doesn’t look anywhere else, she doesn’t even seem to realize that he’s there, clutching a wrist, a hand. She reaches out, and caresses his son’s cheek, bringing herself to tears once more. She climbs up onto the bed, on top of the sheet, and lies along his side, burying her head under his chin. She cries. She whispers. I love you. But the boy can’t hear her. 

This is the girl. The girl. She’s the reason he’s dead; the reason his son is gone forever. And he wants more than anything in that moment to jump over his son’s dead, cold body and strangle her until she’s the same.

He can feel the rage slowly building up inside and his fists are clenching on the edge of the bed. He feels a hand on his shoulder. A light squeeze. He can breathe again, overcome with a sense of calm. Merlin, this is so fucked up. She doesn’t deserve the blame. She didn’t do anything wrong. She wasn’t the one who murdered his son. She wasn’t one of the many who tortured his little boy out of his mind and into his early grave. But he’ll find out who did. And when he does, he’s going to kill those fuckers. He will hunt them down. Every fucking one of them. One by one.

This girl was still alive, all because of his son; his darling little boy. They had demanded a death: his or hers. He sacrificed himself, knowing that he wouldn’t live. He died to save the daughter of a mudblood, a blood traitor. He died to save the girl he loved.

He had loved her knowing the consequences. He, himself, had fought on the wrong side of a war for equality and freedom, and Voldemort had been defeated. However, that didn't mean everything was rainbows and lollipops. It seemed that way on the outside, but thats where it remained: on the surface. However, it’s always difficult to teach the narrow minded and prejudiced after it’s ingrained into generation after generation, especially to change the minds that think they were never wrong. Tom Riddle had been a half blood; it was always obvious that he’d be defeated eventually. If he had been a pureblood, however, that would have been a very different story. There were still those who feel that certain members of the magical community are unworthy, but they learned to hide themselves well. Cunning, knowledge, loyalty and blind daft courage of a disturbed sort; qualities of members of a basically non-existent underground legion of purists. Violent attacks were extremely rare - barely once a year - preferring to run through more, covert tactics. But when they were violent, they showed no mercy. There were no compromises, no deals. You either followed instructions or you would die. Plain and simple.

His son had loved a girl. And because of that girls parentage - something she couldn’t control - she was sentenced to death. She could live, however. He'd just have to die in her place. The only thing worse than the unworthy, were the worthy and pure who chose to associate with filth. But he had loved her anyway. His son had walked into the lions den, knowingly facing his end. And he had never been more proud of him in his entire life. His son had been able to do what he could never. But now his life had ended, and hers went on. All because of him.

He felt weight lift from his shoulder. The hand that had been grounding him to the earth and keeping from committing brutal unjustifiable murder had been removed. Without looking he snapped his arm backward and blindly grabbed the arm that had just left and doomed him to float off into unknown darkness once again. He felt a soft, warm wrist, pulse racing, as he pulled it’s owner closer towards him, slipping his rough fingers into delicate ones, intertwining and holding tight, his eyes squeezed shut until the suffocating ceased and air filled his lungs. Breathe.

He opens his eyes and turns to look at the owners hand, already knowing who it is. His instincts always seemed to know when she was near. Soft brown eyes full of sorrow and sadness...of sympathy - and he could detect just a hint of fear, too - shining, trying to hold back tears unsuccessfully. Her skin seems paler than he remembered. He tries to avoid her as much as possible now; he can’t stand the random meetings anymore. Those damn meetings that always turn into hours of conversation, that leave him wanting what she’ll never want in return. There’s dark bags under her eyes from stress and worry, her hair still like a bloody fucking rainforest. It nearly makes him want to laugh.

He’s still holding her hand rather tightly, but she doesn’t acknowledge any pain he may be causing. She just lets him take what he needs, even if it hurts. Bloody fucking Gryffindors. How he had wanted this so badly. For years. For fucking years. Fucking decades, even. He never gets what he wants in the way he always expects. Her tears, her hand in his - clinging like a lifeline; he had imagined it time and time again after she left that damn fucking tosser... and even before. But not over his dead son. His little boy, fucking dead. And it was too fucking much again.

He wrenches his hand out of hers and storms out of the room, pushing over a chair in his wake, slamming the door behind him. He swore he heard something shatter in the distance, but he doesn't care. It’s not enough just to break something. It doesn't help. He doesn’t want to feel, and the anger constantly keeps threatening to boil over. Something keeps telling him to fight it, but that something's growing fainter by the second.

He can hear his name. He knows that voice; he’d know it anywhere. Despite this, he keeps walking. He finds the door to the stairwell - that he knows no one ever uses - and walks. The door closes softly behind him, and her calling is silenced. He breathes deeply, eyelids closed, shutting out the flickering light. His hands wrapped around the centre railing, leaning back against the cold metal, he hears silence. No crying, no dead son, no her. No hand holding and wishing that things could have been different. Just the sounds of air rushing in and out, in and out. The anger is building, but then abruptly it’s gone.

And she’s there. She’s standing in front of him. His eyes are closed but he knows she’s there. She reaches out, and caresses his cheek. She moves closer and leans against his side, wrapping her arms around his waist, burrowing her head under his chin. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t whisper. But he thinks, he hopes, he hears her. He hopes, that she can hear him, too.