Her Boys

Disclaimer: I don't own anything; it all belongs to the masterful JK Rowling. Besides, if I was, I'd never let this happen. Harry and Hermione would be snogging in a broom closet till Christmas.

This is the saddest thing I have ever written, I think. But I like to think that there's a bit of hope in it. I was feeling in the mood, and this came to mind, and I couldn't help myself. All reviews are welcome! Thanks.

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I used to believe that everything happens for a reason; that in this great, vast world there is a supreme catalyst who assigns fate and destiny, always distributing each equally - in other words, the bad to the bad, the good to the good, and those who sinned were forgiven. It was never a religious feeling, just an inkling of something bigger than me, whom I couldn't touch in goodness and wit and respect. It was like a supreme being who was a mentor, setting examples, using philanthropy … being fair. I could never live up to something like that, but my goodness, how I tried.

The idea that life was fair was completely ludicrous, of course, and I knew that too well. But I thought that I had some power over the dice in that respect - for I had been as good a person as I knew how, and I believed if I was selfless, wishing only for the safety of others, that fate would land softly, kiss our cheeks, and let us move onward.

I'm crying. I don't even know how it started, but I am. How can I possibly explain to anyone the wretched pain that is twisting itself in my stomach, the kind of self-abusing thoughts that repeat inside my head like a scratchy old record? I'm feeling the troubles of the insane, I know; the kind of biting loneliness that establishes itself in my heart, and I have no one to go to.

Had I been forgiven for all of my sins? I found myself asking myself this, and oh, I was horrified to find myself not knowing the answer. I asked forgiveness for everything - stealing cookies from my mum's sweets jar, acting harsh with my grade school friends, being an insufferable know-it-all, badgering poor Ron about schoolwork, being short and temperamental with Parvati and Lavender, forgetting my dad's birthday … and … oh God, how I regret it now - not telling Harry, my wonderful, brooding, benevolent Harry, that I loved him as only a woman can love a man, as a heroine loves her hero.

I am doing everything in my power not to lose myself in the agony of it all, and I wonder why no one has arrived yet. I feel the cold wind biting into my face and neck, the tears burning in my eyes, and I do something I have never done before. I get down onto my knees and clasp my hands and pray.

Do I expect it to do anything? No, of course not - I would have degraded myself, thinking that by surrendering myself to the one force that fucked up my life, everything would be solved. It could be that I am just going crazy in my own, logical way. Maybe I believe that I can bring them back. But by this time, I can't really tell, and my soliloquy seems broken up and shattered, sputtering some kind of Morse code impossible to make sense of.

One for all and all for one: the motto of an unbroken trio. We each held up a portion of what was ours, and our triangle was perfectly balanced. We were unbeatable. And we won. But at such a price.

Oh, how I want them back. How I want him back. It doesn't feel right without them, with their own traits that helped me master my own; and I find myself hoping that I was of some benefit to them, that I was smart and clever enough. Probably I was. Probably. It is so hard to tell sometimes.

I could have been self-sacrificing. I loved Harry dearly, more than words can express even now, and I found myself thinking the desperate; that if he would have lived, I would not have acted upon my own feelings; that, despite everything, I would have left him alone to lead his own life in the arms of another woman, one who could never love him how I do, but who would treat him well nonetheless. I would not have harbored jealousy or hatred for her, and I would have moved on, thankful for his friendship at least. If I just had him here now, then everything would be alright.

I look at them both and touch their cheeks. The skin is still warm, and, tears streaming, I lie down next to Harry, wrap my arms around him, and sob onto his chest.

I remember their yells, how they pushed me behind them, how Harry grasped my wrist and pulled me close. They towered above me like strong, formidable bodyguards, as I buckled in weakness. I had never seen them look so terrible, their features etched in stone. Harry was emanating hatred as he stared his enemy in the face. I had held onto him and felt him tremble, and I knew I was the only one who knew that the little child in him, who had grown up before his rightful time, was shaking in fear.

There are voices all around me and someone is pulling me from Harry's body. I am too weak to resist. Someone checks my pulse. She's alive. Hermione's alive. There's silence, and I know that they must have realized.

Is it possible to die from loneliness? From complete and utter sorrow? What could I do without them? My life and my best friend were dead, both of whom had made me who I was.

Someone is smoothing my hair, and carrying me somewhere. I don't want to leave them, and I cry out. Someone whispers soothingly into my ear, and I can only gulp down tears.

My heart breaks as they lead me away, but somewhere, deep inside me, I feel a tremble of some strange emotion that can only be called hope. Harry had always told me that I was the most capable of us all, the one who would make it best in this world, and I had scoffed. He had smiled, but it hadn't reached his eyes, and I believe now that he knew his fate. He had accepted it for what it was. Oh God, Harry, I can't accept it, but I can try. For you and Ron. My boys.

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