Disclaimer: See Ficlet 1.
Author's Note: A short angst ficlet, inspired by Kaze's "Haze" and Goldy's "Red Sea".
What Dreams May Come
He was dead.
He was dead and people were mourning.
He was dead-and somehow, all he felt was relief.
So it was over then. It was over, all the worry, all the fighting, all the fear. It was all over and he was at peace.
He was dead-and he was relieved…
Mrs. Weasley was crying, sobs that seemed to come from her very soul shaking her entire frame, as she clung to Mr. Weasley to keep from collapsing. He tried to speak, to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but failed. His hand seemed to pass straight through her shoulder.
He was dead and he could only watch.
McGonagall was there, her expression unusually soft, tears in her eyes, as she sighed heavily. "Harry Potter," she said, under her breath and so softly he knew he was the only one who heard her, and her voice was sad, wistful. "He was special; I always knew it. Poor boy. Poor dear boy…" And she sighed heavily again, reaching up to wipe a tear out of her eyes.
Snape was there. He did not look to be mourning, looked as grim as he always had, grimmer even. And looking at his hated professor, he somehow knew what Professor Snape was thinking, Potter, I never wanted you dead.
Ron and Ginny were standing together, Ron with a comforting arm around Ginny's shoulders.
Ginny was pale, crying brokenly. Her breath hitched in her throat as she listened to Ron's hoarse, broken voice say, "I didn't need to tell her. She already knew when I came. She- she'd sensed it."
His heart stopped on hearing those words. Hermione. Hermione was the 'she' Ron was talking about. And Hermione was the only person not there.
Hermione. Where was Hermione?
He found he was running, running even before he knew it, running, searching, wondering. Where was Hermione?
He felt her presence even before he saw her, his eyes searching frantically until he saw her still form by the lake.
She looked as if she'd fallen, simply crumpled to the ground where she had been standing when her knees gave out on her. She was pale, her cheeks stained with tears, her eyelids swollen. Her stare was vacant as she looked out over the still waters of the lake as if she saw things that no one else could see.
And then she began to speak. Her voice was only a whisper, a breath of sound but he heard it. "Harry, where are you? Where did you go? Why did you leave me? What am I supposed to do without you? Live? I can't; I don't know how to live without you to care about. I don't know how to live without you. Didn't you know that?" Her voice was almost toneless, as if she was numb inside. Tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks, simply overflowing from her eyes as if all the energy, the passion of her grief, had already been sapped and now all there was left was this horrible emptiness. She looked hollow, a shell…
He knelt down beside her, tried to hold her, to comfort her- and couldn't. He couldn't help her. He could only watch her heartbreak.
And his own heart broke.
His heart broke for the pain in her eyes, for the despair, for the hopelessness. His heart broke for her, for the girl she had been, the girl he knew and- and loved… His heart broke for the girl she had been, who had died along with him…
He was dead- and now he grieved… Now he regretted…
He dreamed he was dead.
And he knew that no matter how hard things were, he didn't want to die.
He didn't want to leave Hermione in such a state.
He didn't want to die.
It should have been an obvious thing, should have been something he didn't need to think about. It wasn't.
He dreamed he was dead and he had felt relief.
But now he knew.
He didn't want to die.
And that meant something.
The hardest thing in this world is to live in it. ~Buffy, the Vampire Slayer