𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 | 𝐡. 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝟏𝟐𝟖 - 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐥𝐞

𝙰𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎 - 𝙵𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝟾𝟻% 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍'𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢, 𝙸 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢.

𝙊𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙖 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙃𝙤𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙮.

She didn't eat, she didn't sleep, she didn't speak, she barely moved at all if only to take the medicine Madam Pomfrey offered her with a solemn look of pity, many times she had tried to get Ophelia to do something -- anything at all, but Ophelia raised her puffy bloodshot eyes to her and she ceased at once.

She thought that if she was still enough that the earth would stop moving too; the planet should not rotate on it's axis, the moon shouldn't orbit, the tides shouldn't come to shore, the earth should stand still -- because how could it ever dare to move when Harry Potter was destined to die?

She winced, oh there it goes again, the thought -- the dreadful revelation she had come to.

If she was still enough, the thoughts might go away.

The image of broken circular glasses, vacant emerald eyes and a mouth that would never move again to tell her all the things she needed to hear, lips that would never kiss her again. No, no, no, don't think! she scolded herself as her bottom lip and chin began to crumple once again, Oh Harry she pleaded, Not Harry she begged but no one answered.

She is a prisoner once again, a prisoner of her own mind.

The bone holding her mind together was an inescapable labyrinth that had no mercy for her suffering soul, it held her hostage in contempt for her crime of loving a doomed boy, her punishment was to decide how she was to proceed.

Was she to tell him or remain as quiet as the grave? Continue this charade with only the hope that when that moment came that he would be true to his word and would be waiting for her or tell him and risk him dying prematurely, before it was the right time -- she had to give Dumbledore credit, this was something she could never have predicted even if she tried.

Instead of answering that she focused on the thousand other things she could distract herself with, the flickering candles above, the shiny empty chamberpots beside each bed, she followed cracks in the stone beneath her hospital bed with her eyes, counting how many window panes there were across from her, the sound of the tap dripping way down at the opposite end of the hall, the rustle of the Forbidden Forest from the open window, tracing the stitches made into her side from the Inferi, staring at her socks and realising one of them was inside out but not having the effort to change it.

The repetition of looking at her surroundings and just making note of what she saw provided ample distraction for a time, but soon it wasn't enough.

If she just waited, this would all pass, if she waited long enough this would all become a distant memory -- she blinked, would Harry become a distant memory? Would she forget the way he smiled? The way he held her? What would she forget first, the details of his face or his voice?  Would distant memories be the only thing left as evidence of their love for one another?