Lavinia didn't know how she got off that field. All she knew was that she had ended up in that little clearing with her head as silent as it had been in those first weeks after Regulus's death. Only this was a different kind of silence. This was one she had made because she couldn't - wouldn't - go through those thoughts in her head. She would not face that fear. Not now and not here. So she made the world silent and put one foot in front of the other and held everything together by sheer strength of will.
Her movements were robotic and simple as she went through the steps she knew were necessary. She used her wand to raise Sirius onto a cot, pulled her potions from her bag and screwed rationing because he had to fix him. That part was clear even through the fog over her senses. She had to fix this. And when he was resting and she knew he would wake up and be fine, if stiff and sore, she turned back to the rest of her patients and did her job, keeping her eyes carefully away from the valley below.
She didn't know how the battle ended or who won. She didn't care.
When wizards came to claim the injured and take them home, she didn't stop them. She just vanished the cots they vacated until there was no trace that any sort of hospital had ever existed in that little clearing on the hill except a bit of trampled grass. When Dumbledore offered to help her apparate Sirius home, she didn't object. And when Lily and James and Peter and Remus all appeared behind them in front of the little house by the sea, she said nothing.
There was a tinny sort of whistle building in her head and threatening to break through that silence, a rage she didn't have an explanation or outlet for and a fear that was nothing more than fuel to the fire. But despite it, or perhaps because of it, she was tired. Not just physically, but tired in her core, tired in her bones. She wanted to sleep for a long, long time.
And she would have just gone to bed once Sirius was settled in his room, would have apologized to her friends sitting in the living room and fallen asleep in her clothes without second thought were it not for Dumbledore.
As the old man left, he said two words that punctured the fog in her head and broke open the gates of that screaming, fearful rage.
"Thank you," the old man murmured, standing in front of the door.
Lavinia looked up from where she'd been staring at her hands, her eyes meeting his, blue on blue and the leash on her anger snapped with such a force she could have sworn she felt it. "Thank you?" she asked incredulously.
Thank you. Like she deserved gratitude for this thing she'd done. Like she hadn't hurt people. Like anyone would ever deserve gratitude for walking onto that field.
Which was wrong and she knew it was wrong but she didn't care. Right now she didn't care because there was an awful wailing in her head and that rage and that pain she had kept so well contained these past months was bubbling and boiling and she didn't know how to stop it anymore. She wasn't sure she wanted to, either.
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows slightly, his face maddeningly calm. "You've done us a great service," he replied simply, one hand on the door knob. "We were able to fight longer and harder and more safely. So thank you."
The pit of her stomach was gaping wide and the only good thing about it was that the edges of her rage dulled, swallowed by the void. Longer and harder. Because of her. How many Death Eaters had been injured because of her? How many of them had been hurt or had died because of her? How many families would wait for a return that was never going to come? All because she was stupid and naive and had thought, for some reason she now couldn't fathom, that she could heal without hurting anyone. That she could heal them without picking a side.
And they had seen her. William had seen her. And the look in his eyes... she couldn't figure it out but she didn't think she had to. Shock had been written all over his face and it had been enough for her to understand that one awful truth that had made her lay fog all over her head: she had attacked her own brother. She had taken the life he had saved and thrown it in his face. Did he think she had chosen to fight him? He must have because what other explanation was there for her being there, on a battlefield. So he must think that she had taken this life, a life that existed only because of him, and used it to turn her wand on him and his friends, his fellows, his brothers in arms. He must hate her. He must -
She forced the thoughts away, forced them under the blanket of her rage and focussed her eyes on Dumbledore.
"Don't thank me for helping you hurt people," she snapped, ignoring the part of her that said she was going to regret this later, the part that reminded her why she held her anger close, why she smothered it before it could get out, the part that hissed that the self hatred she would feel later would set her farther back than this was worth.
Dumbledore was watching her, his face unreadable and those electric blue eyes unbearably soft on hers. "I do not wish to cause you pain, Miss Selwyn," he murmured and there was something like pity in his eyes that made her chest cave in, but she pushed the feeling away. She didn't want his pity.
So instead, she almost laughed. Or maybe it was a sob that she choked on, she didn't know and didn't care. "But you are," she told the Headmaster, fighting to keep her voice steady. "And you won't stop." She watched him for another moment before shaking her head, that endless exhaustion creeping through her veins. "And I don't blame you," she added, though she knew the bitterness in her voice suggested otherwise. "You have to fight. All of you do," she added, gesturing at James and Lily and Peter and Remus, all sitting on the couch and all with varying degrees of worry on their tired faces. "That's what you do. You fight because you're good and honest and... and brave," she spat the world out like it was an insult, hating it. Hating herself for that one thing she had never been, no matter how hard she tried. "But don't drag me into this," she continued, returning her eyes to Dumbledore. "Stop trying to make me into something I'm not."
Again, he simply watched her with that unreadable expression. "Your help is invaluable, Miss Selwyn. May I suggest that you give this a few days? You've just been to a battlefield, it's bound to be upsetting, but perhaps if you gave it some time..." He trailed off and she could have sworn there was something like hope in his voice, something like understanding, but his words only made her pain burn brighter. Because he was right. He was right and she should wait. She should let the fog subside and let herself remember why she had stepped onto that field in the first place. But right now... right now she was done. She was tired and afraid and done.
"No," she returned simply. "No I won't give this time. I don't need to give this time. This wasn't just a battlefield. This was... This was..." She didn't have words for it. She couldn't say the first thing that came into her head because it was silly and stupid and would make her sound so very childish.
This was the war I fought inside myself. Because that was what she had seen. How many years had she spent torn between the two parts of herself: the girl she was supposed to be and the girl she was? How many months spent crying and breaking in the hidden halls of the castle, tearing herself to pieces because she couldn't pick between the life she'd always known and the life she wanted. And the consequences of that war had left scars all over her.
And this war... she hadn't seen the clashing ideologies, she hadn't seen the clear lines she'd forced herself to draw this past year and a half. Death Eaters killed people for terror and fun and it was wrong. She knew it was. But she hadn't seen that. She had seen teenagers fighting teenagers. She'd seen children used as weapons. She'd seen her little brother firing spells at her friends, the two halves of her life thrown into stark and wild relief, ripping her down the middle and leaving nothing left for her to hold onto. No one to run to. Just like her nightmares.
And just as no one had won in her little war, no one was going to win this one. She knew that now. Eventually, someone might get to claim victory, but the price along the way would be awful and childish and selfish though she knew it was, she didn't want to pay it. She didn't want any of them to pay it.
"This was what, Miss Selwyn?" Dumbledore prompted softly. He sounded... he sounded like he knew. Like he knew what was happening in her head and wanted her to get it out, wanted her to speak it to the open air so it wouldn't get stuck inside of her. And she might have hated him for it, for that calm inquiry when she was raging and screaming and trying to remember who the hell she'd become since that day William had saved her life, but all she could think of was how many times Sirius had offered the same thing, given her the same respite. Begged her to get it out. To stop holding it in and bottling it up. But this was Dumbledore and she felt small and awful and she didn't want to. She didn't want to admit to this reality.
Because the reality was that when she'd seen William... when she'd looked into those yes... she'd been that girl again. Terrified and broken and running. Like the last few years hadn't happened at all. And she didn't want to admit that. Didn't want to make it real by speaking it out loud. Didn't want a lot of things that she knew she had no choice in.
"This was hell," Lavinia whispered now, her voice quiet and breaking. "This was children fighting your battles. This was death and destruction and it was awful. And I won't be a part of it," she added her voice rising. "I won't help you end lives. I won't help you hurt children who didn't bloody choose this. I won't help you hurt my friends. I won't help you drag them to war."
There was silence, utter silence and Dumbledore looked... Sad? Disappointed? Guilty? Guilty? But that couldn't be. This was Dumbledore. He didn't apologise or feel bad or any such thing. This was Dumbledore and he got what he wanted and turned a blind eye to the consequences that always seemed to fall on other people.
"Vin." It was Remus, his voice quiet and strained and she turned to him, fighting the urge to yell at him to stay the hell out. To leave it be because this wasn't his business. This wasn't his fight. But it was. More than it was hers. So she swallowed her objections and waited.
"He's not dragging us anywhere," Remus continued. "He's not the reason we fight. And you can't blame him for this war."
Which was all true. And in that moment, she hated Remus for saying it, hated him for being right because Merlin, she wanted to blame Dumbledore, wanted to scream that this was his fault. That he had let this happen. But that wasn't fair and she knew it. Their families had pushed them to this and though Dumbledore had done nothing to stop it, even if he had stepped in, it would never have been enough. It would be too little and too late because family came first in those pureblood circles. It was why they had all hated her so much. Because she had turned her back on her parents and brother and name and it didn't matter what they had done to her because it was family. And family came first.
The cold weight of guilt and an old, old pain settled into her stomach and weighed down on her shoulders. She had failed her family, in every way possible. And it shouldn't have mattered, especially after all these years but... but here she was. Failing William again. Shooting a spell at him without second thought.
And now... now she was also failing this family she'd found and chosen. Because she was running again, running while they all stood and fought. Running when they needed her to have their backs. And maybe if she had been better, been braver, she wouldn't have said those next words. But she wasn't. And she did.
"Go hire yourself a mediwizard," she told the old man, her voice tired and quiet. "I can't do this."
Then she turned on her heel and left without so much as looking at her friends. She didn't want to see them, didn't want to see their faces or eyes. Eyes that she knew would be condemning her as a coward, just like she was condemning herself. Because she was. She always had been. A selfish, awful coward. And now William knew it too.
She knew where her feet were taking her and hated herself for it. She knew what she wanted to have in her hand and might have screamed at herself if she had any energy left. But she didn't. She was so very very tired.
So she slipped into Sirius's room and grabbed the silver dagger off the dresser, the handle familiar in her hand even after more than a year without touching it because she had been afraid. She had used kitchen knives and borrowed from Remus and Sirius's potions kits because she had been afraid. And she still was. So very very afraid.
She stared at it, her heart tripping and her breath too short and... and... and. And it was too much. This was all too much. She hated this war and she hated that no matter how she sliced it, she was stuck in the middle. She hated that no matter what she did, half of the people she'd ever loved would condemn her for it. She hated that she was always going to fail her family, whether it was the one she'd been born to or the one she'd chosen.
She hated that first response she had, even after all this time, was this.
She choked on a sob, her hand reaching for the door knob. There was a long and familiar battle to fight and she didn't want to but... but if she gave up now she knew what would win and she had to fight. At least a little bit because Sirius... Sirius would hate her for this.
She closed her eyes and drew in a breath and was about to leave with the knife in hand when his voice broke through her resolve.
"Vin?"
She froze, fear and pain and an endless, ageless guilt boiling inside of her. And she might have held it together, might have found the strength to turn around and put the knife down and just walk away if it wasn't for his next words, words which broke her.
"Vin, please."
Her chest caved, her knees buckled and she collapsed on the floor with a sob that hurt as it wrenched from her chest.
She had been here who knew how many times before, blade in hand and tears on her face and this hole in her chest but it had been so long. It had been so so long and she had been so so good and now... now her heart was in pieces around her and she didn't know if it had just happened or if maybe she had always been this way and she'd just learned how to not notice the pieces of her crunching beneath her feet as she ran and ran and got nowhere at all.
A/N: So today I unleashed my inner 9 year old. Or maybe younger, I don't really know when the first time we did this was. It's not actually important so whatever. Back to the story: in the summers when I was little - or young, anyway, little is still a pretty good descriptor - we would get cherries whenever they were in season and we'd wash a bunch of them and put them in the colander and take it outside onto the deck and then my dad would set up a bucket for us on the ground a ways away. The deck is probably about 6ft (~2m) off the ground and we would set the bucket probably another 6ft away from the deck posts so it was down and out from us. And then we would eat the cherries and clean off the pits as you do and them have pit spitting competitions to see who could get more in the bucket. It's one of those little things that I still remember from years and years ago and my brother and I would always get stupidly competitive and he would always win and I would always blame the height difference bc even then it was nearly a foot lol. And we did it again today. We went through almost an entire bag of cherries and were just out on the deck in the late afternoon, spitting cherry pits into a bucket on the ground. It's such a little thing, but you know when you're experiencing something and you're brain is just like 'yup. this moment. we're going to remember this moment.' For better or worse. And that happened and this was one's definitely for the better :)
Anyway, as usual, I hope y'all enjoyed and I'll be back again tomorrow!