YOURS TRULY, theodore nott (on hold)

xvii.

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SHE PADDED HER way down to the kitchen for water, feeling the cold wood on her feet, sending chills up her back.

It was a slow process. The trip would have been a lot faster had she walked like a normal human being. But she didn't. She didn't feel like one.

She was cold. Always. It didn't matter that it was the end of July, or that the sun was burning into her skin, or if the flowers were in full bloom around her. She was cold.

Always.

And that cold was thermal, of course, but it was also guilt. It followed her everywhere. And she had no desire to get rid of it. She never wanted anyone to feel the way she did.

Cracking her fingers, she opened the cupboard to find, quite literally, no water.

Groaning, she trudged to the garden, finding her only place of comfort, besides her room; her hammock.

She laid on the very hammock that her father and her built when she was four (the only help she provided was knotting flowers into her father's hair, giggling, while he worked).

This hammock was hers, and only hers; no one else dared touched it.

The sky wasn't breathtakingly gorgeous that night. It hadn't been since the 24th of June.

Her sleep schedule was nonexistent. 

In the rare occurrence that she did fall asleep, she never rested.

Her dreams were filled with the memories of him. The good, the bad, everything. 

The way he flaunted around like he was a god because the goblet had chosen him. They way he chased her around the quidditch pitch when they both had a free period. How he would beg her for him to help him study as she rolled her eyes, smiling, and walked away. How he told her by the Black Lake that he would win it, for her.

She remembers the way she thought he had won. The cheers. The praise. 

And then she heard a scream, followed by silence. She remembered the way she pushed everyone around to get to him.

She didn't believe it at first.

No.

That was her only thought running through her mind.

No, it's Cedric, he likes the theatrics. No, he's just exhausted. No, this was joke. Right? It had to be. He's seventeen. 

He was seventeen. 

She didn't talk, she didn't move, she didn't cry. She just stood back at watched. She didn't flinch when Amos screamed, nor when someone put a hand on her shoulder. She just watched. 

Someone had guided her to the common room; she was the last to arrive. 

Only then did she let it out. She stopped in her tracks and turned around. She had to go back. 

Her guide held her back, through her screams and cries and everything in between. She didn't really want to go back, she just didn't want in to be real.

She remembered giving in, dropping to her knees, and crying.

She cried until her eyes went puffy and her voice was raspy, barely above a whisper. 

"It's not fair," She choked.

All Zach did was nod into the crook of her neck, hands wrapped around her torso, and they both cried, in the middle of the Hufflepuff hallway, for their best friend.

She remembers all of it.

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