I'll stay [SNARRY]

I'll stay

I don't know if I'll ever be able to look into your eyes again, but as long as there's hope, I'll stay.

I await that moment, I fear it, I'm afraid it may never come. This fear lurks on the edge of my consciousness, and I try to silence it by rationalizing. It returns amidst the nightmares of the night, and when the healers speak to each other in hushed tones, so that I can't hear.

They accept that I'm here, even though no law, rule, or regulation justifies it. One of the ward staff, the one who fluffs your pillows and checks on your room at least four times a night, treats me as if I'm under her care too. I don't know – maybe I am. My behavior certainly falls under some post-traumatic disorder, but I take advantage of the fact that no one dares to judge me, at least not out loud, or tell me what to do. It's possible that they are simply scared.

With Voldemort's demise, I lost my status as a member of the wizarding community; I became a legend, losing my humanity – a symbol that exists beyond the earthly laws, principles, rules, and prohibitions. Just one word from me was enough to make you untouchable. To make it so that you get your own room and be under the care of the best healers. To make you live.

Or at least, I hope it was enough.

Ron and Hermione come about two or three times a week. Sometimes they stay late, and we talk. Occasionally, they hold hands, Ron absentmindedly caressing her skin, while she barely notices. Their lives go on elsewhere; amidst the hours spent in the hospital in solitude, amidst the scent of detergents and flowers, the distance between us grows. I can't help it.

Sometimes it seems to me that I've died after all. My life has never been so monotonous, so devoid of new challenges, new mysteries, new threats. The only challenge now is to stay sane. The only mystery is why I can't leave you. The only threat lies in the possibility that your body might become too tired from the battle; that your mind might decide to abandon it and continue on its journey.

When I think of this, I begin to whisper quiet prayers meant only for you, begging you not to leave me.

Perhaps I'm the only person in the whole world who can ask this of you. Maybe I won't get a response. Maybe my devotion means nothing, neither to you nor to the world.

You took care of that. You made sure that no one would miss you, mourn you, or grieve your loss. That wall still stands. Hardly anyone visits you. Ron, Hermione, Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, Kingsley, and a few Weasleys seem to come to me rather than to you. Since my mother's death, you've become a shadow, and you wanted to remain that shadow – and here are the fruits you reap even now, lost in unconsciousness.

Or maybe that's just who you are. Maybe you can't be any different. Perhaps, despite the passing years, you've remained the boy who can't hold on to even the few people he cares about. Maybe you haven't changed all that much since the days when you hung upside down in the air, when you wrote vengeful spells in the margins of textbooks, when you felt more than you wanted to, more than you could bear in silence. I don't know.

In reality, I know nothing about you, except that you're not who I thought you were.

The summer days are getting shorter. I know every corner of this room, I've memorized the names of the staff and healers. I've learned a few diagnostic and life-supporting spells. Now I'm the one fluffing your pillows, and Kathy, who used to do it before, makes sure I eat at least two meals a day. Nothing more goes down my throat.

Ron visits less and less frequently. He doesn't understand why I'm here, and he doesn't try, just as I don't try to understand why he avoids his family. Perhaps it's because of the same reasons that make me feel like hiding from the whole world. The new school year is approaching, and Professor McGonagall, now officially the headmistress, has stopped visiting; Kingsley follows her example, preferring to be where he can actually do something, make a change.