In the Melancholy Moonlight, Part 5: Dark Matter

Chapter 208: Small Enough to Cry

LUCY:

Every Sunday morning, an hour or so before sunrise, I headed down to the Hufflepuff common room to talk to Cedric's portrait. Nobody else in the entire castle was awake, it seemed, so it was the perfect time to visit my brother's portrait and tell him about the past week. I was in the middle of describing Quidditch tryouts when I heard the barrels open behind me.

I whirled around, a little embarrassed and a little defensive and a little confused, wondering who could possibly be awake at an intentionally-ungodly hour. All of those emotions dissolved into pure shock when I saw that it was Professor Sprout, followed by the one and only Henry Furls. Henry wasn't — he wasn't supposed to be there, not anymore, and he didn't even look like himself, not really.

"Good morning, Lucy," Professor Sprout greeted with a sad smile. "I've been wondering when you would find your way here."

"Good morning, Professor," I replied, but my gaze was locked on Henry. We had been sitting next to each other for both of Cedric's memorial, the one at school and the one in Ottery St. Catchpole, but I had never seen him look so lifeless and sad and... defeated.

I opened my mouth to ask Henry what was wrong, but I thought better of it and hurried across the room to hug him instead. Comfort first, questions later. He was trembling, as if just the effort of standing was too much to ask of him.

Someone was dead. That was the only reason Henry would be here. The only question was who.

"I was just coming down to fetch my sister," he said in a voice that suggested he'd been crying for far too long. "I didn't think you'd — I'm glad you're here, too, but are — are you alright? Merlin, it's barely even morning, most people would consider this the middle of the night, are you alright?"

I pulled away and shook my head in disbelief. "Henry, I'm alright. Merlin, don't worry about me. But you're not, and I'm here, so — what do you need, what does Gretch need, how can I help?"

Henry glanced at Professor Sprout, whose expression was incredibly sad as she studied me.

"Mrs. Furls died last night," she said quietly. "Henry and his father just arrived. Henry wanted to come down with me, so he could walk with Gretchen to the headmaster's office and have a brief word with Cedric while I went to fetch her."

"Merlin, Henry, I'm so sorry. I know how little that means, but — Merlin, I'm sorry, that's horrible. I can go wake her up," I volunteered, intentionally not giving Henry room to reply. He'd say it was okay, even though it wasn't. "I know she's going to be confused and most likely scared no matter who wakes her up, but maybe if it's me, she — she'd have a couple more moments of peace, before..."

"That's why we waited until this morning instead of coming last night. Wanted to let her sleep as long as she could, before..." Henry said with a nod.

Professor Sprout sounded choked up when she spoke again. "You are both far too wise for your years. It's not fair that your inborn compassion has been so molded by tragedy." When we both just looked at her curiously, she continued in a softer voice, "If not for your intimate knowledge of the ways grief sinks its claws into someone's life, you wouldn't have thought twice about telling Gretchen the news right away, or having me go fetch her and walk her to the headmaster's office myself. I can see in your eyes that you're both trying to think of a way to protect her from this as much as possible for as long as possible even though you both know that her pain is inevitable. I know you'd want to protect her anyway, because that's just who you both are, but the fact that you both know exactly how to try to protect her... you shouldn't have to know."

Henry and I exchanged a long look. Aside from Cedric's parents, we had been the closest to the site of the tragedy of his loss. Professor Sprout was right. Cedric never should have become a tragedy. For a moment, I was angry at the world all over again. The people who love someone most shouldn't have to hurt the most when tragedy strikes. And yet, we loved. We loved, and we loved, and we loved. We loved hard.