give her love » james potter

0.06

AFTER

Professor Thornberry sits me down in her office. It's too hot and too calm and I know something is wrong. I can feel it. Everything about her is too careful and hesitant. It's like my sixth sense, I can smell trouble from a mile away.

She pours me some tea and it's too sweet, and the cookies she gives me have far too many calories for an afternoon snack. Everything seems to be too much. Nothing is just right.

"How's your day been?" She smiles, and it's so fake because I can see it. How it doesn't change the fact that her hands are shaking or how her eyes seem to be terrified.

"Good." Neutral response nothing to make her interested or concerned.

The words tumble out fast and jumbled, "There's been an attack, and I'm so sorry but it was in your area. They're still adding up the fatalities and--" her words stop and she looks tired and sad and worried, "your family didn't make it. I'm so sorry. I know this is a lot to take in so if you'd like to take a few days off..."

"You have the wrong person," I say, my impatience growing.

She suddenly grows very quiet. She doesn't say anything, I want to shake her. I want to grab her by the shoulders and make her say the words, that I'm right. This is just a total misunderstanding and she really just needs to get her names right and--

She's crying.

Thornberry's shoulders cave in and I finally realize how small she is. And as a mix between a sob and incomprehensible words crawl up her. I hear her say, "731 Harrington Drive."

Something cold overtakes my body. It crawls into every nook and cranny and makes itself comfy. Every cell in my body is captured and stripped of its essence, any source of warmth I had in me is gone.

But all I do is shake my head. This is not real. This is not real. It's just a dream.

I try to wake myself up, I scream at myself internally to get the hell out of this nightmare. I close my eyes, and my fingernails dig into my palm as a last resort.

But when I open them all I see is a worried Professor.

"Ever since this...war," she tries the word out like it's foreign to her, "we've seen how many kids can struggle to cope with losses. So I want you to understand that there are people to help you with this, Madam Pomfrey and I are always willing to listen or help you with anything." Her words are meant to make me feel better, but all I want is to get far away from this room, this talk, this subject, and especially her.

So I pick up my bag. "Thanks for the talk and cookies, but I'm perfectly fine. No need to worry."