pandemonium + d.m. & h.g. & h.p.

02

BLIND | blīnd |

The sun hasn't risen for as far as she can remember.

Faint was the light of the moon in every passing hour that comes by. And its iridescence is fading like a snail that attempts to reach the finish line. The ray is growing fainter, duller as was the fire in her soul; extinguished by an anonymous abstract. And blind was she, whose eyes are covered by cloth. Detached from the truth that haunts Heaven and Hell, for she continues to wander in the jungle of life, where the path is desolate and extracted from the knowledge of humanity; and yet, she follows the trail - a trail that she, herself, does not know.

"Granger." He whispers, his quiet voice pierced through the silence of the night, and she cannot decide if it was a good thing or not; for the silence is ineffable and loud in her ears. The screams that come from a variety of names, voices, people oppose the darkness of the night and the brightness of the day.

Neverending. Exhaustive.

Her hands. They seem warm in her gaze, and she clasps them together before promptly detaching them from each other. She sees the red pound beneath her brown skin, begging to be let out. Lingers for awhile, before throwing away the hope that shone for a moment and died in the end, once again.

Cold.

She tilts her head to his direction. "Fancy seeing you here, Malfoy."

The castle is rundown. The stench of blood and disembodied parts are littered everywhere. A hand rests on the filthy ground in front of her. A ring, with a capitalized M encircled one of the fingers, and she smiles a little.

Blood is everywhere. Underneath her chipped, unclean fingernails and between her teeth. The taste is glorious, and she feels as though her side of the war had won.

He looks back at you one last time, his green eyes sparkling even as the emerald light hits his chest. His shattered spectacles are insignificant when his body hits the ground and immediately turns into dust, into ashes. And you watch, you can only watch, because he was Harry Potter-The Boy Who Lived, now dead, and you couldn't save him because he had to fulfill his duty and now he is gone.

"Oh, and why is that?"

Ron is lying down on the crumbled step of something that once were stairs. With his wand pointed up, he looks like he is merely drawing invisible shapes with his wand. Hermione almost giggles at her best friend's incredulousness, eyeing his familiar red hair. She notices that it has somehow altered to a darker shade, then sees the small pool of maroon that surrounds it.

Of course.

"Where are the others?"

Was that her voice? It sounded small but steady. Is that even possible? No one answers.

"Dead, Granger." He shifts uneasily at her questioning stare. "You killed them all."

"I love you, Harry Potter," you whisper, watching him intently, but he is asleep and you are awake, because the voices just don't stop. You delicately touch his cheek and continue, "but what is there of me for you to love?"

She props her chin on her hand, gazes at Ron's flinching fingers as the spear that cut through his head still hasn't completed its task to reach his decline. "Is that so?" She says facetiously.

His eyes are grave, but he smiles anyway. It comes out a grimace. "Yes."

"Good." A speck of ash tickles the surface of her nose.

"So what now?" He asks.

A grin. A manic glint.

"Let's burn this place down."