Wreckage

You smell the burning. You don't look behind you because you know better - it's not too far in the distance. You can see the pieces of ash the wind carries. There's a smell, aside from smoke and burning wood; your stomach churns at the thought of burning flesh. The screaming has stopped. They're all dead, you know. For some reason you want a cigarette. You don't smoke, but you want to. You shove your hands deep into the pockets of the coat that is much too big for you, knowing he keeps a pack and a lighter. You pull out the cardboard little box and without reading the brand name you take a cigarette and put it to your lips, light it, and shove the contents back into the pocket. You inhale deeply. The smoke burns your lungs but you don't cough. You exhale. It's too cold to be standing outside, but you don't move. You can't. You know they suffered. You close your eyes and you see flames and flames licking the wood of the house, too hot, incinerating. You smell burnt flesh. You gag.

You don't look back.

You can hear the grass crunching as he comes up the hill behind you. You can smell the smoke from the fire before he gets to you. He's alive, and that counts for something, but they weren't after him. You know it. He knows it. They killed them because they could. You say nothing about it. If you don't mention the dead, they don't seem as real. It's something you've learned over all this time.

“Tell me that you're alright.”

“I will, if that's what you need to hear,” you say. You don't look at him but he's standing right beside you.

“Don't do this,” he says.

“I'm not. I'll lie to you, if you want me to.”

“I just need to know you're ok.” You hear the desperation he's trying to hide so well in his voice. You don't question it, or rebuke it. You decide to tell the truth. But he already knew that.

“I'm not. I never will be.” You flick ashes onto the ground. “But I made my choices. It's a sacrifice I chose to make.”

“Everything will be alright,” he says.

You know it won't be.

“That's the difference between you and me,” you say quietly. He knows what you mean, you know he does, and you don't care because everything hurts and the truth should be no exception. This is what you do. He makes excuses and tries to reason for the better. You take things at face value and accept them for what they are.

“Hermione…” he says softly. You feel his hand on your arm. It stings. You're sure you'll have a scar from the second degree burn. “I promise -“

“Don't. Don't do that.” You shake your head. You exhale more smoke and you know he's watching you. “Promises you can't keep, Harry… it'll only hurt more in the end.” Your voice comes out too quiet. You know that you've forgotten to disguise your pain.

Your choice is the chance that you have to take.

And it's too late to take it back.