heddwig:

I suggest listening to this song by Tori Amos.

A child they so eagerly prepared a nursery for, a child they imagined would either look more like their father or mother. A child they could imagine chasing to either one of their parents through a narrow hallway. A child. There is none.

The pain, she was sure, could be comparable to death—its infinite, unforgettable, its an impression that leaves a permanent dent on the soul. Damaging memories of glee and hopeful expectations. There are none.

Its an agony that could equal the fiery pits of hell, engulfing and crisping away her skin. The pain isn’t as severe for the once-expecting father, whose hand is collapsing in on itself as he watched his wife scream without need for breath, beads of sweat inflaming her entire being. He could only imagine what it would feel like, to not know but knowing as well. He continued to watch as much as he wanted to look away, this is apart of his journey as well so why not share the burden? There is none.

Only two months and three weeks into her pregnancy, Hermione isn’t sure what to do. Mass amounts of blood leak from her like the flow of water coming from a steady facet, she is matted in sweat, and her voice is hoarse from screaming. She doesn’t want to give the fetus away, she doesn’t want to let Death touch a child that could have brought them eternal happiness. But Death is waiting, expecting a little soul that to once-parents is everything. The fetus was like a dementor, latching onto their soul and taking away every bit of happiness they once invested into it. No bright memory could force it away. Nothing

Its only a forming void, widening the longer they had to wait. Together now they both cry, she looks into his grey eyes, one that show a vast amount of sorrow and regret. Her jaw, she realizes, is locked together—her teeth aching from gritting them together so tensely but this is the least of her worries then in that moment. She wants to comfort Draco even though she is sure her pain exceeds his but they both share this brooding memory. Together, they can understand the pain of losing a child. Together they understand everything of this misery.

I’d be terrified if I had to leave this place today
Its where I threw my love away
— SPIRIT OF THE STAIRWELL

Lost…

You’ll be nothing more than a filthy mudblood!

I am the messenger, I am the bird that carries your calls

She rushes in much like he had before, her pace quick and in no way lagging. Her arms flailing as she scurries over, and watches as he stands. “He’s dead.”

Two words and she falls, her formerly quickened pace immediately gave away to clean tile floor, her hands support her as she leans forward—wanting to vomit. But she does not, and she recoils into a sitting position, feet pressing into her bottom half, as one hand quivers hovering over her mouth.

Instant tears, just as his words had been. Without warning, without pause.

I am the weight, I am the pressure you feel

“I just saw him!” She proclaims, almost baffled at how quickly time had gone. She was just there, only hours before. How? She watches him give a slight shrug, the best he could mange, and she begins to curl in on herself like a flower blossoming in reverse.

I am the sun, but I do not provide light

Avert your eyes only when I turn away
Then is when I know you feel guilty

“Where have you been?” Hermione says brutely, not rising from her chair but giving Draco an obviously bothered expression. He had walked in, hair matted to his forehead and an angry scowl etched onto his face. He doesn’t tell her he had gotten into a brawl defending her. Her blood.

“Its not any of your business!” His voice is blatant now, surely the children would wake up. Too young to understand their history. He walks away, looking over his shoulder and he could see the very fiery rivaling his own in Hermione’s eyes. He loved it, he loved defending her and watching her prove him wrong every single time but instead he only scoffs.

Told me not to talk but please explain
My thoughts that float around my mind
— HOUSES

He watched her from the store front, exiled from ever speaking to her again but he ignored that rule. He knows she saw him but just as easily as she could, she would shrug it off and carry on. Then she’d get up to go elsewhere within the diner, ignoring his presence. And all he really wanted was to look into her eyes, really look, before he tried to convince himself it was wrong of him to love a mudblood.