"𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.
𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝."
- "Marjorie" by Taylor Swift

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June 5th, 1998.

Even if the Memorial Park of Wiltshire stretched infinitely before her like a line with only an initial point but not a marked end, Hemera knew exactly where to go.

An immeasurable number of headstones rose like jagged mountaintops from the ground, their granite color nothing but a sense of plainness drowning in the sea of the green hues of the short grass— every shade and every inch like a different note aiming to complete the miraculous symphony of nature's wonders. Across the flat clearing of the cemetery's acreage, a few narcissus blooms fought for recognition, their stems slender and their white petals fragile and paper-thin in a way that Hemera worried would allow the blustery wind to tear them up.

The delicate beauty of the flowers made the house of death look slightly more welcoming, yet their symbolism wasn't at all unrelated to the underworld. Thanks to the bedtime stories her mother always narrated when she was little, curled up in her bed and safe, Hemera remembered that the blooms indicated Hades, the God of the Dead— according to Greek mythology at least. She'd only seen them decorating coffins and rarely houses when someone was mourning. That, along with the gloominess of the weather wouldn't allow her imagination to trick her into believing that she was anywhere else.

Hemera clenched her fist tighter around the cold handle of her black umbrella, the plastic biting into her palm, and hung her head low. She kept walking, the wind blowing her wet hair into her squinted eyes as a few raindrops ran down the side of her pale face. The cobblestones beneath her feet were soaked from the rain, and although blood ran thicker than water, one was easily mistaken for the other when no one paid enough attention.

Because, at the feel of liquid drenching her shoes and shivers spreading on her skin like cobwebs, the flashbacks came back— reminding her of how even coming close to feeling clean was a race against the kind of time she didn't have.

She was past the point of letting hope and optimism consume her at every sunrise. She hardly believed that the sun would bother making an appearance today— or any day to come. Hemera didn't think that the universe would plot against letting this atrocious world rest in the darkness it deserved, or that the morning chirping of the birds carrying out the chorus of the dawn would ring familiarly in her ears. She hadn't heard the amicable song in weeks and was left to cling to the conviction of dying with only the memory of it carved into the most distant crevices of her mind.

On either side of the stone path she so familiarly followed, the headstones seemed to mock her— pity her for having to pick up the ruins the war left behind and make a life out of them. Not a life worth living, but the kind that was conventionally easy to tolerate.

Hemera tried to focus on the raindrops heavily splashing on the grass around her, on the sound of the wind howling through the naked tree branches, brown and curling like the crisp fingers of a corpse. Beneath heavy lids and sopping lashes, she managed to note the fog looming over the horizon, a cloudy barrier stopping her from cursing the star under which she had been born. Her attention was scattered the way the shards of broken glass spread on marble floors, the sensation of the forthcoming puffs of air in her lungs the only distraction she was granted.

Not that it'd ever be enough.

In the back of her mind, the sounds of war still echoed hauntingly.

The screams, the spells exploding from the tips of wands and surging through the dusty air, the dripping blood as it leaked from fresh wounds and soaked through her clothes. She could still feel the heaviness of it clinging to her torn pants, and her dirty shirt, even if the clothes now hanging on her body were nothing but freshly washed— though they still smelled like him. His scent lingered on the black turtleneck T-shirt and as Hemera fisted the material and inhaled against it, she could almost say that the coppery smell of the blood that had stained her hands that night, faded away.

Momentarily.

Her every muscle, every bone seemed to carry the permanent weight of an inexorable tension to the very core, a stiffness that wouldn't falter, not even against her greatest pleas. The knots of uneasiness refused to cease pulling tightly inside of her. As though her body was barely sewn by the single thread of life remaining in her, she felt numb, completely defenseless against the hands that kept moving the marionette she'd become.

She wouldn't be surprised to find out that it was all she could be. A figurine played by the tired fingers of fate and faith; not that any remnants of them still shimmered within. Like dying stars, they'd dimmed weeks ago, letting a vile gloom conquer in their absence.

Hemera remembered having some hope in her; hope of better days, of a future after the war, of a life where she wouldn't have to regret crawling out of this nightmare alive. Breathing. Alone. With her hand cold, always missing the warmth of their intertwined fingers, his reassuring squeezes that seemed to so convincingly turn lies into promises. And yet, she didn't remember what it felt like, to rely on a dream that perhaps had once been close enough to touch, but not to hold. To fully grasp and keep.

It must've been closely associated with warmth. And comfort. But both words now were foreign, simple terms of incoherence.

Seemingly, death had wished to live up to the expectations of the world. Always lurking monstrously, making prey out of innocents and stealing the gift he'd always envied the most; life. The desire to live long enough to see the world, the need to hold on tight not to be taken to a place so dark and cold, Hemera didn't think feelings could resist freezing to numbness. Was he aware that with every life he took, another one instantly lost its worth? That the halves of a soul only bloomed when they could twist and tangle into a mess of golden threads and light and delicate love?

And even if he knew, would he still have felt the need to take half of hers away?

Recognizing his headstone amongst the rest was the easy part— accepting that his lifeless body lay beneath it was what would forever feel like a physical blow. A stab of a poisoned knife. Hemera almost stumbled at the tilted handwriting spelling out his name, letter by letter, word by word. And even if the evidence of his fallout stood proudly before her, she could hardly believe that he wouldn't be standing behind her if she turned around, with his arms spread wide and ready for her to bury herself in.

She still pictured his eyes perfectly and often preferred to trick her own mind into believing that they could ever stare back at her again. Even for one last time; she didn't want to remember his eyes as the distant, ghostly ones that had tried to blink the tears away two weeks ago. Not when their beautiful color had now become her favorite hue in the world.

Hemera eased into a crouch beside the gray stone, the hem of her black skirt falling into a puddle of water, the material now heavy and wringing wet. She reached out with her free hand, brushed some of the fallen leaves and debris off it, and noted how cold it felt against her skin. Biting. Part of her wanted to believe that it was his hand resting on the other side, trying to push back with whatever power remained in him.

Was it even possible? Had she lost her mind? What would he say to her, if he was there, watching her destroy herself by trying to keep the memory of him alive for as long as her now frail figure would let her?

He would understand, right? He'd understand her if she told him that the vast hole in her chest would consume her whole if she stayed away from him for more than ten hours. Even if he was six feet under.

Her exhale came out delayed and slow, almost like her body was far more tangled in her thoughts than the conscious part of her mind could ever be.

Hemera hadn't stopped visiting the graveyard. For the last month, she's been spending an unhealthy amount of time there, sitting on the grass next to his headstone— sometimes talking out loud, holding onto that sliver of hope that told her he could still hear her, and others just soaking up in that deafening silence. Narcissa tended to express her concerns about the unhealthy toll of Hemera's life quite often, but the girl's excuse was always the same, monotonous sentence: "I have to make sure his grave is clean and perfect before it turns into one of these unattended, forgotten remnants I've seen lying around."

Hemera was confident that no one would say something about that. It was her duty, after all.

So even when no one else was around due to the storm tearing the sky apart, Hemera couldn't keep herself away.

Neglecting her own self in the process was inevitable. But she didn't care. She didn't care about her. Had stopped since the moment the gift of life turned into a curse she no longer wanted to suffer through.

Hemera wanted to put an end to it; she wanted to die. Wished for it. Whether it'd be painful or painless, it didn't matter. The thought that this ache that had settled in her heart would end along with her life made her willing to risk it. It wouldn't last long; everything would be over before she even knew it— and that soothed something in her.

But as for now, she couldn't let these thoughts win her over. Not on his birthday. She knew he wasn't expecting her to find him that soon— and she didn't want to disappoint him by appearing this weak. Especially not when she'd locked her frozen fingers around his blood-covered hand and promised she wouldn't give up.

A strong gust of wind lashed out at her umbrella, making her realize that she no longer needed it. Most of her was already drenched anyway, so she closed it and placed it on the ground beside her kneeled figure. Reaching into her pocket, she grasped the small pouch of daisy seeds she bought from the florist's a few blocks away from her apartment in Wiltshire, and slowly pulled it out.

The memories she'd associated with the flowers lingered like his perfume and clouded her mind, but she bit down on her bottom lip and started digging a hole in the ground next to his grave. Bare hands stirring up the wet soil, Hemera's experience in gardening led her to make exceptionally quick work of what had to be done. Dirt slipped beneath her nails and into the crevices of her palms, but the feel of it against her skin had her savoring the flashbacks that came with it.

Hemera had been getting her hands filthy for the sole purpose of decorating her garden with all sorts of blooms her whole life— usually, though, Draco would be beside her. Technically he still was; it was his lack of a heartbeat that made the difference.

Carefully, with raindrops still falling from the sky, she opened the pouch and poured the tiny seeds out and onto her palm before glancing at the photograph embedded on the flat surface of the marble tombstone. It was her favorite of him, the same one she had framed on her nightstand. It depicted the only time he was caught smiling in front of a camera— the faint smile lines bracketing his half-moon-shaped lips were indication enough. But his softened eyes were all she could focus on.

"Well, I guess the tables have turned." Her frail voice was carried away by the winds, but she knew that if there was any chance he could still hear her, he wouldn't let it slip away. "I can't really expect you to give me daisies anymore, can I?"

Of course, no reply resonated but she wasn't particularly fazed by that. Completely unbothered, as if she wasn't far too tangled in her hopeful delusions for any sign of his presence, she dropped the seeds into the hole and started to cover them with the small pile of soil she'd dug out.

The front pieces of hair that had slipped loose from her messy braid stuck to the sides of her face because of the moisture covering her skin. "You know," she started, her hands slowing down their movements, "I felt the first kick today. I think Scorpius is a tad too energetic. You should've seen how Cissy reacted to it," her chuckle was shallow and lacked the warmth of contentment, but she knew that it was the closest she'd get to what her laugh once sounded like.

"She told me about you of course, and how you always seemed to want to break free from the womb before your time— maybe it runs in the family." Coincidentally, he left before his time too. Hemera wished she could find it in herself to hate him for it.

Hemera ran the back of her hand down the side of her face, pushing the stray strands away from her eyes as she attempted to blink away the moisture collecting in them. "The doctor said Scorpius will be here before the new year— I still have some months to go but on the bright side of things, we'll finally be parents. Pansy, Theo, and Blaise are already fighting over who's going to be the godparent." A breathy scoff tore from her lips at the memory of her three friends arguing over the dinner table a few nights ago.

The acid feeling that had flooded her stomach at the sight of the empty chair beside hers was still as strong, burning her insides and making her wonder how long it'd take before it poisoned every inch of her.

"Happy birthday my love." Her voice cracked as though something was blocking her windpipe. She forced a thick swallow that sounded more like an attempt to gulp down the forming lump than anything else. It didn't budge, but she still managed to emit some words through the invisible barrier. "You would have turned nineteen."

She didn't even know she was crying until the first drops of that salty liquid slipping past her lids landed high on her cheeks, trailing wet paths on either side of her face. She wiped her hand clean on her already stained skirt before running it over the stone again, her breathing already growing uneven.

"I love you." She muttered, "I love you, I love you, I love you." Hemera said it over and over again, until her mouth dried out, until her tears turned into sobs and heaving gasps for air. "I love you, I love you, I love you." Through the burning in her lungs and her breathlessness, she kept mumbling the same words.

I love you,

I love you,

I love you.

She once was sane. And now; now her mind echoed a phrase she never wanted to hear from anyone but him. Even if it meant that she'd never get to hear it again.

Hemera lowered her head until the side of her face rested flat against the grave. She vividly remembered how his heart would beat serenely every time her head rested on his chest— but now she was met with nothing but complete silence. And it stung, and it wounded, and it cut until the blood loss made her feel dizzy.

She fisted her shirt, right above her heart as if she could plug it out of her thoracic cage. Burn marks adorned her chest where death had placed his lips and sucked out whatever inner light lingered there, leaving her in something disgustingly close to a breathing wreck. Ruins. Pieces she had no intention of ever gluing back together, for she didn't think the strength in her body would ever be enough to repair what was cracked. Not without the missing bits and parts that made their absence remarkable in her.

The girl kept weeping until seconds turned into minutes, hours; not caring if someone was around. Not caring about her wet clothes sticking to her body, about the cold wind burdening her with backlashes. Fresh tears were dampening her skin, burning behind her eyes and it was as though her heart was crying with her, bleeding out in the only way it could.

She didn't think there were enough words for a description to hold such precise accuracy of what hollowness felt like displayed inside her body. How terrifyingly similar it was to being swallowed by an abyss of nothingness. An endless void. A dark room with no way out. She could find herself kicking and clawing at whatever kept holding her beneath the surface, and yet part of her knew it would never be enough. That the mocking chains of sorrow clasped around her ankles, her wrists would only laugh back at her pathetic attempts to break free.

There were no trees to shield her from the thunderstorm, no sight of sunlight promising warmth. It was just her, the mourning skies, and her crumbling soul.

Hemera's eyelids sealed together against the rain, becoming one. And utter blackness consumed every corner of her vision.

She shivered and cursed and hurt until every sensation became an intermingled mess weighing her down. And at that moment, in the middle of the vicious storm, when the line between consciousness and the opposite was blurry beyond recognition, Hemera thought she felt it.

His presence. His arms around her shoulders, his warm chest on her back.

And clear as day she thought was his voice, whispering 'I love you' back.

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think I needed to start this off with a dramatic prologue just to get myself and you in the mood for a rather wild ride.

I can't wait to start rewriting this book. Please do leave some comments and vote if you feel like it, interacting with readers is so motivating!

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Thank you for reading <3

—M.L.