3 Days After the Battle of Hogwarts
First was apathy. He shut himself away and lay on his bed for hours. His mother knocked, of course, but when he didn’t answer she left. Later, she pushed sandwiches through the door. He ignored them. He wasn’t hungry. He tried to not think about anything, but it didn’t work. His thoughts kept sliding back to her, her smile, her laugh. Everything about her.
Then came rage. He yelled, punched walls, and threw things, cursing whatever or whoever had taken her from him. He even found himself yelling at her, asking her why she had left him. He knew it wasn’t her fault, but he couldn’t help be angry with her. He smashed the photos he had of her against the wall. The pair of them at the Yule Ball, arm in arm, smiling. Their first night as a couple. Her laughing at something he had said, a long forgotten joke. Then there was their night in the snow. Him carrying her in his arms, smiling at each other. The one of them kissing as the snow fell down on them. And his favorite: her upside down on a swing, laughing at the camera.
After that he fell to his knees, breathing hard after the fit of anger. A sob burst from his lips, and before he knew it he was crying harder than he had ever cried. He let out all his tears, all the grief, anger, and hardship of the last 24 hours. He repaired the photos of her. They were all he had left.
His princess. His beautiful, wonderful, smart, musical, kind, adorable Gryffindor princess. His fiery, nasty, stubborn, fierce, warrior princess.
Gone.
He could not wrap his head around the fact that she was gone. Not here anymore. He would never hear her laugh again, never make her smile. She would never play piano for him again, and she wouldn’t be able to sing to him like she had. He would never hear her say, “I love you,” again.
What he wouldn’t give to hear her voice just one last time. If he could just talk to her one more time…he could tell her how much she meant, how much she changed his life. Try to express how much he loved her.
He regretted so many things. He regretted never meeting Henry and Ellasyn. He should have comforted her more over Henry. He shouldn’t have let her blame herself for that. He regretted not protecting her during the battle. Why did he let her go? He had replayed the moment he had seen her over and over again in his head. Why hadn’t he called out? At the time, it was war, and he thought he would see her later, and when it was over. He had never anticipated what had happened, and blamed himself for not calling out to her, not protecting her. But even if he had, he knew she wouldn’t have listened. The stubborn fool. And now she was dead.
And he would never see her again.
He had visitors, but he refused them all. Her parents came, but he didn’t want to see them. Blaise, Pansy, the remaining three of the newly nicknamed “Golden Four,” Kingsley Shacklebolt, and others coming to offer their condolences. Everyone knew that he had been closest to her. Closer than Harry, Ron, and Hermione, even though those four had been inseparable. He knew they were grieving too. Not just for her, but for the others who had died too. He had no one else to grieve for, and no one else to live for. She had been everything. Everything.
His Triabelle Rose Summers.
His Tria.
His princess.
(Author’s Note: Tria isn’t a self insert! Tria isn’t my actual name; she’s a character I’ve had for a while. I used her name as my pseudonym for this site.)
First was apathy. He shut himself away and lay on his bed for hours. His mother knocked, of course, but when he didn’t answer she left. Later, she pushed sandwiches through the door. He ignored them. He wasn’t hungry. He tried to not think about anything, but it didn’t work. His thoughts kept sliding back to her, her smile, her laugh. Everything about her.
Then came rage. He yelled, punched walls, and threw things, cursing whatever or whoever had taken her from him. He even found himself yelling at her, asking her why she had left him. He knew it wasn’t her fault, but he couldn’t help be angry with her. He smashed the photos he had of her against the wall. The pair of them at the Yule Ball, arm in arm, smiling. Their first night as a couple. Her laughing at something he had said, a long forgotten joke. Then there was their night in the snow. Him carrying her in his arms, smiling at each other. The one of them kissing as the snow fell down on them. And his favorite: her upside down on a swing, laughing at the camera.
After that he fell to his knees, breathing hard after the fit of anger. A sob burst from his lips, and before he knew it he was crying harder than he had ever cried. He let out all his tears, all the grief, anger, and hardship of the last 24 hours. He repaired the photos of her. They were all he had left.
His princess. His beautiful, wonderful, smart, musical, kind, adorable Gryffindor princess. His fiery, nasty, stubborn, fierce, warrior princess.
Gone.
He could not wrap his head around the fact that she was gone. Not here anymore. He would never hear her laugh again, never make her smile. She would never play piano for him again, and she wouldn’t be able to sing to him like she had. He would never hear her say, “I love you,” again.
What he wouldn’t give to hear her voice just one last time. If he could just talk to her one more time…he could tell her how much she meant, how much she changed his life. Try to express how much he loved her.
He regretted so many things. He regretted never meeting Henry and Ellasyn. He should have comforted her more over Henry. He shouldn’t have let her blame herself for that. He regretted not protecting her during the battle. Why did he let her go? He had replayed the moment he had seen her over and over again in his head. Why hadn’t he called out? At the time, it was war, and he thought he would see her later, and when it was over. He had never anticipated what had happened, and blamed himself for not calling out to her, not protecting her. But even if he had, he knew she wouldn’t have listened. The stubborn fool. And now she was dead.
And he would never see her again.
He had visitors, but he refused them all. Her parents came, but he didn’t want to see them. Blaise, Pansy, the remaining three of the newly nicknamed “Golden Four,” Kingsley Shacklebolt, and others coming to offer their condolences. Everyone knew that he had been closest to her. Closer than Harry, Ron, and Hermione, even though those four had been inseparable. He knew they were grieving too. Not just for her, but for the others who had died too. He had no one else to grieve for, and no one else to live for. She had been everything. Everything.
His Triabelle Rose Summers.
His Tria.
His princess.
(Author’s Note: Tria isn’t a self insert! Tria isn’t my actual name; she’s a character I’ve had for a while. I used her name as my pseudonym for this site.)