House: hisssssssss . . .(Slytherin)
Character Used: Neville Longbottom
Lyric used: 'It doesn't matter if we never meet again/What we have said will always remain.'
Word Count: 500
A/N: This isn't very good . . . I apologize in advance.
Neville had watched her slowly fade into the night, blond hair still flouncing, though her step had lost its spring. Even as she left, he couldn’t help but think of her as he always had; the moon. Mysterious, always coming and going of its own accord.
I finally know what I’m looking for. But . . . it’s not in something that can be found in a person. I’m sorry.
He still remembered that night perfectly. The moon had disappeared, leaving the sky dark and empty. Hollow.
He’d trusted her; he’d trusted that she wouldn’t disappear, leaving him even more broken than before. There had been so many walls he’d had, so many defences, but the light of her just floated through, unaffected.
Please . . . don’t. I promise, it’ll be fine. I love you.
She’d said it’d been for the best. That they weren’t right.
They had been perfect. But he should have known he couldn’t have the moon.
I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!
Then came the fury. The pure, undiluted rage after she had left. The wall taking the place of her, an outlet for the flood that came after the moon had disappeared. In the dark of night, surrounded by his demons. There was no moon to be the light. It was just him.
He was fine in the light, but night was when he remembered. He remembered her, the pain, the anger. He was alone with his demons. With her.
Are you there? Are you okay?
It wasn’t her. It was never her.
What the hell? Neville?
She was frantic. She’d always worried, he remembered that. But why was she here?
It’ll be okay.
It wouldn’t. The world was a black pit of endless despair. Voldemort may have been dead, but it wasn’t any better. People still died, people still left.
What happened? You can tell me.
Her voice was soft, comforting. Almost like . . . no. It wasn’t her. Her voice was more airy; this was a plea. She was scared. She was scared for him.
He was anything but fine, but he couldn’t hurt her. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
No, you’re not.
Time had gone by; whether it was days or years he would never sure. Slowly, the pain started to recede. And Neville knew why.
She had come like the sun after rain. No, like a flower blooming after a frost. The only small beauty that remained in the cold and dullness. And slowly, the light and other flowers returned. All because of the one that bloomed.
She had saved him, when he couldn’t even save himself. She was perfect, and she was his.
But he never forgot, for the moon was always there to remind him. Because, even though they’d met again, many times, they were both different. She’d found what she was looking for, and so had he. But the words they’d said were still there, a gap as wide as the moon.
The even greater divide was the words unsaid.