you are gryffindor and golden but you are also burning and broken and soon you will be ashes from anger and agony because you miss him and you hate him and you are tired of being a silly little girl who wrote in a diary and almost brought down the world.

you are not stupid. you know you were saved because harry potter brought you back in his arms and you are an order child and you have hair the color of fire and it mingles with the feathers of dumbledore's bird and it makes you safe, for a moment, of being the silly little girl who wrote in a diary and almost brought down the world.

you don't miss the blank spaces and the paint all over your hands. you don't miss waking up confused. you don't miss the hovering concern, the forced pepper-ups, the prying. what you miss is someone who understood every little thing you did. who didn't infantilize you. who didn't treat you like a silly little girl who wrote in a diary and almost brought down the world.

you can still feel him in the back of your neck, crawling down your spine in spiraling black tendrils, wrapping around your bones, ensnaring your limbs and holding you captive. you can still hear his voice in your head, smoky and silver and seductive. you can hear him coaxing you back, drawing your near, luring you into becoming his queen instead of a silly little girl who wrote in a diary and almost brought down the world.

and when he wins the final battle and shows his face and you hear his voice as he calls you to his side, hear the roaring silence as you walk through the crowds, your hair is flaming red–not like dumbledore's bird but like the years of anger and resentment that simmered every time someone called you a silly little girl who wrote in a diary and almost brought down the world.

because you are not a silly little girl who wrote in a diary and almost brought down the world. you are his queen and his world is under your feet.