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The white rose fell out of Dorcas’ hand. A single drop of blood seeped out of her hand where a thorn had pricked her, red contrasting her dark skin. She fell to her knees.
Clearing out the old, dead flowers from the grave was heartbreaking. A reminder of the time that had passed. Dorcas would not allow her love’s grave to be trashed by dying roses, no matter how much it hurt. She centered the fresh one on the granite. Her hands shook as she reached for the matches in her pocket. She lit the znicz.
Marlene had asked her to, long ago. When she said it then, she didn’t think it would be so soon. You’ll be an old lady. Your knees will hurt when you crouch down to light it, but you’ll do it for me, she said. Because you love me.
“I do love you”, Dorcas whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “I always will”.
It was an old pagan tradition, commonly practiced in Poland. It was important to Marlene, so Dorcas did it. She would come back and do it every time it went out, until she was old and her knees hurt. She would do it anyway. Because she loved her. She would never stop loving her.
People told her the pain would dull. By people, she meant Dumbledore. He was just so horrid. Dorcas didn’t know how else to describe it. He was supposed to be the good guy, he was supposed to keep them safe, and he just… didn’t. Marlene was dead, and it was his fault. Dorcas didn’t yet know why, but she was sure that he was responsible.
Marlene was dead, and all he said to her was that the pain would dull. It didn’t. Every night she fell asleep crying, every day she woke up angry. She made two portions of breakfast and cried when she noticed. She saw Marlene’s clothes in the closet and cried into them. She went to her grave and put down a flower. She cried every time she saw the name on the gravestone, even though she already knew.
That day, Dorcas cleared the dirt from the name. Marlena McKinnon.
She cried.
She screamed in agony, regretting she couldn’t save her. Nobody was safe. Nobody would protect them. Dumbledore was a liar. He would not save them. He used them like pawns in his stupid game. He didn’t actually care about anyone but himself. His little chess match, sacrificing pieces like they weren’t worth anything. Like they weren’t human lives.
Marlene was dead.
Dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead.
Dumbledore didn’t care.
Mary didn’t care, Lily didn't care, James, Remus, Sirius, Peter.
They pretended to care, which was worse. They came to the funeral, brought pretty little bouquets of flowers, cried and went home. They didn’t come back.
Deep down, Dorcas knew it was wrong to think that way. They were grieving too, just a bit differently. They still had their lives to live.
Dorcas didn’t. Her life revolved around her sun, Marlene. Marlene, who was gone, and wouldn’t come back. She simply didn’t know how to keep living.
Dorcas tried to strip all reminders from herself. She put on a sweater, then realised Marlene had borrowed it just a few days before she died. She took it off. She went on a walk, then realised she took the same route she always did with Marlene. She ran off into the woods.
She went to bars, she went to church, she stayed silent, she screamed, and none of it made any difference.
She killed them. She killed all the death eaters that witnessed Marlene’s murder. She felt nothing.
Dumbledore chastised her, she felt nothing.
Her friends offered their condolences, she felt nothing.
They were all worried about her, that she would go down the wrong path, join the wrong side, make the wrong choices. Why weren’t they that worried about Marlene before? Maybe she would have been alive if they had worried just a little more. If something had been done just a little differently, she would still be here.
She wasn’t, and it hurt. She wasn’t, and she would never be.
Dorcas would never see her again, her blonde hair messed up in the mornings, her tattoos and piercings, her scars, her smile, her eyes.
Dorcas dug her fingers into the ground.
Maybe they were right – maybe she was going down the wrong path. She felt an immense desire to kill. All she wanted was to see someone’s life leave their eyes. It would never be enough to make up for Marlene’s death, but it was something. Revenge. Marlene died, so they had to, too.
Dorcas was only still here because Marlene would want her to be. She would want her to light the znicz, clear the grave, say a prayer. It was more tradition than religion – Marlene seldom went to church, it was just what she did at graves.
Today, Dorcas talked.
“I keep trying to run away from this, you know? I come here every day, but apart from that, I stay away from everything that reminds me of you. I… I found a bottle of your pink hair dye yesterday”, Dorcas chuckled through her tears. “I threw it out. It was like it burned me. I couldn’t bear to look at it”.
She paused, then, unsure of what to say next.
“I feel like I’m… doing a lot, even when I’m not, does that make sense? I do things, and you’re just here, waiting, watching. Maybe you won’t have to wait too long”.
She shifted on the ground, hugging her knees to her chest, eyes fixed on the name etched into the granite.
“People are dying. You did. Others too. It’s war. Maybe I’m next. Maybe I’ll join you, and we can be together again”.
She sniffed, brushing the dirt from her legs as she stood up.
“We’ll be together again. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next year, but I’ll find you again. Wait for me, okay? Promise me that you’ll let me find you again”.
The grave did not respond.
“I promise”, Dorcas whispered to herself, for comfort. “I promise”.