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xv. Fallout
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IF SOMEONE HAD filled a room with electricity, Thea imagines this is how it would feel.

Tension is knotted around every bone in her body, and the air seems to hang over her, as though it is laughing at the mess she has become. She is stood in the middle of the floor in her dorm, stiller than she has ever been in her life, her breath crackling as she inhales, and tries to think of the best way to get rid of this new gravity holding her down and keeping her stuck in this tragedy. It got what it wanted; it got death, but it is still watching her, still haunting her. She is streaked with blood, some of it hers, some of it...some of it Jude's.

Perhaps tragedy is gloating.

She isn't sure; all she's sure of is that this is when she crumbles.

Her knees tremble, and she thinks maybe the joints creak audibly, as she folds herself into the tiniest shape she can on the floor.

Her lip quivers, and a small whimper, that soon becomes a fractured sob, breaks from her. She tries to stop her shoulders from shaking, she tries the best that she can, but she can't. Her throat becomes so tight, that she struggles to get air in her lungs, and a great knot in her head grows tighter around her skull so it aches so much it might shatter, as the tears start to pour, and she isn't sure they will ever stop.

She lies there for what could feel like weeks, before she drags herself up.

She is now empty of anything but a new strain of rage, that is burning and freezing at the same time. Rage, she thinks, is like a sister, and she swears sometimes it is all that understands her. It is a sharp, flaming blade, running down her spine, and it flings her arm out until it clatters into the small bedstand full of photo frames. They crash to the ground, and the sound is bitter enough to make her eyes well up again, as she looks for the thing, the one she might be able to pull his fingerprints from, pull some part of him from.

She finds it under her bed, and flicks through it, when a small, blue note that she didn't put there catches her eye. It contains writing, a perfectly neat print that she knows so well her heart plummets.

I KNOW PEOPLE SAY IT IS BUT 'STAR-CROSSED' IS NOT SO RARE A THING. HOW CAN IT BE WHEN SPACE IS SO MUCH BIGGER THAN EARTH? FOR EVERY TWO PEOPLE, THERE MUST BE HUNDREDS OF CROSSINGS. WE DON'T HAVE MUCH OF A CHANCE DOWN HERE, DO WE, CINDERS?

Thea doesn't know if he's talking about her and him, or if he's talking about everyone.

And it aches, how much she has forgotten about this boy, her Jude, and everyone else's Atlas. Even now, his face is distorted, those dark eyes and cheekbones and curls and red smiling mouth a struggle to conjure in her broken mind. But his laugh, his teasing chuckle, bell-like and glorious, seems to be on a loop in her head, and all she can feel is his arms, and his voice telling her that she's alright, now he's here.

Her wand stares at her from the floor. She hasn't touched it for what feels like years. Everyone in the castle went to a bed at least three hours ago, and since she got here, this is the first time she has even spared it a glance.

It's a weapon.

She took life with that wand. She promised herself she would never, no matter how bad all this war thing got; but she did. How could she even begin to forgive herself?

She's desperate to wash the thought from her mind, and takes a hot, steaming shower until the blood is all gone from under her nails. Her tears blur with the dirt and scarlet running into the drain, and as she sobs, the water burns the inside of her nose, and it takes her half an hour to even start washing her hair.

Exhaustion stops her mind from reeling between everything that lead up to her killing Octavia, but she cannot stop the crying once it starts again, despite the brief relief of clean pyjamas and all of the war's dirt washed away.

Well, maybe not all of it; she's sure that will take years.

She takes the biro Polly had left in her night-stand drawer. She imagines her friend has gone home, seeing as she knows she survived. Thea is glad the girl does not have to take her fallout. Somehow, she thinks sharing its weight would only make it heavier.

She finds Act Three, Scene Five, finds those words.

More light and light, more dark and dark our woes.

The pen's ink strikes out light, until she only knows what lies underneath it because she has read it so many times.

She crosses out the light, that doesn't even exist, she's sure of it, positive of it.

A sob erupts from her as she pulls out the blue note, stained with his writing, one of the only parts of him she has left, and shoves it into her bag, before she makes for the window, and casts Romeo and Juliet out of it, watching as it falls, and hits the grass.

She backs away until the castle grounds are no longer in sight, and she is a storm as she makes her way out of the room until she reaches the stairs to the boys' dorm room, and makes for the one that she knows is his.

He'll be fast asleep, she's sure of it, but there is no way she can stay in her dorm room by herself. She pushes open the door as gently as she can, and whispers his name into the inky blackness.

"Harry?"

There's a moment in which he stirs, and she's about to speak again, but he beats her to it.

"What's up, love?"

She moves to the bed she can hear his voice coming from, and speaks again.

"Is this you?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to wake you. I just – I can't stand to be on my own."

"That's alright. I'm glad you're here."

She hears him shuffle around, and then climbs in next to him, tucking into his chest as he pulls the blanket over them. She balls her chapped, white fists into his shirt and closes her raw eyes. She breathes him in and the knot within her seems to loosen.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he whispers.

"You might hate me."

"Don't be stupid."

She tightens her grip on his shirt. She inhales, and hears it rattle.

"Octavia Hedge killed Jude so I killed her."

He stiffens for a moment, and she's about to cry again, because she can feel the stiches within her that were never going to move out of place shift, about to snap –

"Oh." He tangles a hand in her hair, and brushes it soothingly.

"I didn't mean to. I just...well, she nearly slit my throat, he saw it all, and he was begging me to run...I didn't know she was behind me and then she had me really tightly by the hair so I couldn't move and she put her knife on my throat and then she let me go and threw the knife at him and the spell just came out, I know it's no excuse –"

"Thea, stop."

The words seem to evaporate in her mouth.

His arm tightens around her waist, and his fingers remain gently in her hair. She allows herself to relax, as though the bed around them sucks the tension from her weary bones. She wants to say peace drifts into her, but that would be too strong a word.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

He kisses the top of her head so lightly she barely feels it.

"I think we both know what would've happened if you hadn't done it."

Of course she knows.

She would not be here. Her body would be unmoving, as empty as a chasm, and she would not be tangled in Harry's arms right now. The peace starts to creep in, and for once, she lets it.

"Love you," she mutters, as her eyelids droop, and as everything around her spins into a comforting, dreamless black, Harry's words echo around her mind.

"I love you too."

The light bleeds across her closed eyes, and she opens them, squinting against the sun. Harry's arm is tight around her still, but he's awake, Quidditch Through The Ages open before him.

"Hi," she says, sitting up and resting her head on his shoulder.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

Her stomach makes a loud rumble, and she stifles a giggle. "No."

Harry pokes her cheek. "Liar."

She sticks her tongue out at him, and stands up, her hair still damp from her shower the night before. "Are you coming? I'll meet you down there, I need to get changed and have a wash."

He nods.

Once she reaches her dorm, she cleans her teeth and pulls on a crisp, fresh T-shirt, a pair of leggings and her Gryffindor jumper, before she stuffs her wand under her pillow and makes her way downstairs to the common room, where Ron and Hermione sit quietly.

"Hi."

They turn around, and offer her fragile, gentle smiles.

"You alright?"

Her shoulders droop. "Not really. Me and Harry are going for some breakfast, are you coming?"

"Sure," Hermione says softly, and takes a few steps forwards, taking Thea's arm and squeezing it. "Did something happen, T?"

"Yeah, um..."

"It's OK if you don't want to –"

"Jude's dead."

The two stare at her, and Hermione lets out a small whimper.

"I'm really sorry."

"Me too."

It's not long before Harry joins them, and in silence, the four make their way down to the Great Hall, that is tidier than the previous day, but nowhere near what they're used to. She heaves out a sigh, glad only for the company around her.

It doesn't take long before Thea's father is seated next to them, and he offers her a tentative smile.

"Is that strawberry or raspberry jam?"

"Thea is crazy and thinks raspberry jam is nicer than strawberry," Ron says, rolling his eyes.

Thea narrows her eyes. "I'm not crazy, I'm right."

Desmond Cindercroft laughs. "I see."

There's a moment's pause, before two figures, hand-in-hand, come into view. Thea smiles brilliantly up at Dean and Seamus as they take a seat on the bench, beside her and opposite her father.

"Alright, Tiger?" Dean says softly.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" she replies, and Dean nods.

"Yeah. We did it," he mutters.

The group are quiet for a moment, but it is a nice quiet. It is neither hot, nor cold, but warm, in the way that freshly-baked cookies, the Gryffindor common room and tea is; comforting and home.

Thea likes it a lot.

Thea feels, for the first time in her life, a kind of peace, one that settles in her bones and calms her heart.

And a light, small and gentle, is visible. Maybe light does exist, she thinks. And this time, she is almost certain it will not go away.