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bookishable · 5 years

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order of the phoenix book moments

“listening to the news! again?” “well, it changes every day, you see”

vernon: we’re not stupid harry: WeLL tHaT’s nEwS tO mE

“did he say you look like a pig that’s been taught to walk on its hind legs? ’cause that’s not cheek, dud, that’s true.”

“not this brave at night, are you?” “this is night, diddykins. that’s what we call it when it goes all dark like this.”

“what d’you mean, i’m not brave when i’m in bed? what am i supposed to be frightened of, pillows or something?”

“fought ’em off, did you, son? gave ’em the old one-two?” “you can’t give a dementor the old one-two”

tonks sending the dursleys a letter telling them they’d been short listed for the (non-existent) all-england best kept suburban lawn competition to keep them out the house so they could rescue harry

“snape’s on our side now” “doesn’t stop him being a git”

“dumbledore says he doesn’t care what they do as long as they don’t take him off the chocolate frog cards”

“kreacher lives to serve the noble house of black—” “and it’s getting blacker every day, it’s filthy”

arthur and kingsley’s fake chat at the ministry

“if you can get away before seven, molly’s making meatballs.”

‘a powerful emotion had risen in harry’s chest at the sight of dumbledore, a fortified, hopeful feeling rather like that which phoenix song gave him.’

“you got our message that the time and place of the hearing had been changed?” “i must have missed it, however, due to a lucky mistake i arrived at the ministry three hours early”

“a prefect! that’s everyone in the family!” “what are fred and i, next-door neighbours?”

harry’s personal growth moment where he realises he is happy for ron being made prefect and beating him at something for the first time, and that harry isn’t any better than him

luna: you’re harry potter harry: i know i am

neville saying “i’m nobody” and ginny being like “no you’re not” ugh we stan this friendship

the quibbler’s article on whether sirius is a notorious mass murderer or innocent singing sensation

“i, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that i, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.” “yeah, but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone.”

‘luna did not seem perturbed by ron’s rudeness; on the contrary, she simply watched him for a while as though he were a mildly interesting television programme.’

“i told her to keep her big fat mouth shut about you, actually. and it would be quite nice if you stopped jumping down our throats, harry, because in case you haven’t noticed, ron and i are on your side.”

“i dreamed i was playing quidditch the other night, what do you reckon that means?” “probably that you’re going to be eaten by a giant marshmallow or something”

“have a biscuit, potter.”

hermione knitting hats for the house-elves

“they didn’t look anything like hats to me, more like woolly bladders.” hermione did not speak to him all morning.

harry and ron meeting each other in the hallway, both trying to hide something but failing, harry being excited that ron wants to join the quidditch team, and ron noticing harry’s injury and being horrified we love this friendship

“ron had been honest with him, so he told ron the truth”

harry’s excellent attempt at writing a letter to sirius without obscurely revealing anything in case it got intercepted

“if you want to ‘sever ties’ with me, i swear i won’t get violent.”

“yeah, quirrell was a great teacher, there was just that minor drawback of him having lord voldemort sticking out of the back of his head.”

“i was just wondering, professor, whether you received my note telling you of the date and time of your inspec—” “obviously i received it, or i would have asked you what you are doing in my classroom” minerva strikes again

luna: the ministry’s got an army of heliopaths neville: an army of what luna: great flaming creatures that gallop across the ground burning everyth— hermione: they don’t exist, neville luna: oh yes they do

harry pretending to be ill so he could skip history of magic and find someone to help hedwig

“i can’t see any boils” “no, well, you wouldn’t, they’re not in a place we generally display to the public.” “but they make sitting on a broom a right pain in the—”

“the DA’s good, only let’s make it stand for dumbledore’s army, because that’s the ministry’s worst fear, isn’t it?”

hermione making the fake galleons and everyone being like what because it’s NEWT level magic

‘even fred had said that ron might yet make him and george proud, and that they were seriously considering admitting he was related to them, something they assured him they had been trying to deny for four years.’

“hey, potty, i heard warrington’s sworn to knock you off your broom on saturday” “warrington’s aim’s so pathetic i’d be more worried if he was aiming for the person next to me” god i love harry in this book

luna’s lion hat: “i wanted to have it chewing up a serpent to represent slytherin, you know, but there wasn’t time.”

dobby decorating the room of requirement with baubles of harry’s face saying ‘have a very harry christmas’

“ron, you are the most insensitive wart i have ever had the misfortune to meet.” it’s not true but it’s funny lmao

harry: next minute she’s crying all over me and i didn’t know what to do ron: don’t blame you, mate

‘that’s what they should teach us here, how girls’ brains work… it’d be more useful than divination, anyway…’

“i didn’t want anyone to talk to me” “well, that was a bit stupid of you, seeing as you don’t know anyone but me who’s been possessed by you-know-who, and i can tell you how it feels.” “i forgot” “lucky you”

sirius singing ‘god rest ye, merry hippogriffs’

arthur using stitches on his snake bites and molly exploding “it sounds as though you’ve been trying to sew your skin back together… WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT’S THE GENERAL IDEA?”

harry trying to distract the others when he realises neville’s parents are in the same ward that they are in, so neville can leave unnoticed

harry being oblivious to the fact cho wants to go to hogsmeade with him for valentine’s day

“if we can’t trust dumbledore, we can’t trust anyone.”

harry being oblivious (the sequel) and telling cho he was meeting hermione after their date, bless my son he’s trying his best

“why does she always want to drag up a subject that makes her act like a human hosepipe?”

‘hermione was sitting at a table with the unlikeliest pair of drinking mates he could ever have imagined: luna lovegood and none other than rita skeeter, one of hermione’s least favourite people in the world.’

“cho? a girl?” “it’s none of your business if harry’s been with a hundred girls” this is my favourite version of hermione

“it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think i am, too,” hermione added as an afterthought. “but i don’t think you’re ugly”

“she’s been breaking into your broom shed in the garden since the age of six and taking each of your brooms out in turn when you weren’t looking”

“if zacharias smith beats us i might have to kill myself.” “kill him, more like”

“hermione, you’re good on feelings and stuff, but you just don’t understand about quidditch.” “maybe not, but at least my happiness doesn’t depend on ron’s goalkeeping ability.”

‘out of respect for his feelings, harry waited a while before going up to the dormitory himself, so that ron could pretend to be asleep if he wanted to.’

dumbledore choosing firenze to teach divination knowing full well umbridge hated half-breeds

kingsley, dumbledore and mcgonagall’s genius way of saving the situation in dumbledore’s office after the DA meetings had been uncovered

“well, usually when a person shakes their head, they mean ‘no’. so unless miss edgecombe is using a form of sign-language as yet unknown to humans—”

“i have absolutely no intention of being sent to azkaban. i could break out, of course—but what a waste of time, and frankly, i can think of a whole host of things i would rather be doing.”

all the teachers pretending they couldn’t get rid of the fireworks to make umbridge run around the entire school to do so

“i could have got rid of the sparklers myself, of course, but i wasn’t sure whether or not i had the authority.”

“give five signs that identify the werewolf. one: he’s sitting in my chair. two: he’s wearing my clothes. three: his name’s remus lupin.”

“the thing about growing up with fred and george, is that you sort of start thinking anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.”

“you’d need more than a good sense of fun to liaise with my uncle, good sense of when to duck, more like.”

“are you quite sure you wouldn’t like a cough drop, dolores?”

“he has achieved high marks in all defence against the dark arts tests set by a competent teacher.”

“this boy has as much chance of becoming an auror as dumbledore has of ever returning to this school.” “a very good chance, then”

“she hated him!” “nah, she didn’t”

“your father was the best friend i ever had and he was a good person. a lot of people are idiots at the age of fifteen. he grew out of it.”

“give her hell from us, peeves.”

the catchphrase “one more lesson like that and i might just do a weasley” being a trend

‘umbridge-itis’

harry witnessed professor mcgonagall walking right past peeves, who was determinedly loosening a crystal chandelier, and could have sworn he heard her tell the poltergeist out of the corner of her mouth, “it unscrews the other way.”

WEASLEY IS OUR KING

the fifth and seventh years starting a black-market trade selling ‘brain stimulants’ for the exams

“i don’t care if my tea-leaves spell die, ron die—i’m just chucking them in the bin where they belong.”

‘even through his anger and impatience, harry recognised hermione’s offer to accompany him into umbridge’s office as a sign of solidarity and loyalty.’

ginny’s notorious bat bogey hex

“we were all in the DA together, it was all supposed to be about fighting you-know-who, wasn’t it? and this is the first chance we’ve had to do something real—or was that all just a game or something?”

“you do care, you care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.”

“by all means continue destroying my possessions, i daresay i have too many.”

“in the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind. it was your heart that saved you.”

‘sirius seemed a million miles away already; even now a part of harry still believed that if he had only pulled back that veil, he would have found sirius looking back at him, greeting him, perhaps, with his laugh like a bark…’

flitwick leaving a patch of the swamp as a monument to fred and george, and because it was “a really good bit of magic”

“you’re dead, potter.” “funny, you’d think i’d have stopped walking around…”

mgonagall arriving back at hogwarts just as snape tries to take points from gryffindor like ‘no bitch, they can have 500 points instead for fighting death eaters’

‘professor mcgonagall was clearly heard to express a regret that she could not run cheering after umbridge herself, because peeves had borrowed her walking stick.’

“i expect what you’re not aware of would fill several books, dursley”

“are you threatening me, sir?” “yes, i am,” said mad-eye, who seemed rather pleased that uncle vernon had grasped this fact so quickly.

“do i look like the kind of man who can be intimidated?” “yes, i’d have to say you do” moody just ended this book with three straight burns

#hp book moments #order of the phoenix #harry potter books #harry potter quotes #hp textpost

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does-not-glitter · 3 years

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Of Monsters and Men

12 September 1942

Another funeral today. Another nightmare to pile onto these youngling's shoulders. Death shouldn't bother me, not anymore, but seeing these kids barely outta childhood, fall dead again and again is too much even for me.

I’ve experienced my fair share of funerals. Grandparents when I was a teen, still alive with a beating heart and warm cheeks. Parents, they died early on as well. Too early to realise their youngest son had become a monster. Father fought in the Civil War, North. Good man. Mother died of pneumonia along with my eldest sister. Then, one by one, all my siblings and the few friends I had. Decade by decade, they died off. Leaving me.

These deaths are different. Harder to bear. Dying young is a tragedy nobody can explain. Nobody should explain.

I never fought in the first war - the Great one. Never saw the death and suffering that caused. I couldn’t cope with humanity and life after everyone around me started growing old. I moved to the most reclusive part of South America until the news of the end of the War reached me. The war to end all wars, they called it. Much good that did them.

I moved to London, hoping to reconcile with my dying youngest sister, Margaret. The moment she saw me, she screamed bloody murder and called me the Devil. I can’t say I didn’t expect that.

Still, I decided to stay in the city. I hoped for a new start. And I got one. People were rebuilding, celebrating, living life. I fed off of that youthful enthusiasm. It made me feel young again. The happiness, as all things in my life, didn’t last long.

I tried to enlist immediately. I’m already dead, so I might as well help out in some way, do what I didn’t the first time. I couldn’t provide any documentation of my citizenship, nor my general existence. To the world, I was a man who died in 19th century America. My accent didn’t help. I was sent out the door, threatened with the police.

Once the war took its first swing, they stopped caring. They gave the job to any willing man.

The men who fight alongside me, all look older than I do. They look at me with pity, like I’m some child, who signed a death warrant. Little do they know it’s the other way around. These kids, whose lives have just begun, 20-year-olds, who’ve barely fallen in love, will die in battle, while I, an old man, who’s lived through too much already will, most likely, survive.

Today we stood around a grave filled with the bodies of twenty men, destroyed by bullets and grenades. We cried and told stories and buried them in the earth, before going back to eat and pray that we live to see another day, pray we don’t end up like them. I didn’t. I don’t pray. Not anymore. The cross I used to wear around my neck would burn me now.

“Eat up, boy,” someone sitting beside me says. I don’t recognise him, until one of his buddies sitting nearby calls him “David.”

He eyes my food with wild hunger. I look down at my bowl full of watery soup, a piece of bread soaking inside. I don’t need to eat, at least not that, but I keep up the pretense. It’s a waste of resources, but it’s either that or admitting I’m a monster and being thrown off the army in the best case scenario. Worst case, with a stake in my heart.

“I’m not hungry. Can’t eat,” I say offhandedly. It’s a good-enough excuse for those who know what it’s like to see someone die, “Eat my portion.”

I hand him the bowl and, without a question, he downs the soup like a beast.

I stand, leaving David before he can make conversation, and walk toward the fire. I can see a few familiar faces, lit up orange by the flames. Paul, Philip, Oliver. Before I can reach the circle around the pit, a hand grabs me and pulls me into the darkness. My eyes adjust. Andrew. Clean shaven with hair slicked back, he dons a smile on his face. Always the optimist.

“Come on, I wanna show you somethin’,” he says, pulling me after him.

The moon illuminates his face, casting a shadow below his sharp cheekbones and pointed nose. His hair is grown out, ready for a haircut, though I like it when it’s this length. It makes him look mature. Elegant.

When I first arrived, his was the first face I saw. He was beautiful. Immediately I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. I couldn’t die, but my feelings could kill me.

He pulls me further and further away from camp, towards a creek where the moonlight reflects in the water, and trees and bushes create a nook, a quiet hiding spot, away from the entire world.

“Is this where you’ve been hiding these past few days?” I ask when we reach the water.

He nods, then bends down and beckons me to do the same. I do.

“Look,” he says, pointing to the family of frogs resting on the shore. Their slick skin glows silver. “They’ve found a home here. The kids came out of the water just yesterday.” His gaze is fixed on the frogs in a childlike fascination.

I’m not looking at the frogs. My eyes are on him, his face, his expression. His eyebrows are knitted and his eyes are glowing. There’s so much life in them. Life was cruel when it put you into this world at this time, Andrew.

“Look! The kids are trying to catch bugs!” He grabs my hand to catch my attention.

I tense up.

He glances at me and I smile, though I don’t care about frogs. I smile and squeeze his hand to show I appreciate it all.

“They’re cute,” I say and his face lights up.

We lie down on the hard ground and I’m sure Andrew’s cold. He doesn’t seem to care. He’s looking up at the stars, millions of them flashing down at us like small explosions far, far away.

He takes hold of my hand and points up, explaining the names of the different constellations. I can’t keep up, my focus drifts away, but his voice is soft and sure and happy. That’s all that matters.

“You’re cold,” he says abruptly, interrupting his monologue. There’s a sudden hint of concern in his voice.

“I’m not,” I sit up, pulling my hand free off his.

So does he.

“Your hands are freezing.” He frowns and touches my cheek.

His hand is scorching. And his pulse is fast, faster than normal.

“You’re so cold. Are you alright?” he asks.

I nod, putting a hand over his, the one resting on my cheek.

“With you, I’m always warm,” I say, before I can realise how stupid and flirtatious that sounds.

“You’re absolutely freezing,” he says, looking into my eyes, ignoring my remark. “Are you sure you’re not ill?”

“I’m sure,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t sound too strained. Lying, even if not direct, is hard when it comes to Andrew. “I’ve always been cold. Most of my life. It’s nothing serious.”

Except it is. I cannot die, I have to drink human blood to survive, I cannot enter a church or touch a cross or age. I’m older than anyone on this planet, yet I look like a boy. I’m a monster. A goddamn vampire. But that doesn’t matter here and now. None of that matters around Andrew.

17 September 1942

I told him.

I couldn’t keep up the pretense. The lying made me feel guilty. It weighed on my conscience so much that I could not sleep. I lay awake, staring into the darkness, my mind at work. Too busy.

After the morning routine exercises I asked him if we could talk. He was clearly confused at my seriousness, maybe even my nervous ticks. We headed to the creek. I was quiet for a while-- it felt like hours-- as I gathered my courage. I feared I might not be able to say it, but I ripped off the bandaid. It felt as if a bomb exploded in my chest.

Andrew was silent as thoughts rushed through my mind: panic and heartbreak combined. He scrunched up his face, then just said: ‘That makes sense.’

It wasn’t what I expected, but anything is better than being called the Devil or an abomination. Still, I was shocked. I asked him if he understood what I meant, how he could be okay with all this. He said it wasn’t a big deal. He told me there’s nothing unholy about me, just like there’s nothing unholy about us.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Everyone is shivering in the biting cold of late English autumn. Except for me. So I pretend.

The bullets haven’t started firing yet. We’re eating our last scraps of food. I give mine to Andrew. He takes them without a word and squeezes my hand.

“So, Jim, when we get out of here, what’re you gonna do?” Paul, my best mate, asks.

“I dunno.” I shrug. “Maybe I’ll settle down, finally live a peaceful life. Or I’ll travel the world. See what else is out there, y’know. You?”

“I’m gonna open a bakery.” He smiles, his mind travelling to the distant future. “I’ll wake up at the crack of dawn and make breads and scones and all sorts of stuff and the children walking to school will stop by the window and stare at the decorated cakes. They’ll pop in for a warm muffin ‘n then off to learn-”

“You’re empty stomach’s talkin’ again, Paul,” Phillip, sitting at Paul’s side, his hat over his eyes, grunts.

“Shut up, Pip. My dreams are my dreams.”

“And they may be, just not here, not right now, mate,” Phillip says.

Paul sighs, his mind having wandered back from the trip to a brighter world.

The bullets start flying. Commands from commanding officers echo through the trenches. The image of the future disappears along with any semblance of peace.

27 November 1942

There are thirteen wounded and one dead.

Not Andrew or Paul or Pip. Only Oliver’s a bit beaten up. But that tough guy’ll be alright.

Nobody talked on the way back. We were too tired and broken. Andrew was awfully quiet when we got back too. Any last shred of positivity or joy he tried to cling onto seemed to have disappeared. I found him sitting by the creek, looking out at the dark waters. The frogs were gone and the air smelt of death. We sat, side by side for a long time, until Andrew left to go to sleep.

I sat in the quiet for a bit, trying to collect my thoughts, but they seemed to have drifted away like leaves in the wind. Paul was still up when I returned. He made conversation and we stayed up, chatting, until his eyes gave out and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep. The war has invaded every aspect of our lives now.

3 December 1942

Paul asked me about my family today. I must admit, I was surprised. He’s never touched the subject before. I guess the snowcover and the incoming Christmas atmosphere brings up thoughts of loved ones.

I tried to dodge the question, but when he insisted I told him I was an orphan. A believable lie, fitting the fact that I never write letters home like the others do. He looked guilty and wanted to say something, but I changed the subject, asking him about his own family.

He told me about his sisters, anecdotes of their growing up, his strict parents and the way he tried to make his sisters laugh after his father had tried to scold them. His voice was soaked in love. How one could hold so much affection for their family is beyond me.

But if I could still pray, I would pray for his family. And for him. That he returns home to them. That he celebrates the holidays with them once again.

24 December 1942

The fighting has ceased as the semblance of a festive atmosphere fills the air. Everyone is more joyful than they should be. It’s been so long since I’ve experienced a Christmas Eve, that I’d forgotten the infectious cheerfulness. Maybe my family was never that cheerful.

We collected the dead from battlefields and gathered round to celebrate. The men sang carols. I recognised some of them, their lyrics changed but the melodies the same. I tried to sing along, but it felt like swallowing glass. Vampire perk.

Andrew and I met by the creek. He showed me a piece of a mistletoe he had taken. It was such a silly gesture, but he insisted, laughing like a child. We kissed under the mistletoe and it was then that I understood the fondness everyone holds for the holiday. Even a war as terrible as we’ve experienced could not stop the boys from spreading the joy, from a moment of peacefulness.

Bullets are winging its way past me, bombs are going off, dirt is flying, and there’s only one goal in my mind, the animalistic instinct: kill.

I’m not distracted by Paul or Andrew. Half of us stayed at base. Something about this battle being too dangerous to send the whole crew. They were right. Men are falling like trees in a hurricane; one’s blown apart by a bomb, another falls with twenty bullet holes in his chest.

The smell of blood is overwhelming, which only strengthens the monstrous side of me.

Bullets rip apart my uniform, lodging into my body, but you can’t kill what’s already dead.

The gun is digging into my shoulder, painful and heavy. A human being would have collapsed already, from both the blood loss and the searing pain. More proof that whatever I am is not human.

Paul made me promise that I come back no matter the cost. Before I left, he took me aside and cried and said goodbye. I wanted to tell him not to worry, that I cannot die by the bullets or the grenades. The moment wasn’t right. I accepted his tears, comforted him.

Andrew never said goodbye. He didn’t have to. A goodbye means ‘I’ll probably never see you again,’ but he knows better than that.

I trip over a mound. Glancing back, I spot a face I recognise on the ground.

Phillip.

My breath hitches. I fall to my knees.

Pip’s face is caked with mud and sweat and blood. His eyes are fixed on the sky and empty, lacking any hint of life. The spark is gone.

“Philip-” I try to squeeze out the words, but they catch in my throat.

I try to shake him awake, but my efforts are fruitless.

He doesn’t stir awake. He doesn’t grumble for me to stop with the cries.

He’s dead.

Gone.

I’m dead, but I’m here. How’s that fair? I’m a monster, while he had a soul of gold.

When I tear my eyes away from Phillip-- Phillip’s body-- my ears pick up an eerie silence. Pure nothingness. There’s no more bullets, no more screams, no more explosions. As if the world has stopped, not even a rustle of leaves in the distance. I stand in a battlefield strewn with the bodies of soldiers, some still dying, writhing like worms, beyond help.

I pick up Pip’s body and head back to base.

Andrew’s first to see me. His face lights up until his eyes shift to what’s in my arms. His face drops, the light dimming, his eyes filling with tears. He shouts for the rest and helps me lay Phillip on the ground.

The soldiers crowd around, some-- probably Pip’s closest friends-- collapsing beside him. Others, to see who returned.

One of the commanding officers comes up, grave-faced. He barely glances at Phillip.

“Where’s the rest of my men?” he asks.

“All killed, sir,” I say, trying to keep my voice from breaking, “I don’t know how I escaped alive.”

He eyes me, trying to spot the cowardice, the man who ran from battle, but my clothes are torn and I look like hell. Feel like that too.

“Go get yourself cleaned and patched up,” he snaps.

“Yes, sir.”

Andrew patches me up. I don’t need it. I’ve already healed, but if the army sees I came back without a scratch, I’ll be labelled a coward.

We don’t talk the entire time. I think he understands.

When it gets dark, we sneak off to the creek and he kisses me like the world is going to end. Because it might. Because it already has.

17 January 1943

How can I forgive myself for what I cannot control?

All these men died in that battle and I had to luck out.

I should be glad to live another day, to see Paul and Andrew and Oliver. I’m not. Most still believe I’m a coward. They think I ran away from battle. Paul’s starting to believe it too. It’s better to die a hero than be the only one to survive the war.

The nightmares are getting worse and now I fear falling asleep. You would have thought I wouldn’t need sleep. I do. Not as much as normal people, but I sleep like them. I dream too.

I wish for the sweet release the Reaper brings. Though if I could die, I would burn in the pits of Hell. Maybe I am already dead and this is my punishment.

24 February 1943

I told Paul my secret. Not mine and Andrew’s. My own.

He’s been wary of me ever since I returned from battle as the sole survivor. He deserved the truth, so I gave it to him.

He didn’t believe me at first, laughed, thought I was making excuses. Until I showed him the lack of scars and the lack of a beating heart and the fangs. I brought a cross and showed his how it burns me.

He became silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. I could tell his mind was hard at work. When he spoke again, it was to ask me why I hadn’t told him earlier. His voice was laced with underlying anger. He told me I could have spared him days of worry and pacing and prayers sent my way. He left in a storm of outrage and confusion before I could say anything.

28 February 1943

Paul has been avoiding me for days now. He’s kept to himself.

Andrew noticed the tension, but I asked him not to intervene.

Even among the friction, Paul accepted my portion of food this morning. He glanced at me, eyes shining with fondness for just a moment, but he did not say a word.

Nevertheless, Paul’s anger being directed at my keeping secrets rather than my evil nature is easier to handle.

21 March 1943

Tensions are high.

Tomorrow we head into one of the largest battles yet.

Nobody wanted to acknowledge what we were all thinking as we gathered in groups, spending what might be our last moments together.

The thought of losing everyone I care about, the mere idea, terrifies me. I expect today to be another sleepless night.

They weren’t kidding when they warned us it was the biggest fight yet.

My instincts have kicked in and there’s only me and the target. I drown out the sound around me until it blends into static, white noise.

The sound of Paul’s voice jolts me out of my fixation, my head whipping to where I heard the voice, just as a bomb explodes nearby. It flings me sideways.

I end up on the ground, pain of the impact radiating through my bones. Shrapnel digs into my skin. Pulling myself back up, I notice Paul just next to me. He’s on the ground, clutching his chest. His breaths are fast and heavy.

“Paul,” I cry, kneeling at his side.

“Jimmy.” He sees me and tries to smile. A grimace forms instead. “You should be fighting. Go!”

“Let me help you,” I say, trying not to sound too desperate, “You’re hurt.”

“I’m beyond help now,” he says, lifting his hands to reveal pooling blood.

My vampire senses kick in, but I push them down.

“Paul-”

“No, Jim, listen,” he interrupts me, taking hold of my hand, “I’m so sorry for getting angry when you told me your secret. I should have understood. It was horrible of me to think your reason for not telling me was spiteful.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, his voice fainter by the minute, “I need you to know I accept and love you, vampire or not. You’ve been the best friend-” He heaves, grimacing from pain, “-the best friend a man could ask for.”

“Paul-” I try to say something, anything, but my voice is weak.

“I wish we had more time.”

“We can!” I say, clutching his hand, “I can save you. Just let me turn you! You’ll be like me, you’ll live!”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I signed up for this. It’s an honour to die for my country, for the future of the world, for my sisters. For you.”

“But what about the bakery?” Tears are blurring my vision.

“That was just wishful thinking, Jimmy. Daydreams.”

“No-” I say, the world around me breaking apart, “How can this- How can you accept this?”

He just smiles.

“Jim,” he says, clutching my hand, “Live a good life when all this ends. For me.”

Tears fall down my cheeks and onto the ground.

“I’ll always be by your side. No matter what,” he says weakly, and closes his eyes, muttering, “You are the best man I know, Jim.”

His grip on my hand loosens.

I search for his heartbeat, but it’s gone. A melody cut short, mid-chord.

For a moment, the world ceases to exist. I’m flung into a black hole, non-existent, timeless. But Paul asked me to live for him. And Andrew’s somewhere out there as well. I guide my consciousness back to reality.

Standing up, I face the fight happening around me, a new kind of rage flowing through my veins.

3 April 1943

Tod- Today

8 May 1945

We won.

Everyone sits around the radio in anticipation of what we already expect. The agitation and nerves travel like static between a balloon and a cotton jumper.

The men cheer as Chruchill’s voice announces the “End of the War in Europe.” They hug and laugh and weep in relief. My reaction is more subdued, but I can’t help feeling cheerful as well. I feel as if a weight I never knew I was carrying had been taken off my shoulders. I grin when I see Andrew jumping with glee. He looks youthful again, the same Andrew I remember from when I first met him.

“We may allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing,” the voice on the radio proclaims, static disfiguring the words.

The men cheer again, ignoring the second part of that sentence, one that feels closer to home for me: “-let us not forget for a moment the toils and efforts that lie ahead.”

Victory might be in our hands, but the War will stay in our minds forever.

Maybe the others don’t mind that right now. All they care about is getting back to their families. That’s something I could never understand. All I have is an eternity of loneliness.

I’ve grown to appreciate the constant company. The war, though its terrible nature haunts me, gave me what I hadn’t had since I became a vampire. A family. Now, I will lose it all.

Everyone goes quiet again, as King George speaks. Then celebrations start up again, chatter filling the air like electricity. For a brief moment everyone forgets the horrors they’d had to experience.

The radio stays on, and I stay sitting alone, observing the crowd. A melancholy of sorts sets into my bones.

For a moment, I think I spot Paul among the men, before the crowd moves and his image disappears. I don’t see any of my friends. They all died, Oliver only a couple months ago, the last one to go. Andrew is the only one left, but it hurts to look at him. He can go back to his family now, to normalcy, and forget any of this ever happened. Forget me.

I feel a presence at my side.

It’s Andrew.

The world hates me today.

“You alright?” he asks, sitting at my side.

I nod, averting his piercing gaze.

“Why aren’t you celebrating then?” he asks, his eyebrows knitting together, “The war’s over! We can leave, go home, finally start our life!”

My head perks up at the final two worlds, confusion settling in my brain like dust. He couldn’t have meant it like that.

Andrew notices my puzzlement and shakes his head, laughing.

“Did you think I would stop caring about you as soon as the war ended?” he says.

If I were alive, my face would have turned as red as a tomato.

He just chuckles and takes my hand, intertwining our fingers.

This isn’t just the End. It’s the beginning of something. Something new. A new life, full of possibilities. And not alone anymore.

***

When you’re immortal, the longer you live, the faster your life passes. It’s pure mathematics. If you’ve lived a year, another year feels like a lifetime. Because from your perspective, it is. When you’ve lived hundreds, a year feels like the blink of an eye, a feather in the wind. Memories of the past fade away and you might as well have never lived those hundreds of years.

Seventy five years at Andrew’s side felt like a hundred lifetimes, albums full of never-fading photographs.

When society started to get back on track after the war, Andrew and I retired into a calm neighbourhood. We lived a life on the sidelines, far away from the prying eyes, though there still were rumour about us. That’s inevitable.

Andrew grew older, while I remained the same. His back gave out, his heart almost did too. His face became etched with wrinkles rather than freckles. I looked like an eighteen-year-old. Still, he stayed by my side.

Early on, I offered him eternity with me. He declined, saying that although he loved me, he couldn’t imagine living forever, the world moving on while he stayed, like a bug trapped in amber. It was never brought up again.

“D’you think they’ll recognise me?” I ask, for the tenth time today, as I drive Andrew and me to a memorial celebration.

For the seventy-fifth anniversary of Victory Day, the organisers have invited any living veterans to the celebration.

Only Andrew received a letter

It shouldn’t have hurt that much. I decided on the day I would fake my death, but it’s not like I had a choice.

“Memories get foggier with time, Jim, especially ones like that,” he says, “After so long the details fade. You’ll be a mere stranger to them.”

That doesn’t reassure me. But the thought of them having no clue who I am feels safer than being recognised.

We arrive at the memorial and I help Andrew out of the car. He’s still quite supple for his age. Even then, he leans on his cane with one hand and clutches my arm with the other as we walk. The crowd of media, professors, and government officials is already large as we find ourselves at the seats reserved for veterans.

There aren’t many of us left anymore. Old age caught up to everyone, especially in the recent years. I’ve lost count of the number of funerals.

Many of the veterans still alive have declined their invitations due to health concerns. There’s only a couple sitting in the seats. I don’t recognise any of them except the one closest to Andrew. David.

He spots us and smiles. His uniform is a bit loose around the shoulders, though neatly ironed. I try to hide my shock of seeing him again, the years visible in his every move.

“Andrew, right?” he says, moving closer to us. His voice is weaker than the hollers I remember from back in the day.

Andrew nods.

“Great to see you’re still in good shape, Dave,” he says.

“You too,” David says, then glances at me. A flash of recognition passes through his eyes and for a moment I imagine the impossible. My stomach churns as he opens his mouth.

“You’re Jim’s grandson, aren’t you?” he says.

Relief washes over me and I nod.

“You look so much like him,” he adds, smiling to himself as if remembering a memory, “It’s nice to see you taking care of your grandfather’s friend. You never married, did you, Andrew? No kids of your own to keep you company, eh?”

Andrew shakes his head, a hint of amusement in his faint smile.

“Excuse me,” a woman says, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I jolt at the touch.

She’s relatively young, with a lanyard around her neck, wearing an elegant blue suit. She must be an organiser of the memorial.

“The event is about to begin, could you please head to the guest area?” she asks, eyeing me, as if to figure me out.

I glance at Andrew, who gives me a sad smile. He squeezes my hand and I smile back.

Leaving the veteran area, I imagine a world where I’m sitting next to Andrew, wrinkled and old as well, reminiscing the few smiles of our past. Not “Jim’s grandon”, but Jim himself, embracing the horrors I experienced.

For a mere second I step into the world where Andrew and I live a couple more years, until our age catches up to us. In that world I get to see Paul and Oliver again. In that world, I can rest. In this world, I live on. I am forever an eighteen-year-old going to another funeral. Forever an echo of everyone I’ve lost.

#original fiction #writing #vampire #world war 2

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