It's strange what war will do to you. Twist you, turn you, flip you over and inside out till you can't tell what was from what is or what might be. Till it doesn't even matter anymore. One breath in, one breath out. You don't even move forward, you don't even move. Just one breath in, one breath out.

It hurts to care, so you stop. You don't notice the empty seats anymore. You don't question the tears or the screams. One breath in, one breath out. Repeat.

You don't even hear your own screams now, in the night or the day or whenever your eyes close and what's left of your soul leaks out from its shell. One breath in. You close your eyes and pray for something, you don't even have the will to put words to it anymore – just a silent prayer. If God really is so great he'll catch your meaning even when you don't know what it is anymore. One breath out.

You never breathe out when you pray. You only breathe in. It's silly. You want to take Grace in, never let it out. You can't afford to waste anything anymore. Parchment is too dear for letters now, the Order needs it. No more knitting for the house-elves. You're knitting your own socks these days. You know your fingers ache because they are white and blue with cold. You see them, but you do not feel them. One breath in, one breath out.

War has turned you cold in more than your fingers. You know what you should feel when they cart in another body, another face you recognize. Another hand you once held. Children, all of them. You were once a child, you remember. Picnics and hide n' seek. You remember. You remember you should cry at funerals, you should laugh at weddings, you should smile at births. You cry at births. You cry and scream and tear your hair at weddings. You laugh at funerals. Death is silence and warmth and you do not fear it. You fear life. Life going on, one breath after another. Forcing you, pushing you to feel, to care.

This is your war. The others fight because of ideals or morals or other pointless stupidity. You fight because if you don't you die. You fight because at least if you do die it will not be cowering in a corner. You fight because the only other option is too easy. You fight because this is your war and you were born into it.

They don't understand. Not the Weasleys. This is yours, you own it because it is your blood they die to protect. It is your blood they rally around. It is your life they pay for with theirs. Harry thinks it is all on his shoulders, the fate of the world. Harry did not start the war. Your kind did. Your kind did by taking one single breath.

The irony is, the only one that understands is the one whose mark floats in the night sky to tell you. You will be laughing soon – again.