Why?

Three simple letters. Three of twenty-six. Three that can ask either why it happened or why something couldn't have prevented it.

Why?

I have heard that question many times in the past three weeks. I have asked it many times myself. There is no easy answer, but then, I guess there never really are, are there?

Why did this happen?

Why couldn't I stop it?

Why didn't someone help?

Why do bad things have to happen to people I love?

Why do I ask questions to which I already know the answers?

I sit here now, holding the hand of a broken man. Yes, I can call him a man now. I don't find it awkward, because that is what he is, a man. He is no longer the child he was when I first met him. We were both children back then. Now he is seventeen, and my own seventeenth birthday is fast approaching. But it won't be the same. Not without him.

He is sleeping right now. Peacefully, one might think. A natural, comfortable, peaceful sleep. But that is as far from the truth as it gets.

This is an induced sleep. That has been the only thing that can be relied upon to stay the same these days and it has been just that – the same – for the past three weeks. If it hadn't been for the steaming purple liquid, I wouldn't be able to sit here, holding his hand in my own. I would never be able to touch him. That hurts.

He is only awake for a few hours each day now. During that time, when he is not lashing out at anyone who tries to come into physical contact with him, he is being forced to drink goblet upon goblet of antidotes and potions.

Life wasn't always like this though. Oh no, and it wasn't really that long ago either. But with every day that passes, it is getting harder and harder to remember those good times.

I'm beginning to miss all the little things, the touches, the easy conversations, the love. We had been dating for almost two years and, though we were never overly serious, we joked about what would happen after we'd finished school, the possibility of marriage. We joked, but I think we both were a tad serious. I couldn't (and still can't) imagine my life without him. I think he felt the same.

Our romance had been shaky when new. But once it found sturdy foundation and firmly rooted itself in the scarlet furnished tower, it flourished with passion and maturity surpassing all that was expected from the two of us. It had always been in the common room where we had spent the majority of our leisure time. Curled in front of the fire we would sit, wrapped in each other's embrace, watching.

We watched the love life of the muggle born Hermione Granger, and practically pure blood Ronald Weasley, take its first wobbly steps, then extend its stride into a swift and passionate lope. We also watched the famed Harry Potter flirt with death, and dance around the equally infamous Lord Voldemort.

When we were on the first leg of our long-term relationship, the two of us, together, had attended the meeting of the DA, or "Dumbledor's Army". We both excelled in the Defense Against the Dark Arts, but were left behind when Harry and a few others had faced the Dark Lord at the Department of Mysteries last summer. When we discovered the terrors and trials the others had faced, we were relieved to have been waiting at Hogwarts.

This year, our sixth year seemed too laid back, and happy to be true. Ever since starting at Hogwarts, something monumental and worthy of a history book of its own happened.

Many of the students, myself included, had been tense during the start of the first term, but relaxed, and enjoyed the peace. The Quidditch season began, and unlike the past five, we both tried our hand at the sport.

Most of the team had left Hogwarts, leaving half of the positions open. The competition was harsh, but I managed to take over Katie Bell's Chaser position. Ron stepped gracefully down from his Keeper position, and assumed the role of chaser, taking after Angelina Johnson. Much to his surprise, and both our delight, Seamus took over Ron's spot as Keeper.

The two of us flew together. I watched him soar around the hoops, defending them from the quaffles we threw at him during practices. I think he let me get a few in on purpose, but he almost always made the saves.

During the second seasonal game, my heart dropped to the pitch floor, and shattered into a million and one pieces as I watched a stray bludger fly towards then strike Seamus's foot, snapping his ankle on the spot. I would have gone to him right then, were it not for the brave and determined expression he put on his face when he turned to me and smiled. I could see the pain in his eyes, but seconds after, he dove and made a superb save. Renewed with vigor, I scored many, ruthless goals.

We won. I could barely think of celebrating. Instead of landing in a heap with the other chasers, I dove straight for Seamus. My eyes were blurry, and I almost ploughed him over with a hug. Madam Pomfrey fixed his foot in a hurry, but still ordered him to spend a night in the hospital wing. What I wouldn't give for this to be as minor as things were then.

Speaking of Madam Pomfrey, I hear her coming down the stairs from her office right now.

"Why are you still here dear?" She asks softly, a tone not often heard by students. She has grown accustom to me being here at all hours, whenever I am not in class or at Quidditch practice, I am always here.

"I just wanted him to know I'm here," I reply. Madam Pomfrey nods, knowingly, but when she turns her back I hear her muttering about how I might as well talk, (for I so often do) to the small table beside his bed, laden with cards, sweets and flowers, for all the good it will do.

I know this of course and smile as though I had heard nothing as she hands me a tube of lotion. After checking on Seamus, she puts up partitions to give us some privacy.

I have been through this routine before. I want to be as involved in Seamus's recovery as I possibly can. I have been told by many of the healers that have come in that I shouldn't get my hopes up, and that he may never come back to me mentally, but I have to defy them. A wise person had told me that sometimes, in times like these, our hope is the only thing we have to hold on to. I believed her, because she is the only one who understands what I am going through. She is after all Seamus's mother.

I roll up my sleeves; push back the bedclothes at the foot of the bed and after gingerly lifting his feet I sit on the bed, laying them on my lap. I read the lotion tube, for the millionth time. 'Apply this soothing lotion, two to three times daily for relief of scorches scars and burns.'

Squeezing out a small amount of the lotion into the palm of my left hand, I scoop up some of the white slippery film with my right middle finger and rub all my fingers together, smearing the chamomile scented stuff all over them. Now I begin to massage the lotion into the bottom of his feet. Starting at the heel, I work small counter-clockwise circles, I will slowly work my way over his arch, then make my way to the ball of his foot, eventually ending with his toes. After all that , I will switch to his other foot. But for now, I focus on his heel.

Most of the burns have healed. I am told that the scarring will be permanent. But there were spots that needed closer attention, and the healers believed the reason for his outbursts was because of physical pain. They are very smart people, and they help a lot, but I haven't the heart to tell them that the pain would only be half of it. But then, like I said, they are smart. Maybe they are just trying not to mention that other side of things.

I shudder, taking up more of the film, what kind of sick person could do this. Then I remember, they were not just people, they were the servants of the Dark Lord, Death Eaters, one or a group, they haven't told me. All they will tell me is to be strong. What do they think I am? Of course I will be strong, the last thing I need right now is pity.

Hearing shouts of laughter floating in with the suns fading rays through the open window beside Seamus's bed, I remember back to the day it happened.