So it's wrong and they know it but don't care anymore. They have been undone and resewn, and their new cotton stuffing still has burrs left in it. Parvati and Padma and Harry. The war recreated them, and wrong is just a word.

[The moonshine grows as what little Remus there is dilutes like iced tea left in the sun.] We are hollow men, and all that's left of him is the wolf and the moonshine. Requestfic for hpfan23.

[go on stick the knife up her mudblood cunt you blood traitor.] Ginny, on the madness of Tom. She would know, wouldn't she? Dark and strange. For Naruka, who asked for a Tomcentered fic. Best I could do, love.

[Harry doesn’t realize reality until he sees a redhead falling to the mud with a soundless cry, until the girl isn’t standing beside Harry anymore because her throat is sliced open and a splatter of her blood is all over his face.] Three different paths.

[The man’s hoarse, ruined voice says, “I’m tired of life.”] Hermione only wishes that her perfect memory had failed her, that her brain had repressed the memories. She's too tired to hate.

[You fly and you fall, but sometimes you fall and don't get back up again, and sometimes you don't even want to. The clouds mock you, and you were once sucked into a black hole...] HPLM

Harry tells a few postwar truths. [I've spilled so much blood that I'm surprised I don't still smell like it, and sometimes I see splashes of crimson on my clothes, and it's. Not. Fair. I'm eighteen going on Vietnam veteran...]