The Diary (pottermort)

chapter seventeen

On the day Euphemia Moon saw a man apperate outside the family wards, she smoked her first cigarette.

Her father has always said that cigarettes were "Muggle monstrosities," and "it's not like all things Muggle are primitive, don't get me wrong, but those things... definitely are." Euphemia's mother did not disagree, but she still bought them.

"I'm teasing him, darling," Moon's mother explained one evening, holding a lit cigarette in her hand. "We did things like this all the time when we were in Hogwarts together. Oh, he's always been such a dear." She spoke fondly, the wrinkles around her eyes becoming prominent.

Euphemia thought that if she could get anyone to talk about her like her mother talked about her father, she'd be doing alright.

Euphemia's mom never smoked. "Those things are simply dreadful for your health, darling, simply dreadful," she'd explained. "I enjoy having a youthful beauty about me, dear. Plus, they taste repulsive, I'll have you know." And then she would laugh, and then she would light the cigarette and watch it burn out; "It's a stick of fire. Before I meant your father, I was an arsonist, my greatest bit of lore. The concept always does hold a place in my heart."

She would light it and hold her between her fingers while it burned; the sympathy of heat and ash combining until only the filter was left. She looked danger in the eyes and watched it fade.

Euphemia always thought she'd be like that-- like her mom, able to light the cigarette but refusing to use it. She grew up thinking that she would never be so foolish as to try something so damaging to her health.

Euphemia was wrong. She was wrong because when she denied smoking before she wasn't then sad. She was happy, close with her crush and childhood friend. She was fine.

(Was.)

Because she's not anymore. She stays up nights thinking about Gellert Grindelwald prying her for questions about her best friend and Riddle. She's so hesitant to say anything because Gellert's dangerous, oh Merlin he's going to kill them. He's going to kill Fleamont and if she says the wrong things it'll be all her fault, right? But she can't just say nothing-- she wants to live. She... she just wanted to live.

And Fleamont and Riddle were under protective wards just in time. They were fine. Euphemia was not. She stayed up thinking that they could've died, and it would've been all her fault. Guilt weighed on her like a ton of bricks and it crushed and consumed her. No one else acted like it was her fault, never accused her of fucking up, so she never even got a chance to say I'm sorry, you're right. I'm sorry.

Her second year of Hogwarts started, and the insomnia did not lessen. (Nor the guilt.) She kept avoiding Fleamont. It's not like she wanted to, don't get her wrong, but... she didn't like Riddle. She didn't like how they made her think of those ten minutes, couped up in that cupboard, unsure if she'd leave alive. She didn't like how they talked with each other, how Fleamont was supposed to be the person she one day spoke fondly about to their child.

He was supposed to be the Lord to her Lady. Now he's just... nothing. He's Tom's. And to Euphemia, he looks and is a stranger.

Euphemia grew up happy, grew up thinking that Fleamont would be her husband, and grew up thinking she could hold a stick of fire and let it be just that.

She doesn't believe that anymore. She steals a cigarette from her mother and thinks that whatever illusions for the future are shattered.

She sits down under the nighttime sky with a stick of fire in her hand. She watches the red burn away and turn to grey. Euphemia sticks the filter end in her mouth and inhales once, pauses, and then again. She coughs out the smoke and it burns her throat. It tastes almost mint on her tongue. It's not enjoyable. She takes another puff.

Euphemia looks up at the sky, which is too thick with pollution to have any stars shine through. She feels the uncomfortable humidity in the air, the wet grass under her. It's...

It's underwhelming. It doesn't make her any less sad, any less alone, any less traumatized. It's not worth it, not worth anything, and Euphemia thinks that smoking fucking sucks. But she doesn't stop. She continues until the cigarette burns her fingers and her lips are chapped. Her hair smells like smoke.

Why... she thinks, why doesn't she feel any different? She did it to feel something new-- something for the better or for worse. But it's still the same starless sky above her. Fleamont's not her friend, let alone boyfriend. She still can't sleep.

Euphemia presses the stub of the cigarette against the closest rock. She hears, some distance away, a pop. She doesn't know it yet, but it's the sound of Gellert Grindelwald breaching the wards. She has two and a half minutes left to live. One hundred and twenty seconds. Steps on the precipitated grass; the charming grin of a not so charming man. A soon to be fulfilled promise. "Avada Kedavra." But then... then nothing. (nothing at all.)

The worst part of that July evening is not that Euphemia Moon died. It's not that she died or died young. It's that she died unhappy. She died smelling of smoke and being neither better nor worse for it. She blamed herself but it's not her fault.

(I'm sorry. It's all my fault. I'm so sorry. Everything sucks and it's all my fault. If I could do it all again, I promise you I would. I would've never pushed you away. I would've warned you about him when you still would've listened. I never would've left that cupboard. I never would've told him anything about you.

When he smiled, I would've smiled back. I'm sorry.)