Pretty much what the title would suggest.
the tired sunset of our fettered grace
LOST, have you seen ____? is how it starts. And the pompous, golden spellfire of air purifying bubbles as they kill themselves with handshakes and hugs and self-righteous egotisms of Magic Prevails!
The British Centre of Magical Disease Control say it's a magically infused mutation of Plague, she thinks- and she'd know - that the CMDC are (most definitely) full of shit. She knows Ebola when she sees it, she'd said. Ordinary, non-magical, muggle Ebola.
She finds their pride amusing.
Shes knuckles deep inside herself, turned away from the oh fucks and yes' on the bed beside hers. She isn't ready. They each have their own madness to settle themselves to first, and she isn't quite there yet.
She sucks in deep when she cums.
The Hilton Somewhere (anywhere, nowhere) reeks of ash.
They stop at a cafe somewhere in Newcastle. Survivor count dwindling and Body burnings duet with It's the end of the world as we know it (she'd always liked to hope humanity had a tad more class than that) and Ministry officials appealing for calm.
Harry licks their initials HRH etched red and raw into her forearm (she never did suffer boredom well) and plants a kiss against her forehead. She smiles, a funny sought of a thing, but it's all she can give them.
Theres a field outside of time that's watched her twirl to her own emptiness. Dodging hands only she can see that pop up from below to trip.
She doesn't like to think of the others, resigns herself to the fact that they're gone and crawls in between Harry and Ron in the grass.
They trace her lips and her eyes and the curve of her neck with their fingers. Rest there heads atop her breasts in the sun. They've come to judge well-being by their physical proximity to each other.
The wind whistles through leaves and, thinking King's The Stand, she listens for the walkin' dude.
Music throbs through her innards in the dark of the club, right down to her clit. She's walled between Harry (back) and Ron (front) and she's never felt more alive. They're fascinated by her. Her movements, her silence, her insanity, so different from Harrys whos is, again, different from Rons. They love her like this, moving and free and crazy and theirs.
She laughs, delightedly, hysterically, brushing herself against them as they sway. She's ready.
Harry pushes into Ron as he enters her from behind against the hotel room door. Theres a dead man on the other side a little way down the hall but thats okay. She has her constants, everyone else can burn.
"Whe're okay," she moans, through the hands and the pleasure and the atrophy. "We'll lock the windows and the doors when the Blackbirds come to ferry us away."
The world ends on a wednesday.