The Persistence Of Memory
They play tug-of-war: they insist that she is a witch and she insists that they are mad. Strange things may happen when they wave their wands about, but she has seen magic tricks before. She can't remember the occasion, but the concept is fixed in her mind: marked decks and wands with kerchiefs concealed inside. Except, when a tall boy with red hair and a rather long nose presented her with a wand, which he insisted was hers, it was made of solid wood. He asked her pleadingly, a feather on his palm, to swish and flick, and to say "Wingardium Leviosa" with the "gar" nice and long. She refused. Magic isn't real and she won't pretend that it is. She's not mad.
This red-haired boy called Ron visits her every second day. She asked him once what he does every first day. "I visit Harry," he said, clacking his teacup against its saucer. "Harry's stone," he elaborated, as if the words were supposed to trigger something within her, when what they insist is her name did not, when who they insist are her parents did not. He turned from her pleasantly vacant gaze and continued, "Harry is buried with his family." She did not understand, but she reached to comfort him all the same.
Every sixth day, Ron blushingly brings her sweets. He sorts the jellybeans carefully and grimaces while she enjoys peppermint, pear, coconut, and what she is fairly certain is pomegranate. She has developed quite a taste for chocolate balls full of strawberry mousse and clotted cream, but she always insists that he eat at least half. She wonders if it was always this way, if he was always this thin, or if he hasn't been eating well since he lost Harry and, presumably, her.
One day, in between careful licks of her mousse-covered fingers, she asked him lightly if they had been involved back when they were wizards together and went bombing about on broomsticks, bewitching small children. He could have lied, but he said very quietly, "I wanted to be." She asked him equally quietly to leave.
Two days later, she kissed him.
He doesn't ask her to perform magic anymore. He doesn't speak to her of dead friends anymore. She knows that she should not trust him because of this, but she needs something and she will take him. Now she is composed of not's: not a witch, not mad, and, finally, not alone.