Prue was struggling, to say the least. It had been a rough month and a half. She became withdrawn and depressed. After losing her aunt Prue, she felt lost -- one of the strongest witches she’d known had fallen and even magic couldn’t bring her back or save her. Still, she pressed on and went to school after Paige had moved in, healing alongside her friends and using classes to distract her. Once she knew her mum and Aunt Phoebe were getting better emotionally, Prue felt better about leaving for school, even though she orbed home quite a bit. The year that followed however, felt even more like hell with the Tournament and losing Cedric. She was supposed to die in that graveyard. It was supposed to be her.... yet here she was. Still very much alive while Cedric didn’t get the same courtesy. It felt like a big cosmic joke and the universe was just laughing at her. She kept having to watch people she cared about die and there was nothing she could do about it...but when she died, somehow, here she was. It didn’t stick, when she’d have done anything to switch places with them. If anyone deserved to be in the world more, it was her Aunt Prue and Cedric.
The young witch was aware of what day it was. Normally, she’d be packing her trunk and getting ready for fifth year. However, she laid awake most of the night overthinking and replaying the same argument she’d been having with herself for a week now. How could she go back? After everything that happened...not to mention the Prophet had been covering their own asses by lying to everyone about Voldemort. He was back. She saw it. Harry saw it. Amos would feel the absence of his son for the rest of his life because of it. Her nightmares kept her awake most nights over it. Prue kept the pile of the Daily Prophets in the corner for fire scraps.
She rolled over to stare at the wall, tired eyes heavy with the sleep she missed out on in the past few weeks. She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she was fairly certain, at least, that she was not going back to Hogwarts this year. Maybe not ever again.
@whenthe-inkwell-runsdry
