A shroud to bury his pride with the dead,
The fallen ranks whose names he sees listed,
Counted and sorted in orderly columns.
There’s no call for pride anymore.
Silence is all he can bear to give.
He remembers.
A list of names, tirelessly compiled,
The sweat of hours, days, weeks,
A masterwork of persistence;
A list, in the papers, hatefully used,
Promising bloodshed and terror,
Hatred played with consummate skill.
A strident silence, demanding he speak,
A shark’s grin awaiting his response.
All sharp teeth and instinct for pain,
A gleeful Yaxley drives the knife home:
“You’ve done marvelous work, Weasley “
Too bad Umbridge took the credit.”
Silence is all he can afford to give.
He remembers.
He keeps a tally in his head:
Oliver Wood, seen at a bar, avoided;
Penny, ditto, evaded with pounding heart.
Hurrying past Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes,
Unable to face his brother’s grief.
Strained silence at the Burrow,
Air fit to snap with unspoken words,
Percy refusing to speak the truth:
He’s not worthy of his family’s love.
Silence is all he dares to give.
He cannot forget.