My life is ruled by the ticking of the clock and the memory of her. Tick. Tick. Tick. That constant sound reminds me of my promise and my failure. Without her I am nothing, I have nothing. I cannot go even an hour without opening my mouth to tell her something before I remember. She is gone and it is my fault. I am alone.

I have no idea how many hours have passed as I sit here, staring at the clock on the wall, listening to it tick. Forcing myself to move, I walk over to the cupboard in the corner. I brush off the fine layer of dust, blowing on it where the dust is trapped in the carvings on the door. Under the dust the wood is smooth and shiny, worn from the constant touch of my hands over the years. In a room full of old broken furniture, this cupboard is reasonably clean and cared for. I turn the handle and the door swings silently open, perfectly smooth on its oiled hinges.

Reaching into the back of the bottom shelf, I pull out her old bag. The one she charmed, back when we ran away to start that bloody hunt. It is dirty now; strange stains decorate its seams and several of the beads are missing. A couple more fall off as I accidentally knock the bag into the cupboard door; they bounce away across the room. I don’t know where they end up. It doesn’t matter anymore what the bag looks like, it never really did after the wedding. A few more lost beads won’t make a difference.

Slowly I open her bag, running my fingers across the familiar brass clasp before twisting it open. Scraps of the inner lining slip out and drift to the floor. Slowly, steadily the bag is disintegrating and I disintegrate with it.

My fingertips trace the bag’s opening. They look wrong next to the delicate fabric. Not like her fingers did; her delicate fingers, with neatly trimmed nails and the occasional inky smear. My fingers are thick and rough. There are calluses are over them and the nails are ragged and dirty. If she saw my fingernails looking like they do she would have fixed them up in seconds, using those girly charms she learned from her Hogwarts roommates, or maybe those tiny muggle nail scissors she used to carry around. I never could work nail scissors like she could; my fingers were too fat, too clumsy.

The same smell remains, of damp canvas and earth and the perfume she used to wear. By bringing the bag up to my face in inhaling that familiar scent I feel as though I am back in that tent, cold and bored and scared. My stomach rumbles in memory of the constant hunger. If I try hard, I can smell the lingering scent of burning fungi. Fresh fungi, too, that she used to slip into the bag because she knew it was all we had to eat no matter how awful it tasted. A familiar twinge of guilt hits me when I think of how much I used to moan about the fungi. She was doing her best, and of course, her best was always far better than anyone else, so it was pretty amazing. I wish I’d realised that back then.

There are no more fungi in the bag, I know, but still the smell of them remains.

So does the smell of her.

Inside the beaded bag is all that is left of her. I went back to the forest much later, just before I came here, and found it, still with everything inside. I reach inside, right down to the bottom until my whole arm disappears, and pull out her wand. It had been lying close to the bag when I went back, half-hidden in leaf litter. That was a surprise. I’d figured that the Death Eaters had taken it and broken it, because she definitely lost it in the fight; otherwise they wouldn’t have beaten her. I have always been sure of that.

I find a soft rag and slowly but thoroughly rub it over her wand. It is so familiar to me. How many times did I see it in her hand, waving around in complicated patterns to cast our protective spells or flashing faster than my eyes to hurl curses? I’d recognised it immediately when I found it in the forest, and now it’s as familiar as my own wand, if not more.

All the fingerprints slowly disappear under the cloth. ‘A clean wand shows dedication, vigilance and pride’ she told me. So I keep it clean for her. Even though it hadn’t made a difference; the cleanliness of her wand, her vigilance and skill. It still didn’t save her. They still caught her. I consider leaving it half-cleaned but feel as though I am somehow insulting her, so I continue the usual routine. The ticking of the clock has faded. I barely hear it, wrapped up in my tasks.

Once clean, I try a few simple spells – levitating a chair and then conjuring a rose – to check it still works fine. Satisfied, I lay it aside in the cupboard and turn back to the beaded bag.

The next object I pull out is the locket. I have to scrabble around the bag for a while, but eventually I feel the cool, slinky chain tangling around my wrist. It’s not The Locket, that bloody Horcrux. Harry kept that one after I stabbed it. No, this locket is much smaller; delicate gold filigree instead of solid silver. I don’t like silver, it reminds me too much of those countless hours I spend with The Locket weighing down my neck, feeling angry and useless.

I gently pick up the gold locket. I let the weight of it rest in the palm of my hand. Despite its small size it is solid and comforting; almost, but not quite, as comforting as holding her hand. Running my thumb over the ridges and swirls of the engraving I notice dirt has become ingrained, dulling the surface. This shocks me. I haven’t looked after it as I should. Could I be beginning to forget about it, forget about her? In a panic I fumble with the catch and, heart racing, flip open the locket, afraid that my memory will not match up with what is inside.

My gaze falls upon her. The only photo I could find of her was a muggle one. She is stiff and unmoving, frozen in place by the camera. Her face, a delicate oval framed by that wild hair. She used to complain about that hair, back when she had the time and energy to worry about bad hair days, but I have always loved it. I longed to run my fingers through those tangled brown curls nearly every day, but I never did. Her eyes look back at me, deep and rich but missing that spark. It was years since I had seen the sparkle of laughter in those familiar eyes, back before our world crashed down around us. Trapped inside the locket her eyes are expressionless.

Perhaps if I apologise her eyes will become alive once more. I know it is entirely illogical; even a magical portrait could not bring her liveliness back properly but the words burst from my mouth with a sorrowful impossible hope.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry!”

My voice feels alien to me; it is rarely used these days and emerges hoarse and cracking. Now that I have begun I cannot stop. The clock seems to have paused in its relentless ticking as the rest of the words I’ve been hiding finally tumble out of my mouth.

“I thought we could do it, I thought we could run. When they found us I said I would run with you. I promised to protect you, to hide you where they couldn’t find you. I didn’t mind leaving my life behind, your were my life, you are my life. I’m sorry they followed us, I’m sorry I lost you in the trees, I’m sorry they caught you alone. I should have been there.”

Through the tears that slowly slide down my face she almost seems to listen through the glass of the locket. For a heartbeat, I think that somehow my desperate hopes have enchanted the photograph, allowing her to move. But I know that’s impossible.

“I still remember what I said to you. ‘I promise that one day this will all be over. I will buy you a house with a garden and a dog. I promise we will grow old together. I promise. I will keep you safe.’ Then they came, and I didn’t do it.

“When I found you again, they’d trapped you. There you were, circled by Death Eaters, all their wands pointing at you. And all I could do was hold my breath at the side as you stood there. It took thirteen seconds. I know, because I counted them. I heard each tick from my watch. For thirteen seconds we all stood there. Then they did it. I still didn’t move. I swear time stopped. No more ticking. Then one of those Death Eaters saw me. And I ran.

“I’m not proud of it, of surviving. The only reason I survived is because I ran out. I ran out and you and I ran out on Harry. Not just that time at Christmas, but when they got you, and I’m so, so sorry.”

One salty droplet splashes onto the glass, distorting and obscuring her face. Quickly, I wipe it off, but it leaves a smear. Now she seems accusatory, a pitiful representation of her fearsome glares. I keep talking; to placate her, even though it’s stupid, even though she can’t hear me.

“I was sure they were following me, so I just kept running. It didn’t matter. None of it did in the end. I don’t know if Harry won without us. I used to wonder about him and feel guilty. I didn’t stop running though, I never stopped running ‘til I found this place, away from everyone. And they chased me for a while. I don’t know if they were Death Eaters or Aurors or what. It didn’t make a difference. Even if Harry had chased me it wouldn’t have made a difference. I still would have run. Because I failed him. I failed you.”

My voice stutters to a halt. It’s not making any difference, it can’t now. Still, I need to finish, to apologise properly.

“I’m sorry. I failed. I’m sorry.”

Even if she had been there, I doubt she’d have heard me, my whisper was so quiet. The silence echoes, immense in this small room. The clock is the only thing to break it, the rhythmic tick invading my ears once more.

Sighing, I snap the locket shut, pick up the cloth and clean it too. Each sweep of the rag in time with the clock. Swish-tick. Swish-tick. Swish-tick. Her and the clock. The clock and her. All that remains of my life.