He dreamed of her, with her red hair, falling in love with him. He loved her truly, fully, completely, but he knew she didn't love him like that. He was cruel at worst and misunderstood at best. He didn't know how to show affection or love, he had never been shown either as a young boy. His heart broke every day and he became bitter and spiteful. Completely embroiled in passion, and great and completely, completely consumed with madness and anger and spite and love. Until one day he broke his own heart, truly, fully, completely; by saying too much and not saying enough.
The balance wasn't attained, he pondered, as he reached for another bottle of whiskey. Twenty years to the day and he had grown into an old man, old in mind and heart, but not by society's standards. He was supposedly at his prime, but he was sinking slowly into his personal abyss - deeper and deeper until he no longer saw anything, deeper still, and he no longer felt anything, except the crushing darkness that enveloped his whole body.
He had broken another heart, simply because he was incapable of love, incapable of feeling anything except the darkness. Her soul was beautiful, as was her mind. He even loved her uncontrollable brown curls. She had tried to crack through his outer shell, and she had. He had lashed out and thrown her out ungracefully. She had left little pieces of herself that had slowly tormented him around his home.
Her leather journal lay open on the table to the last page he could bear to read. Her departure seemed so surreal, but now he realized that she'd gone and he'd never have back her laughter and smiles and tears. He would never get the jokes and empathy back. I'm never going to get you back. I hate this. Come home to me. It's all my fault. It's all my damn fault.
Drinking another full-to-the-brim glass of whiskey, he swirled the remnants. His vision distorted -almost there- his head swam, his heart beat a slow rhythm, like that of an African drum in times of pain and mourning. He reached for the half-empty bottle to refill his glass, but his hand knocked the bottle off the table as he slowly fell out of the chair onto the floor, losing consciousness.
-------------------------------------------------
Her hair fell over her eyes as she looked up at him with those big, soulful, brown eyes. A single tear streamed down her face. He tried to move toward her, but was stopped by some invisible force.
His eyes snap open, his breathing stops, and he stands up out of bed. Is she really here? Is she standing in my room? His black eyes scan the darkness for any sign of her light. They are only met with the silent goodbye of his dream.
He collapses to his knees, sobs wracking his body. His dark hair falls forward as he buries his face in his hands.
He clamors back into bed and shuts his eyes, hoping for images of her face again. Could you just please stay, my love? Will you wake up by my side?
She can't. She's gone.
Twenty-four painful hours pass and he feels desperate. He buys flowers and puts them on his bedside table so that the next time he sees her in his dream, he can give them to her.
Because she deserves them.
The flowers pale in comparison to her beauty in his eyes.
If he got the chance to see her again that night - he no longer wanted to wake up. He drank himself into another bout of oblivion, not realizing that tonight might be his last, but being at peace with the idea.
-------------------------------------------------
i Chapter Two includes all credits. But, as always, all things Harry Potter belong to JKR. Reviews are always appreciated. /i
