Author's Note: Hello everyone. I'm new to the fandom and so this is my first Harry Potter fic. I hope you excuse the shortness of this but it was written on a burst of inspiration and it ends where it felt right to end it. Anyways, I hope you enjoy.
It's cold out here. I don't mind, though. I guess he doesn't ether.
He always comes here, late in the evening when everyone's ether asleep or too busy to care. I always follow. Follow through the shadows to a would-be rendezvous. But, alas, it is only that in my fantasy, that daring part of my mind that dares to imagine him mine.
This is my shrine of unshed tears and dashed fantasies and hopes. This is the sanctuary where there is no dark and no light. No war. No right and wrong. There is only him, framed against the canvas of a starlit sky.
The wind in his hair, the sparkle in his eyes when he is at an angle where they can freely reflect the stars, the moonlight that makes his skin even more fair, as though of porcelain; all of this – a perfect picture that in the dark of lonely nights fuels my fantasy, fuels my delusions. Delusions of a hope for something I can never have.
I know that I am merely hurting myself by coming here. It is merely a fantasy, but a crippling fantasy at that. A cutting, burning pain that lingers long after my watch is over. The images are burned into my heart and mind, imprinted forever so they might haunt me.
It's cold out here. I don't mind, though. I guess he doesn't ether.
The empty quidditch field is his stage where he is the only actor, too occupied with his soliloquy in the night sky to notice his lonely audience, his one faithful fan.
His broomstick makes a swishing arch and then another, descending into a steep fall and then pulling up at the last possibly moment. He makes beautiful, intricate shapes in the night sky, and I know that I could watch him forever from the shadows.
I have always watched him from the shadows, those metaphorical shadows that separate us. The shadows of my own conscious and once wounded pride. We have chosen opposite sides, opposite lives. He will always be too far away to reach, even when he is standing right in front of me… in front, behind, to the side, but never beside.
I use to hate him. Hate him with a passionate fire that sprang from a searing pain that never lessons, a bleeding would that never heals. I rarely stride across the line that lies between love and hate for it is a thin line, indeed. Mine even thinner as my hate is nothing bur love scorned. But in these moments of watching him fly – so beautiful, so free – I allow myself to cross that line, to leave behind the day's facade of hatred, and drown in the sensation that is so…him. Even if only in my delusional mind.
It's cold out here. I don't mind, though. I guess he doesn't ether.