note- there is no magic in this, no obvious characterizations. it just is.
He left her with fireflies in her hair and a quiet anger that seemed to sink beneath the soil.
It was another hot muggy day in July when all anyone could think about was the way their skin stuck together like a dirty secret and how the sky looked better from wherever they were. It was in the evening, of that he was sure. He did not remember the way the amber light cast a slight film in her eyes when she looked up at him like the world was ending. He did not remember what she said; he did not remember the way he left her sitting alone on the porch. He did not remember the smoke in her hair. He did not remember the way she did not take her eyes away from his retreating form, left alone among the ghosts of the old furniture and whispered promises.
He did not remember any of that. The only thing he remembered of that moment was the way he had said her name, Hermione. It was harsher that time, as if the assonance could leap off his sandpaper tongue and bite her.
He just remembered before. How she had been insufferable and yet greatly dignified at school, how he had been silent and had watched her. How they met quietly from time to time in between the stone walls. How even after everything, after the war, no one believed it was possible for them. But he remembered. He remembered the way she tasted, like autumn, always like autumn. The way she would bite her lip when she was nervous. The way her hair curled over her shoulders. The way she had bruises on her waist. The way he could give every shade in her body a separate name, drawing colours on her body like some sort of eloquent graffiti. The way she looked spread out on the lawn, underneath a tree by the window. The way she would say his name, a murmur in a heated moment. A whisper and a sigh. Blaise. It was always quiet, there was always something delicate about her. He thought of her hip bones and her precise way of talking.
He remembered all of that now, when she was gone, when he did not know where she was anymore. He remembered that in December when there was a different girl laying next him, one whose hair was light and who tasted like sugar. He watched her sleeping. She had spoken in too many hyperboles and had promised him false emotions. She spoke too quickly. You don't taste like her he whispered to her sleeping form. You never ever will he whispered to himself as he left the room.
It was February when he came back to her. He had heard from someone that she was still pretty. He knocked on her door and there she was, still pristine and dressed in that shade of blue that he always told her she looked best in. It was morning when she did not invite him in, when she turned to call something over her shoulder to a different lover. When she had given him that look of hers. Clouds had begun to cover the sky when he left.
It was a pouring March day, the kind where the streets are stained and the earth is turned up by the drops, when everything smells like mist. It was one of those days when she had run up behind him in the street, when he did not even wait to hear her apologizes, when he offered none. He simply held her close, smelling the dew in her hair.I thought you had left forever she had whispered.
I couldn't see he told her I couldn't see forever and I didn't know he blew feathers into her air.
I always remembered you she said I always did. I still wear this shade of blue because of your eyes, because of the colour of the sky that day when you left.
He didn't really have to say anything because they both knew. They both knew. And that was enough.
There was nothing else.
hate/like/indifferent? please let me know.