First, I don't own Harry Potter, JKR does. Second, PLEASE review this if you read it!
This was inspired by one of Pilate's lines in Jesus Christ Superstar that kinda struck me: "We both have truths. Are mine the same as yours?" And, well, that's the story. R&R.
.x. Truths .x.
Truth is, in essence, a fickle mistress. It is something generally perceived as good, and yet it simultaneously aids and betrays. While the truth proves one party innocent of crimes, it points the finger at another. The truth can be beautiful, but more often it is ugly. Ours was both.
If you ask what remains of our friends or my family, they would say that we are the reason this war is being fought. They call us the beacon of light in this black pit of despair when they think that we can't hear their words, but they've never seen what happens behind closed doors. They never hear the shouting matches over anything and everything or the sound of my voice screaming his name in dark rooms in the dead of night because everyone here is wrapped up in their own self-absorbedness to notice the booming of our furious, desperately wanting voices. One day I'll look back and think how things would have been different had I only been a few years older or wiser or more mature, but I try not to think about the future anymore – when you think about the future, you have to think that it might not come, and no one wants to come to grips with the fact that they might not see tomorrow. Even so, if he's gone then and I am not, I know that I will think that a few more years could have saved us. I will think that a few more years could have saved me.
Truthfully, we hate each other as we fight Voldemort on opposite sides of battlefields, constantly wondering if the other is still alive. We hate each other for having to be apart and not being able to protect each other. We hate each other because we are so fucking scared of the pain that we have forgotten the worth of love. I do not love him. I won't claim to, nor have I convinced myself that he loves me. To love someone during a war such as this is to guarantee that you will die twice in your lifetime, through even in my despising of him Voldemort could still manage to kill us both with a single curse.
These are the thoughts that run through my head as we come to our final, shuddering halt and suddenly all of the cries into the night cease and the pressure of the silence weighs down upon us. My back is to the cold brick wall of an alley and my lips are still wrapped around his body; we shake as we cling to each other as though our lives depend on it. We know this feeling of having extradited ourselves from the world will fall to pieces the moment I untangle my fingers from his hair. I consider whispering a romantic sentiment in his year because it seems as though it's fitting, but the moment that the word "I" crosses my lips, I trail off – it's all wrong. I believe he knows what I meant to say, but he remains silent, leaving me to ponder the fact that just struck a dangerous blow to the detached nature that I have developed these past months – this situation is all wrong. After a few awkward moments, I unwrap myself from him and he breaks the silence by asking me to meet him there again tomorrow night, the same time. I nod and he walks away towards his bunk, leaving me to stand alone in a London street, heat rising up from the potholes in the chill of the early morning and as soon as he's vacated the spot I begin to sob. The isolated feeling of safety evaporates, and instead of sliding into a sense of being blissfully unfeeling I am hit broadside by a wave of raw emotion that I don't want to feel. I start to shake for a different reason than the pleasure or the cold and realize this desensitization will never end. We will never be the redheaded girl and the raven-haired boy laughing together by the lake. We will always be the angry couple who yells at each other until we're blue in the face and one day we will walk away from each other for the last time.
This is all wrong…