This is somewhat how I felt when it happend. My feelings turned into his. I can't even imagine how he felt.
He could see her, the way her eyes widened and her mouth opened to say his name. It was like a gasp, but her voice was so beautiful still.
He couldn't think if anything else at the moment, only her. She was the only one he could think about, saving her, avoid hurting her. He used everything he could, he was fast, but life and death are faster, so much faster.
He jumped and shoot, just like that. She looked at him, shock obvious in her face. She was scared.
The web got to her, right on her stomach and he quickly held onto anything he could find. But it was late, too late. It was then when everything stopped moving slowly, it was like being hit with cold water, with reality.
He couldn't save her. He wasn't invincible, and neither was she.
She stopped falling, just in time for her body not to touch the ground. But it was late, too late.
And now, at this very moment, is late too. It's late night, soon early morning. Peter just could find a way to sleep. Because that would be part of moving on, and he did not want to move on. He couldn't, didn't deserve it.
His heart ached more than any other physical wound would. He would like to blame Harry, but he couldn't; it was all his fault.
His fault.
His fault.
His fault.
Those words chanted in his brain, over and over.
He could still see her, still feel her. He could feel her body being carried in his arms. Lifeless. Her pale face, and the blood. He could feel the tears falling down his face just as new ones started falling too.
He could still see her, he could still see her dad.
He could hear himself making a promise he wouldn't be able keep. He could still feel the pain from when he tried and failed, to stay away. If he had just stayed away; if she had just stayed away.
Her life had been cut short, just like she said, what better way of living? Not doing it.
But why her, why not him?
She had a future, his job was to protect that future. England, oxford, all of their dumb fights meant nothing now. The memories of them were just a reminder of how he failed at both little and big things.
Keeping her happy.
Keeping her alive.
Because if he had been smart enough, fast enough, she would be there, or England, she would be alive. She would be alive.
But if it was like that, he wouldn't be away. He wouldn't stay away. Because he was weak without her. Now he was weak; she was dead. In all, he would be weak, but she could be alive. She would find someone else. Someone better, someone safe. But he stole away that chance.
But afterall, thay had both seen it coming. She had given her speech, mentioning how life could be cut short, just like hers.
And he? Well, he had many signs, many chances. But one was the one in front of him. Made by him, with his own hands. And with his own hands, he would put it away. It but not her.
Do I have to loose you too?