Dislcaimer: Characters aren't mine. The world of Harry Potter belongs to JKR.
Warning: This fic contains implied unrequited love of a slashy nature. If this bothers you, don't bother to read.
Author's Notes: This is crap. But odd crap. There are twelve paragraphs, in six sets -- think of the first paragraph as a photograph, a snapshot, the expression of a specific moment, and the paragraph beneath it (the one beginning with words italicized) as its caption. Er, well, if you want to, that is; it could also be the other way round. Who knows? XD
Review, please?
o.o.o.o
The way he saw it, he'd been given one chance to live, something he'd been trained since birth to think was the best, the only, goal to strive toward. That chance was the most perfect thing he'd ever seen, the bravest and best definition of humanity to ever cross his world-weary path. It appeared when he was eleven and already tired of the cold existence afforded him by his parents, and it had a name.
I'm James. James Potter, it said with an easy smile.
The manner of living this chance provided him with, however, was one his parents and numerous higher relations would never have sanctioned. Indeed, they scorned it and all things like it; to take his chance would mean to lose the life he been taught he should cherish, the life he'd been brought up for, the life all those in his childhood seemed to consider the best available, the life of a Black.
To be a Black is to be practically royal, his mother often said.
The years it took him to make his decision were tense, painful things, unsurpassed in ugliness even by anything his grotesque childhood could dredge up during the horrific emptiness of his nights. No longer a mire of stagnant darkness, his days and his weeks and his months had become something much more difficult; a maze of twisted lies and shifted loyalties hiding behind a mask of anger, of unwoken betrayal.
You shouldn't do things like this. You'll be a disgrace to all of us, his brother said coldly to hide his fear.
The declaration of his mutiny took the form of a slamming door and a wordless curse back at the cold, solemn facade of his parents' house; the castle of his youth, the prison of his advent into light. He gave up much to reach for the chance of life that had tempted him for so long. Privilege, wealth, heritage, family -- but what he wanted was a home.
That's no son of mine, his father said as they happened to pass on a street.
The true life he won, though infinitely better than the life he gave up, was not enough. It struck him shortly after his desertion, this awakening of his further desperation. His perfect human Chance was no longer an object, but a further goal toward which to strive. Sometimes his longing for more, though a feeling utterly foreign to him a decade ago, crushed him down to the very dirt that most of his family thought he'd become. But his courage failed him again, and he had to rebuild it before he continued his ascent.
You're an inspiration to us other Black sheep, his cousin said through her wedding veil.
The way he saw it, he'd been given one chance at love. And just when he'd convinced himself to leap, it had been taken it away from him. His life was still there, dangling teasingly in front of him, smiling the crooked, dimpled smile that lit up his world, but the affection and completion it had promised for so long was out of reach, and the thief of his heart's happiness had a name.
Don't call me Lily; Evans will do just fine, I think, it said around the piercing green glare.