He was falling.
Not physically; physically he was sitting on his bed, contemplating the shining blade.
The exquisite knife seemed to be the answer to the problem that plagued him during the day and in the dark night.
He was falling.
Or was he truly leaping, with joy that is.
Both, he concluded.
He was falling in love with the blade and that brought a crushing heaviness straight to his chest.
He loved it and soon he would give it up.
He lifted the knife to the moonlight.
It gleamed, almost in a holy manner.
He squinted, truthfully- when was the last time the prescription was changed on his glasses?
The engraving on the knife combined with its ethereal beauty, was it worth it?
The engraving.
It had taken him months to perfect.
Was the inscription going to be enough?
Should he have used a note instead?
That is what many do, but why be typical?
With practiced ease he threw the blade.
He caught it, the blade drawing blood from his callused hands.
Holding it with affection, he wiped the blood off on his shirt.
Harry went down to the common room to give Ron his birthday gift.
