There is an age for comprehension; then there is an era beyond, where knowledge is nothing and meaning exists in a vacuum, the high-pitched nothingness that is silence. When dawn breaks the boundaries of infinite night and silver wounds fade from nonexistence into everything and you can feel them seeping into the ground and into you, when the willows bow down to the greatness that is palpable to those who have the need, there is a moment of meliority that usurps genius. It is breathtakingly beautiful in that it is like water from mountains splitting into roaring streams that rush down to you through the willows.
In that moment, you run back to him, your legs pumping in a cycle of euphoria, your body drifting to the rhythm of the song that has never been so jubilantly complex but superficially simple. Your lips meet his in a symphony of condescending sneers and weakness but it matters not because what you feel is, in a strange way, elusively clear- more so than his disapproval, or yours. He sends curses at you like glass shards, slicing you open, penetrating you. And then the dynamo of vermillion liquid under your skin is ripped out and you begin to bleed pure glory. He is exquisite.
And when the willows weep, you do not, for the ethereal music in the air still speaks of the arcane matter that is your love, the genius that never fades, not while the dawn watches, peaking impassively through the tears of the trees. Your hair is tousled, embracing your face like anthracite and blood and manic laughter. There is no room for austerity when all is amusement.
So you thrust yourself at him, his cold skin echoing through your fire. You love another, who is bold like the supposed line between good and evil and whose greatness tickles your face like the sun. Yet, this is more than love- it is hatred. It is passion.
You accept the taunts and the mocking jeers because this is a game the both of you play well, a side of you that you show to nobody else. Lily Potter is clever, perhaps, but Lily Evans is a genius and this genius knows no bounds.
But in the end, dawn fades and so does the day, revealing the horrors of the night. And in the end, you are merely another willow.
"Mudblood," spits he, his eyes red like your hair and like blood but not at all like James' courage. "Lord Voldemort leaves no survivors."
And your demise is coming soon, you muse idly, for what is a genius in comparison to a megalomaniac? You do seem to have an affinity for arrogant men. But he seems contemplative and you know that you will be going home today.
And so you leave the willows to weep for the unknown, to bend excruciatingly but never break, to wallow in the pointlessness of death and the beauty of the forest. He never really leaves it.
A/N: ...I really don't know.
Oh, I don't own Harry Potter.
