He is Poetry
A continuation of The Limit Does Not Exist
No need to read the afore mentioned, but it'd be lovely if you did.
Enjoy.
I never knew much about magic before Hogwarts. In fact, if not referring to the utter inexistence of it- well, I hadn't known a thing.
In Muggle school, they hadn't taught us about magic. However, if the subject were offered, I couldn't promise I would have taken it. In fact, before discovering my Wizarding heritage, I more than likely would have invested most of my time in English.
Seems made up, yeah? How could Harry James Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World and winner of the fictional most likely to be seen out of the library award, want anything to do with books?
I suppose I began my interest in poetry. A man by the name of Robert Frost struck me entirely with the power behind his words.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference.
Ah, the rhythm and free verse, un-rhyming and still hauntingly simple to recall. The idea of free will and the blinding truth that we are all faced with the uncertainty of options and the possibility of choosing the wrong path.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. I didn't appreciate this poem until recently, but at least the admiration came at all. Better late than never. S'pose a war can do that to some- make'm forget the basics. The basics of poetic analyzing are tone, word choice, imagery, setting, symbolism, and time.
But, isn't that always the case? Take the war: the overall mood was normally despairing with the smallest glimmer of hope, word choice played a roll as far as keeping spirits, the height of the war took place during the evening and into the early day at Hogwarts and the center of the woods. Woods- again diverging. Symbolizing endless choice.
I could very well be full of myself and seeing far too into a situation with no poetic justice to be had. However, for my own sake, I'll choose to believe that there's beauty in war. Otherwise, it would have all been for naught.
What then, if there is a lack of poetry in madness? It was Vonnegut who wrote: there must be virtue in brilliance followed by stupidity for man is alternately brilliant and stupid. So, mustn't there be brilliance in tragedy if we assume they come hand in hand? One after the other?
I didn't always believe in tragic loveliness. Epiphanies as such should take time to construct- at least, that's my own justification. Something monumental and true, something of value and dire importance should bring one to the genuine appreciation of disaster.
And what better inspiration than love?
Understand that I hadn't known love until I'd come to Hogwarts. I hadn't known the extent of my parent's love. I hadn't known the love of a friend or a lover until I'd become a wizard.
Perhaps it wasn't love I'd felt that night in the corridor. It certainly wasn't love. I hadn't allowed much feeling aside from self-loathing and pity to shine through since the war's end. No one blamed me and everyone understood my need for solitude.
They would not find me changed from him they knew-
Only more sure of all I thought was true.
Not a soul thought I would change. Time would change and I would resume life as though nothing were different. See, that's the trouble with people who assume they understand. These people don't think to ask, 'why?'
Why Harry are you ignoring us?
Why Harry aren't you eating?
Why Harry are you screaming in the middle of the night?
Why Harry aren't you sleeping?
Why Harry don't we know you anymore?
These questions weren't asked and the answers were assumed by all but one.
To think it had taken Draco Ruddy Malfoy to break the shield that I and every one around me had built was astonishing. Truly ironic.
And yet, here he stood, barking at me like some newly released animal in a terrible rage against his captor.
"Potter, turn your bloody arse around and look at me!" I paused, what was I to do? I hadn't wanted any confrontation from anyone- much less from the ungrateful prat who couldn't accept my previous assistance in saving his life and wand.
"What do you need, Malfoy?" I asked stoically. "Can we make it quick? I'm exhausted."
"What's wrong with you?" he shouted. I wondered momentarily if he knew the volume of his voice.
But, I couldn't understand. I hadn't bothered with Malfoy since trial and that was only to give his wand back. What problems could he have with me when I'd gone out of my way to stay out of his?
"What do you mean? I haven't bothered with you for weeks. Why could you possibly have reason to ask me that?"
"That's what I mean! You don't even acknowledge me anymore. You saunter around this school as if I don't exist. What, Potter? Decided that I'm not worth the effort anymore?" he hissed, fists clenching.
Oh, that obtusely arrogant fool! "I'll apologize to your vanity, but you aren't the center of my troubles. And what do you mean 'not worth the effort anymore?' You never were, Malfoy."
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Before I could comprehend any detail, I was pinned with my hands above my head against the cold stone tile of the floor.
"Now listen here, Potter. I'm not another one of your pets at this school. You'll pay attention to me whether you'd like to or not. I'm worth every ounce of attention that I'm deserving of."
"You're not worth shit, Malfoy!" I screamed, spitting in his face. He proceeded to launch at my face and stomach. With my hands free, I easily changed our positions and began to unload years of pent up hate and terror and pain onto this boy. This boy who could always achieve some sort of rise from me. This boy who represented each and every bit of magic that I hated. This boy who crawled under my skin so far that I could hardly tell where I ended and he began.
This boy, who was such a disaster- such a beautiful disaster. An oxymoron to say the very least.
In passion and wit and hidden connotation, Draco could very well be poetry. He could. Perhaps not poetry I could write, but definitely the sort I would read.
"Why do you care if I hate you?" I finally managed after rearranging his face, tired from the effort. I'd only a moment to see a bit of thought flash across his eyes before his lips were glued to mine. His hands sunk deep into the roots of my hair and I sat. Immobile to his touch from shock.
Suddenly, the moment passed. His eyes opened and I imagine mine looked something just short of a cartoon in their abnormal wideness.
I put my hand to my mouth to cease its tingling, "I-I. W-why did y-you? Malf-foy, I don't understand…" I stuttered and stood, backing slowly away from him,"Y-you hate me. What are you doing?"
"Merlin, Potter, you can be so daft. Would someone that hated you try to snog you in the middle of a fist fight? Corner you in the hallways to make your life hell simply because it's all he can do to seek some kind of time with you? Miss your insults and hexes because it's the only contact you'll allow yourself to have with him? Potter, I'm in love with you," he whispered the last, but I heard it.
I did the only logical thing, I ran.
This happened in poetry and literature all of the time. An unexpected declaration of love. The ironic satire with obscene amounts of strange love. Love that shouldn't happen. Love between the wrong sort.
Was this the wrong sort?
Draco and I weren't the Montague's and the Capulet's. Our families were reconciled. There were no stars crossing.
In that moment of raw honesty, I appreciated Draco's true beauty. His love was slowly and steadily accumulated. He'd had time to hate me, despise my very breath simply because it was a sign of life. My living, in his eyes, was a waste of death.
A love that could stem from hate? Well, that was pure poetry. Literary genius.
Could I very well feel the same?
Could Draco Malfoy, the first wizard I'd ever met and consciously wished to never see again, be the person sent to fetch me from this cage I'd locked myself in?
"Draco!" I called one day after following the boy just long enough to catch him alone. "Could we talk?"
He nodded to an empty classroom and I locked and silenced it behind us.
"Look, about the other day-." He began only to be interrupted.
"Ah, when to the heart of man was it ever less than a treason to go with the drift of things, to yield with a grace to reason, and bow and accept the end of a love or a season?" I said in verse, watching in amusement as his face contorted in confusion.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I think it's against myself to bow to the end of a love that hasn't had chance to grow." At least, that's what I felt I meant as my face heated.
Looking down at my feet, I was able to see a hand reach for mine. I was met with the most beautiful of smiles on one of the most handsome of faces. He understood the allegory.
Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.
All I know for certain is that there will always be virtue in brilliance followed by stupidity. For man is alternately brilliant and stupid.
And here we were, fire and ice, trying not to destroy the other.
How wonderfully stupid indeed.