One Night
I watch him, sitting there, surrounded by admirers. I look deep into his eyes; pools of liquid silver with chinks of blue diamond light reflecting out. Flecks of lapis lazuli nestle between the ice of his eyes. And yet there is a great warmth in the blue. The way he used to look at me radiated a heat of love, beating rays of the sun, along with the coolness of the moon and stars. His hair is cornsilk, watered down with silver milk, forming the palest blonde sheen. Tiny parts of it at the front wave around his face, framing the heart shape, complimenting his strong features.
His skin, I know, is like cold satin. It is smooth and creamy, it has the texture of an icy December night, but feels warm to the touch. His whole face is like a night-sky, with two bright stars radiating light in the centre of the darkness. Except, it is a night-sky in negative, for his skin is so very pale, almost to the extent of illness. His nose is strong, it carries his percussive expression forward. Even his lips are pale, they are just a shade warmer than the rest of his skin, tinged with the palest cream rose. His lips taste like crystallised rose petals, frozen, sugared, and immortalised…
I watch him stretch like a cat, sitting so gracefully on the wall while he laughs with his flock of friends. He moves lithely, and deigns to toss a brief glance in the vaguest of my directions. Watching him is like an obsession, a drug habit I can't afford to kick. It hurts me, but that is the drive behind it, the power that spurs me on to higher planes. I will never be complete without him now. He was myself, my life, my everything. My eyes seem eternally locked with his, and all the time he chats and laughs and jokes with those insufferable nonentities that continually swarm around his person, he keeps the invisible contact between us. There is always a force field between us, a thread forever soldered to our bodies that will not be wrenched apart. He takes delight in this, you see. He wants to see me suffer. And God knows, I deserve it.
He is my love, and also my hate, he breaks the rules, the clichés, and the opposites. He is my everything and also my nothing. Nothing to do with me, anymore. All the guidelines, the instructions, the plans, he breaks them with one brief glance.
He will always have a hold on my heart, a stake on my life, a part in my mind, a whole in my imagination. No matter what happened, whether each of us lives or dies, if we ever fall in love once more, it could never be the same. I curse the day I met him, and also rejoice for it. I could leave this world forever and he would still be there, no matter how many lives or places or feelings into the future. It was the sort of love and obsession that dreams were spun from, in silver and rainbow coloured silk, with occasional diamond pinpricks of pure morning rain embedded in the tapestry. It was also a nightmare that never released its screaming grip.
I will always wear a black ribbon around my wrist in mourning, hold a candle lit in my heart. It will burn for eternity, no matter how may put downs nor refusals that I receive from him. It will burn with a silver and gold flame, sometimes flickering, occasionally smouldering, but it will not, and cannot ever die.
I reminisce about the happy year I spent with him, as I watch him flirting openly with Pansy Parkinson. It was undoubtedly the most blissful time of my life. It is a truth universally known that you don't appreciate what you have until it has fled from your life. I knew this, and yet… I still did not appreciate him. I have so many photos of us entwined together, two beings as one. It was true, we were very rarely parted. Everyone expected us to marry, despite being so young. We were the sweethearts of the school; everyone knew. It was as though we one person, in the manner of twins. People referred to us not singly, but together. It was always Hermione and Draco, or Draco and Hermione.
My life was unearthly perfect. I truly was in heaven when I was with him, the serephucal couple, the lovers fashioned from only rainbow light. We were immortal, nothing could harm me when I was him. I could have jumped from mountains, fallen from clouds, swum through tidal waves, kissed the stars, flown through the heavens, safe in the knowledge that he would always be there to catch me and hold me tightly. I thought my life was a perfect orb of gold, containing all my dreams and hopes and wishes tangled in his life. I didn't know that it was really a perfect bubble, with colours ever surging through the delicate surface. It was transparent to the world, and just one tiny touch could burst it forever, leaving shattered lives in a pile on the stone cold floor, and nothing to show for it. Where does the bubble go to when it bursts?
The spangling light I thought was so beautiful proved to be tacky and false. It was not immortal; neither were we. He is an indefinable person, as am I. Together we shall fall through life, scraping by in a miserable existence, safe in the knowledge that I have ruined our lives. Forever.
It was one night, and I gave my heart to another flowing away in drifts of wispy clouds on a moon river. It felt so right, then. I thought I was in love with him, the boy who had always been there. The boy who lived. He found out, of course. And as the bird flies, I am destined to nothing but desperation. And so is he.
~