Touch the Sky
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Only from the heart can you touch the sky.
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I want to know what it feels like to touch the sky.
I want to feel love and completeness in the most exuberant way possible.
I want to know that forever I am hers, and forever she is mine.
I want our love to remind me of bunnies and kisses.
I want to see her everyday, until I die.
I want to know that she will be waiting for me when I get home, worried sick if I'm ten minutes late.
I want to know that she loves me, and have her know that I love no one but her.
I want to be able to be completely myself around her, and have her roll her eyes after something stupid I just did or say, and say, "I knew you would do that," because she knows me like no one else ever imagined.
I want to always be the key to her lock.
I want to kiss her so lightly that our feet no longer touch the ground.
I want her to know that I will always be around.
I want to make her happy.
I want to take her flying, no matter how much it frightens her now, so she can touch the sky…
I want...I so want...to touch the sky…
But only from the heart can you touch the sky.
And I don't have her heart…yet.
And I don't think I ever will.
Ron Weasley put his quill down and rested it between his thumb and forefinger. He sighed while looking at his messy handwriting and wondered what Hermione would think if she read this complete disarray of words posed as actual writing…another futile attempt to show her how he cared.
His hands shook as if he was in below freezing temperatures, though he was in cozy Gryffindor Common Room, as he crumbled up the parchment, and aimed it at the fire…
He missed horribly. Grumbling under his breath, he stretched his long legs and looked at the time: Two in the morning.
He reached for his essay for Professor McGonagall, a stupid assignment about the Floridiox Curse which he had failed hideously. As he reread his other piece of parchment, as he always did at his unmasking feelings about love, he cursed himself at what rubbish it was. Hermione didn't love him. She couldn't. He would never touch the sky…
He crumbled up his essay, and missed it into the fire as well. Rubbing his temple from a horrible headache, he yawned, and reached for the essay. He didn't even bother to flat the parchment; he merely threw it in his knapsack and, forgetting about the other piece of parchment, slowly trotted up the staircase.
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Harry Potter, who also could not sleep that night, came down the stairs less then an hour later with his thoughts jumping wildly in his head. He stared into the warm fire, thinking about his last year at Hogwarts…Ginny…Sirius and Dumbledore… Just when he thought his thoughts would finally consume him, he suddenly noticed a piece of crumbled parchment lying helplessly on the floor in front of the fireplace.
He picked it up and flattened it. It was Ron's essay for Professor McGonagall that was due tomorrow. Harry shrugged, thinking: this must have been a rough draft he aimed badly into the fire. He tossed it effortless into the fire, and watched the dark ambers consume it.
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