disclaimer: not mine. nope. all these characters and whatnot belong to
rowling and her publishers. don't sue me.
* * *
Of the thousands of things I could have chosen to do with my life...this would have to be the least expected.
And the most gratifying.
Sometimes I wonder whether my father really would have preferred I become a common thief. But then I never asked him.
I gave away my heart, then ran after it. World be damned.
I once heard a famous Muggle say that everything he'd done he'd done out of laziness, that all his 'success' he'd gained only by doing what cost him the least.
I'd have to say that laziness got me where I am, really. At some point I stopped fighting. I gave in, I accepted what required the least amount of struggle. Which is to say I gave in to my overwhelming desire for Harry Potter.
I'd never really asked myself what would happen if he refused me. I'd never really acknowledged that I truly wanted him. I didn't think past the immediate moment; once I'd given in, I just did whatever my heart told me to do, blindly.
It was still a soul-shocking surprise when he kissed me back.
As for what happened after that…I'd rather not go into it, but let's just say that it was mindless and completely fulfilling.
I watch him flying, reading, stumbling out of bed tousled and unseeing, and I love him. He's got a unique kind of grace, with a sort of precision to it that I've never seen in anyone else. It's like he pauses in space till he knows exactly what or where he's going to, then goes there, just precisely there. He's rarely languid; he's unmoving, then instantly purposeful. Like a heron, or some other hunting creature, motionless then striking. It's a peculiar sort of beauty, almost gawky in moments of stillness, only truly appreciated when observed in both stillness and action. Beautiful in the difference between the two states, not in the strict observation of either. When I'm at my most open, my most laughing and thoughtless, I call him my waterbird. He's never figured out why.
I've not been sorry for a moment since I stopped demanding control of myself. Not a single moment. Not facing his friends, or mine, not when my father threatened to disown me, not revealing our love to the press and public, not even in the worst parts of our inevitable arguments when he's wanted to leave me. I wouldn't change a second of it all. What I've chosen, no matter how unexpected, no matter the consequences, is the most precious thing I ever could have gained.
I'm just fortunate I tripped and stumbled into it. Despite the efforts I put into avoiding it, I managed to fall. And I'm eternally grateful that I did. Even if falling is completely unlike a Malfoy.
* * *
Of the thousands of things I could have chosen to do with my life...this would have to be the least expected.
And the most gratifying.
Sometimes I wonder whether my father really would have preferred I become a common thief. But then I never asked him.
I gave away my heart, then ran after it. World be damned.
I once heard a famous Muggle say that everything he'd done he'd done out of laziness, that all his 'success' he'd gained only by doing what cost him the least.
I'd have to say that laziness got me where I am, really. At some point I stopped fighting. I gave in, I accepted what required the least amount of struggle. Which is to say I gave in to my overwhelming desire for Harry Potter.
I'd never really asked myself what would happen if he refused me. I'd never really acknowledged that I truly wanted him. I didn't think past the immediate moment; once I'd given in, I just did whatever my heart told me to do, blindly.
It was still a soul-shocking surprise when he kissed me back.
As for what happened after that…I'd rather not go into it, but let's just say that it was mindless and completely fulfilling.
I watch him flying, reading, stumbling out of bed tousled and unseeing, and I love him. He's got a unique kind of grace, with a sort of precision to it that I've never seen in anyone else. It's like he pauses in space till he knows exactly what or where he's going to, then goes there, just precisely there. He's rarely languid; he's unmoving, then instantly purposeful. Like a heron, or some other hunting creature, motionless then striking. It's a peculiar sort of beauty, almost gawky in moments of stillness, only truly appreciated when observed in both stillness and action. Beautiful in the difference between the two states, not in the strict observation of either. When I'm at my most open, my most laughing and thoughtless, I call him my waterbird. He's never figured out why.
I've not been sorry for a moment since I stopped demanding control of myself. Not a single moment. Not facing his friends, or mine, not when my father threatened to disown me, not revealing our love to the press and public, not even in the worst parts of our inevitable arguments when he's wanted to leave me. I wouldn't change a second of it all. What I've chosen, no matter how unexpected, no matter the consequences, is the most precious thing I ever could have gained.
I'm just fortunate I tripped and stumbled into it. Despite the efforts I put into avoiding it, I managed to fall. And I'm eternally grateful that I did. Even if falling is completely unlike a Malfoy.