Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. THey belong to J.K. Rowling.
Rating: 10+
AN: Just a little drabble. It's nothing to get excited over, but I do hope you enjoy it.
A bit of Fault and Folly
It is not in the demands of heat,
longing, or of fleeting desires that love resides.
Instead, it is in cold bite of logic,
the pain of misapprehension,
and absolution derived of doubt
that one may truly claim to be love's fool.
It is in the acceptance, the exultation,
of our own fault, banality, and folly
that we find a true, unquenchable, passion,
more real and lasting than the sweetest gesture
or prettily turned phrase.
And, when we stand before the raging maw of death,
will we falter in our path at the thought of longing's pride,
will we stumble and fall in the face of past desires lost?
Or, will we continue, unashamedly, into the bowels of oblivion,
resolute, jubilantly clad in our fault and folly,
and invulnerable in the knowledge that we have loved?
Her eyes watered and stung as her fingers traced the dark ink and creased lines. The door creaked when the office's owner returned from places unknown. She looked up to see him stopped, shocked, in his own doorway. The candles set his beard aflame and his eyes to dancing. She didn't even bother to hide the evidence of her distress as they burned down her cheeks. Despite them, she smiled a tremulous smile and turned. His lips moved as she did, but no sound followed. His eyes locked on the parchment carried in her shaking hand and his breath stopped. She stopped before him, stomach to stomach, and looked up into the wary depths. He smelled of apples, and the silk of his arm was cool as her fingers trailed to his cheek. Her fingers clenched as she pulled herself up slightly higher, her lips grazing his flushed cheek on their journey to his ear. She never saw his eyes close or his throat bob, but she could feel him tremor. "I know your faults, Albus." Her free hand caressed his cheek, holding him to her almost desperately. "Now, tell me of your follies."
