Love

snarryislife

This is my response to the one-page wonder tear-jerking challenge.

Warnings: Despite the title, this is not a happy story. You want happy endings, go somewhere else.

Pairing: Suggested Snarry

Standard Disclaimer's Apply

They say love is a dangerous thing. And, maybe it is.

Or maybe it's just something people say to excuse the bastards in life.

Cuz love put a smile on my best friend's face.

It was an asshole who took it off.

My best friend had found his soulmate. He was happy, in love, and when he smiled, the smiles, for the first time in the seven year's I'd known him, finally reached his eyes.

They fit together,my best friend and his alpha. His Alpha was a good man, underneath all the snark and snarl.

I had hated him for a while, until my best friend told me that he loved the snarky git.

And the git loved my best friend back.

The man didn't say the words much, but, he seemed, I don't know, softer, with Harry. The man's face would relax, and his eye's would brighten, and there'd be this ghost of a smile. And they'd share soft touches, and those cliché fluttering hearts would be so obvious, yet not in your face.

They were just simply in love.

The old people love, the type of love that you see when you spot an old married couple walking together in the park. Or that old couple that eats in that same booth every Thursday evening, so in tune with each other that there's no need for words.

That type of love.

And then, that love was gone.

Because my best friend's soulmate was gone.

No, not like, he left for another country, or man, but, the he left, because that bitch with the unrequited crush killed him.

The bitch just happened to be my little sister, which made it all the more worse.

She had snuck into their home, a quaint little two bedroom cabin by a lake, with two rocking chairs on the front porch.

And she killed him, in his and Harry's bed, while they slept.

He didn't have a chance to defend himself.

Harry tried to kill himself, when his soulmate was no longer with him. The bitch wouldn't let him, she kept telling him that they could be together now. She was sentenced to Azkaban's Black Cells for 20 year's with the Dementor's kiss at the end.

Is it wrong of me, from where I stand today on the other side of the glass window, to wish that Harry had plunged the knife in himself that night, or that my sister had died before she met Harry?

I don't know, man, I don't know.

In St Mungo's Ward for the Mentally Unstable and Incurable, there is a room with a one-way glass window looking in from the hallway.

Every Tuesday, from one in the afternoon till five in the afternoon, a 30-something, muscular man with thick ginger hair stands gazing into that room.

Inside that room is another man, though this one is shrunken where the other is tall and filled out. His sickly black hair, once lush and so black it was almost blue, hangs limp and thinning in palm green eyes that once shinned chartreuse with mischief and devotion to one man. The man sets quietly beside a bed, his unseeing eyes gazing towards a wall, simply waiting.

Waiting on what, the healers can only guess.

But the man on the other side of the glass, he knows.

His best friend is waiting on a man who can no longer answer his silent cries. He is waiting on his soulmate to walk through a door that was never there on that wall. He is waiting on Death, to let him go home.

They say Love is a dangerous thing. And maybe it is.