A/N: Yeah idk. I was just in an angsty mood today, and listened to a bunch of Marina & the Diamonds songs. Go check out this playlist for Marina songs to listen to while reading this: playlist?list=PLIg5s3ZyD0q2AFig6b7d7AnkkHKxl1zzZ

If you can guess which Marina song on the playlist I wrote this to fit the theme of, I'll write a fanfic based on the rarry prompts you give me :)

Ours is a quiet love, by the dark shade of midnight.

I have nothing else to think of during these moments, except of mirrored luminescence in the lake, sombre dark of midnight, and red hair a colourful contrast to my mourning.

You were an oddity, a refreshment to the long periods of dark in my life.

You, with your broken toys, hand-me-down clothing, large family, and even larger heart.

When your mother caught us by your pond behind the wooden swings, I remember her look of understanding as she silently crept back into the Burrow, leaving us in peace. I don't think you ever even saw her. I did. I saw everything, every little detail as a child, and I continue to. I see too much.

I sometimes wondered, when I lay awake on silent nights, how my dearest Aunt Petunia would have reacted upon the same sight? She might have killed us both. Not like she hasn't tried once before, though I suppose that had just been me. Another person, that isn't your ward, is quite a different story. Perhaps she would have kicked us out? I don't wish to know.

Uncle Vernon is less intelligent. He would have shot us with his rifle, only the latest model of course, on sight. The damn fags, I can hear him mutter. I almost feel fond when I imagine it. Family is family after all, I suppose. Though I suspect that my family has never even remotely thought of me with fondness in return.

Maybe they miss their slave, and Dudley his punching bag. Better than nothing.

You complain of how you feel overlooked by your family, how your achievements are nothing in the face of accomplished men as your eldest brothers. I would die to feel as you do, dearest Ronald. Your biggest problem in life is the dreaded middle child syndrome. It is remarkable.

You do not feel nearly as cold as I do, and it deeply shows in your actions. You do not hesitate when you show me affection, whether it be a kiss or a beautifully written love letter. Though you would hate to admit it, I know you are a romantic at heart.

I feel terribly jealous when I see this. You don't even hesitate on things I will always be left questioning. You have never stopped providing your love, your boundless affection, to those that you care for.

I am a quite different person, my love. I know you feel unloved by me, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I do not show affection as freely as you, that is true. But I hope you can see love in my eyes when we walk together by the lake at dark midnight.

You are an open, honest person. You do not like secrets. To you, our love should be just as open, as free to the world as you are. You dislike a quiet love.

To me, love is as silent as a spring breeze, and as deeply contemplative as dark winter nights. Love does not need exaggeration or overt publicity. Love is just the primal connection between two people, the bond that holds life together, that can be found within the eyes of another person. No need for words or declaration. Seeing is enough.

You are different, and I respect that. You need open declarations of love, exaggerated gestures, and constant validation from your partner. Sometimes, I cannot give you that.

No one has ever loved me. Baggy Harry Potter, with the broken glasses and too-thin frame and horrible hair. I am far from beautiful. What am I, compared to people like Fleur Delacour? No one has ever liked me during my childhood, not even teachers, and I don't think they would have even without Dudley's influence.

You were different. You were new, special. You were the only person that had ever been kind to me. The most important person in my life, my everything. I am not foolish enough to believe that I mean just as much to you. It is not your fault. How can someone, surrounded by love and constant affection their whole life, to the point where they take it for granted, feel the ways I feel for you? The only person who cared. It will always be different.

As you have grown up, you have become a magnificent man. Smart, brave, and accomplished. Just as you always desired. You have matured in other ways as well, and quite handsomely I will say. When girls never paid any attention to you before, when you were lanky and freckly and just unremarkable Ron Weasley, they are practically throwing themselves at you now. You have not noticed yet, but someday you will. People do not remain oblivious forever.

I desperately hope, the day that you understand your own self-worth, that you do not throw me away in favour of other, better suitors, such as Lavender Brown. Maybe it's selfish that I worry so, but I am not ashamed to admit that I am terrified of this happening.

The day might come closer than I anticipate. You have been asking me, every day, to make our love public, for strangers to gawk at us and form their own perverted, invasive conclusions about our relationship. I refuse. I hate attention, but you thrive on it.

Someday, you will get tired. Tired of ugly Harry Potter, with the broken soul and the broken heart. Someday, you will look for greener pastures, for better love that I cannot give you.

I try. I try so hard. It's not enough, it has never been enough. Why am I never enough? Soon your need for an open love will eventually cloud over any fondness you might have for me, and we will be parted.

I will take the love I can get now. Perhaps it was foolish to believe that things could ever be different from when I was a child. No matter what, I will always be broken Harry Potter, unloved and unwanted by even his own family. No one has ever even remotely liked me. What made you any different? Soon you will realise the same as these people, and leave me as well. I just wish you didn't pretend to love me first.

When you hold me, I know it is borrowed time that I keep you. The thought of you embracing another lover the way you did me tortures me inside, though I know that it will soon become reality instead of fantasy. That day will be several times more unbearable.

Though I suppose that it is selfish to want to keep you. You have a free heart, free desires, and open love. I can only restrict you, my love. The endless midnight walks will come to an end, the silent musings as we held each other will be no longer, and I fear that I will break that day.

But you deserve better, and what am I in the end? What do my desires matter? I am just the child soldier, meant to fight and die in battle. You deserve more. In the grand scheme of things, I do not matter. I never have, and I never will.

You do matter. You matter more than you think you do, and you will grow to be a wonderful man. And when you live your fantastical life, I will be nothing more than a memory. A dark, gloomy memory. Nothing more, nothing less. I just ask, that maybe, once a year, you spend a second to remember me with a bit of fondness. All I ask. I hope it isn't much.

It is the day before the final battle, the day that will determine the times to come. I promise you, I will try my best to defeat Voldemort. If only for the sake of your future. I am no fool. I know I will die. But I hope, before I go, that I at least do some good for this world.

I suppose this is goodbye, my love, and I have little else to say. I will only think of our happier times, and hope that is enough.