Title: Walls
Rating: PG
Warnings: It's just some thoughtless fluff I wrote, again inspired by the geniosity of Raven. Angst? I don't know. I know it sucks and makes no sense, if that helps anybody. Oh, yes, the poem is called "Taming Forever" © Raven.
Summary: A poem scribbled on the bathroom wall makes Harry Potter wish for something more.
Archive: Go ahead.


I remember that it was one of those ... Twists of fate ... That brought us together through ... The blinding hate ... I don't quite remember what made me ... Think myself wise ... My heart too often broken by ... Such sordid lies ... But there you stood like a stranger ... In the rain ... A gray-shrouded angel here ... To end my pain ... When things got tough you ... Walked that mile ... And I was drawing all my strength ... From your precious smile ... But here we sit after ... All this time ... Every single kiss we share ... Is still sublime ... While for some this magic ... Might be gone ... Ours is still flowing ... Just as strong ... And we know our love is different ... From our past ... Because what we share right now ... Shall forever last

Harry's finger traced over those words, water dripping slowly from each fingertip. The water drenched the ink, black-stained liquid now running down the Gryffindor's olive-hued arms. But he didn't care. The poem was etched into his mind, along with the faint image of the poet's gray-shouldered angel. He sighed.

"I wish I had his angel." He whispered softly to himself and the empty bathroom, gripping his arms with his damp, ink-trailed hands. He scoffed, mentally scolding himself for thinking things. Yes, Harry Potter was loved by almost the entire wizarding population. Yes, Harry Potter had two best friends and the trust of many great people. But did Harry have anyone to truly love, and that person love him back? To have someone to love and cherish and the other do the same, as if it were fate that tied them together from the beginning... to have someone truly devote themselves to him, and will have no other. Someone, who in death, would force himself to continue living -just- -for- -him- -alone-. And someone, who will forever need and want him and him alone, and had always from far, far away.

No. He had nothing. All he had was a life of lies and loss, and for someone to do something like that for him, well, that was absurd. No one would ever dare do that for Harry Potter. He was nothing but the people's saviour. Nothing more than the current hero of the wizarding world.

The lanky Gryffindor stood up, looking at the semi-ruined poem. With a fleeting glare, he rushed to the sink and turned on the faucet, gathering the running water in his hands and showering it over the precious words scribbled on the wall. He wiped his arms free of the ink with his robe and stalked out of the bathroom.

A stall opened slowly, a small creak escaping the metal hinges of the cream-coloured door. A figure stepped out, grey eyes swimming with the familiar colourless hue of tears. Pale blonde tresses fell limply over the boy's eyes, hiding the tears that trickled like small rivers down from pooling orbs to the floor. But, unlike others that cried, this boy had a smile on his face. A solemn, docile smile that no one would have ever thought could come from the emotions that rested in this boy's being.

"You are his angel, Potter." He said forlornly, watching as the transluscent black leaks of the diluted poem on the wall slid to the ground.


-finis-