To tell the truth, he hated it. He hated every bit of it. He hated how the
corners of her mouth would twitch when "Ron" was mentioned, how the twinkle
in her eyes was reserved for him. He hated how she would smile when he
walked over, maybe even give him a hug; but when Ron appeared, her face
would light up and she would pull him into an embrace. He hated that. He
hated how he would never know the fierceness of her kisses, the taste of
her neck, and the sound of her breathing late, late at night. He would
never experience any of that, never. Ever. It made him angry to think of
his best friend being what he could never be. So what if he was the-boy-who-
lived? He didn't care. He didn't want to be himself anymore. Ron wanted his
fame? He could have it. Wanted his scar? Take it. Take his entire identity.
He only wanted to be one person. He wanted to be the one who was allowed to
hold her, hold her close and know that she felt the same way about him.
That was all he wanted.
He needed her.
He needed her.
He needed her.
But she didn't need him the way he needed her. Sure, he was her friend. They laughed together; they would joke, jest, smile and throw their masks away. Yes, they did that. It wasn't hard, considering they were the best of friends. Not hard at all. But when the mask was shattered, when it cracked, she needed someone to help her. Someone to help her find all the pieces and glue them back. That someone was not he. How he wished it were he. How he prayed. He prayed so hard, his own mask shattered beneath his feet. The gods remained untouched and unmoved. They frowned on him and made her smile pierce through him even more. The soft curls of her mahogany locks... they bound him to her, every strand of hair tempting him, urging him to break the bounds. But he didn't. He still valued friendship. What if he told her? What if? What would she say? What would Ron say? What would they DO? He didn't dare elaborate on his thoughts. He didn't want to. He didn't want to see his reflection in a better light.
He was ugly. He was so ugly inside that he was ashamed of himself. And he was jealous. Jealous like there was no tomorrow. He wanted to tear them away from each other forcefully, covering his ears so that he wouldn't hear their protestations. Then, after long thought, he realized that he didn't have enough hands to do that. He hated himself for thinking that way. He hated being so torn up. Finding ways to avoid them had become his only mission. Grades were forgotten and NEWTs were thrown aside. He didn't care at all. How could anyone even expect him to care? But they still did. They expected Mr. Potter to achieve the best grades, to reach beyond the limits. He was their saviour, and he needed to act like one.
He couldn't be selfish, he couldn't get hurt. But he was, but he did. He was pathetic. He was so pathetic he disgusted himself. Disguised under his regular costume, he played his role. He did his part. Straining, trying so hard to forget about her. For his sake, for her sake, for his best friends' sake. He wouldn't let himself think about her anymore. Oh, he wished he could forget her. He WISHED. The more he tried to ignore, to avoid, the more they approached him, faces etched with care. It was disgusting. He longed to shake both of them as hard as he could and wake them up. He wanted to scream at them, curse at the top of his lungs. If only they would wake up. If only there was a cure for the spell of love. But there wasn't, and he knew it. Of course he knew. He was cursed with it himself. Bloody love.
He hated it.
Bloody, bloody love.
Loving meant knowing when to let go... and he knew it was time.
Tonight, he would let go. Standing in front of the mirror, holding his memory of her and rubbing it against his face, he would let go. Let go completely.
In the absence of laughter, he was unbound.
He needed her.
He needed her.
He needed her.
But she didn't need him the way he needed her. Sure, he was her friend. They laughed together; they would joke, jest, smile and throw their masks away. Yes, they did that. It wasn't hard, considering they were the best of friends. Not hard at all. But when the mask was shattered, when it cracked, she needed someone to help her. Someone to help her find all the pieces and glue them back. That someone was not he. How he wished it were he. How he prayed. He prayed so hard, his own mask shattered beneath his feet. The gods remained untouched and unmoved. They frowned on him and made her smile pierce through him even more. The soft curls of her mahogany locks... they bound him to her, every strand of hair tempting him, urging him to break the bounds. But he didn't. He still valued friendship. What if he told her? What if? What would she say? What would Ron say? What would they DO? He didn't dare elaborate on his thoughts. He didn't want to. He didn't want to see his reflection in a better light.
He was ugly. He was so ugly inside that he was ashamed of himself. And he was jealous. Jealous like there was no tomorrow. He wanted to tear them away from each other forcefully, covering his ears so that he wouldn't hear their protestations. Then, after long thought, he realized that he didn't have enough hands to do that. He hated himself for thinking that way. He hated being so torn up. Finding ways to avoid them had become his only mission. Grades were forgotten and NEWTs were thrown aside. He didn't care at all. How could anyone even expect him to care? But they still did. They expected Mr. Potter to achieve the best grades, to reach beyond the limits. He was their saviour, and he needed to act like one.
He couldn't be selfish, he couldn't get hurt. But he was, but he did. He was pathetic. He was so pathetic he disgusted himself. Disguised under his regular costume, he played his role. He did his part. Straining, trying so hard to forget about her. For his sake, for her sake, for his best friends' sake. He wouldn't let himself think about her anymore. Oh, he wished he could forget her. He WISHED. The more he tried to ignore, to avoid, the more they approached him, faces etched with care. It was disgusting. He longed to shake both of them as hard as he could and wake them up. He wanted to scream at them, curse at the top of his lungs. If only they would wake up. If only there was a cure for the spell of love. But there wasn't, and he knew it. Of course he knew. He was cursed with it himself. Bloody love.
He hated it.
Bloody, bloody love.
Loving meant knowing when to let go... and he knew it was time.
Tonight, he would let go. Standing in front of the mirror, holding his memory of her and rubbing it against his face, he would let go. Let go completely.
In the absence of laughter, he was unbound.