Discaimer: I own nothing at all, especially nothing like Harry Potter and all of its creative genius
If any one noticed that this story has been removed like fifty times, its because at first it was in the wrong catagory, then i forgot to write a disclaimer,,, and then I dunno, but sorry and HERE IT IS :P
Please REVIEW!!! Flames are used to toast marshmallows
Irony. That one word seems to be the one word that could explain my whole life.
That one word can demonstrate every one of my many demises, my many destructions.
It was irony that Peter was the traitor. The one who caused so much pain and the one who instilled so much fear, was the one with the least strength and the least talent. It was irony that we didn't see that Peter was the traitor before, it was irony that we didn't see the one who always followed the crowd would be the one who got caught up on the wrong side of the war. It was ironic.
My life is ironic.
It is ironic that I am an innocent man, locked in a prison for the rest of my life. It was ironic that a trail could have proven my innocence, but that I never got one. It was ironic that I am paying the dues from another man's crimes.
It is irony that I am to blame for the death of my best friend, who I swore to protect with my life, and that because of it I was divided from the one thing I could never part with.
And it is ironic, that the only view from my decrepit window is that of the moon. It is ironic how the moon always out shines the stars so I can only see it. It is irony that the one thing that resembles what I miss the most, the one thing that resembles what I loved the best, is the only view I can get from here.
It is ironic how I think I can still hear him calling my name. It is ironic how it has none of the tenderness he used before. How he now treats my name like some curse, some poison.
The world screams irony when I sit here and decay in my prison, my curse, and yet I watch your curse ripen and wane every night.
It is ironic how we were ripped apart, how we were destined for misery. It is ironic how I think of you with all the love as I did before, and that you think of me, not as your mate, not as your love, but as a filthy traitor.
It is painful, unjust, and unforgivable, that I should be kept away from him. Yet it is irony that my most searing pain is seeing that moon every night, and yet it is my driving source of survival, my most cherished hope.
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