Down
because I wanted a link to the beginning
He feels like he's drowning again, only this time, it's not lust, it's sorrow and despair. He can feel Dumbledore's watchful, thoughtful eyes gazing down on him, see McGonagall's concerned face buckling under the weight of wrinkles that mark worry and despair, but it barely registers under the weight of the current that is submerging him, dragging him under and down, down, down. The sights in front of him are as blurry and faded as a watercolour painting, and all he can see is Lily's vivid hair and eyes shining fiercely in his mind.
He can't breathe, and he feels this burning, aching desire to destruct to rage and to rip himself apart and to kill. That image is wounding him, digging a knife into his side and she's … she's dead, and the ocean is dragging him down again.
Down, down, down.
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Because it seems that, currently, I can't write Teddy Lupin for the life of me