Disclaimer: I own nothing.
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We leave that scarlet train behind, its bright crimson hue already fading in the photo album of our minds, a memory in the millions of ones that flicker through our minds as we leave the past behind.
His grey eyes watch me, with that quiet, closed stare. Harry and Ron leave – maybe they feel it too, feel that strange and not entirely unfamiliar magic weaving its way around us, building seamless walls, blocking out the cheerful noise from the crowd below us, celebrating the darkest night of the year.
The two of us, such opposites - green and silver, red and gold – unwritten rules which bind us from each other, and yet so many more that pull us together.
He walks over with his silent step, eyes still interlocked with mine - they flicker, and I see the real him, the one who hides behind a mask of coldness. Those eyes seem old now, older than one his age should have, still haunted by memories and pain all too fresh in his mind.
We've all been through too much, too much. Death has touched us all too many times, in too many different places. We know no safety, no welcoming arms. We know only pain, and death, and disappointment.
He nears, pale thin face mere inches from mine, his silver hair falling across those expressive eyes. Those slim fingers of his, they look so big compared to mine.
Such elegant beauty he holds, his entire frame speaking of grace, slender and with a quiet charm, moonlight and shadows and silken silver, mysterious and compelling in my eyes.
Sometimes I wonder how long this can go on, this lie of a life. And sometimes I admit that it is already falling apart. Other days, though, I try to make believe that we're going to go on living like this forever.
He caresses my cheek slowly, his voice whispering softly, like the night wind winding through darkness, murmurs of nothings that I would still die to hear.
Time slows, we draw nearer, two people lost to each other and lost to the world, at least in this instance. A last – yes, last, for when would we ever get to meet again – kiss, his lips on mine, his fingers in my hair, my arms around his neck.
The moment breaks and we step apart, the real world starting to edge in again, my eyes begging him not to do it, not to end this magic that cannot be conjured by any spoken word and a wand, but by two people in love.
A pained silence fills the space where I used to be, and then he speaks.
"I'm sorry. It just can't be this way."
A pause, as emptiness seeps in – or out? – As a heavy feeling of inevitability settles amidst the loud chatter in the background, now loud and obnoxious in my ears.
Words choked by sorrow – tears threaten, his gaze wavers, "I wish it could," I whisper softly into his neck, my tears already staining the shirt he's wearing, and one last thing of mine that he takes with him into the dark.
Why can't he even cry? He still is not able to lose his mask –
His eyes harden, a sheet of ice over a whirlpool of emotions, and he disappears into the crowd, sound and bodies enveloping him, and I lose sight of his white-blond hair in the masses of the morning light.
A tormenting emptiness falls over me, as I turn around, and walk into the dark, contemplating one question.
If another time, place, could it have been, or were you just not able to own up and know that what we felt was real?
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Yes, more emotionally distraught stories. Happy now?
A