Sunny (sunny_serenity) wrote,

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i should've kissed you when we were alone

He could show up at her door three sheets to the wind pissed out of his mind and offer himself to her. He'd show up with his bleeding heart on his damn sleeve. He'd daringly put himself out there on the precipice, force her to pull him back, save him from himself like she always did. She had already calculated the cost. He should have known. His realisation come three years too late... ten years too late. He was never good with numbers unless it was keeping score in Quidditch anyway.

He could be the one to object to their 'bonded for life' before it was sealed, written somewhere in a sodding enchanted book. But then, he'd never get to hold her again like he did that night, that morning, he tried to make her forget. This time it's slower and he holds her farther away from him than before. It wasn't more than comfort back then, no more than it is a celebration now. It doesn't explain their near immobility to the uptempo. He was never good at keeping time either. There was a reason McGonagall gave a thirteen year old who wasn't Ron or him a time turner. He wondered if she still had it.

He could tell his wife he'd be tied up with meetings of reform and policy until late. Then skive off work to hang out in her office all day and play with various objects on her desk. He'd gladly suffer the look of indignation just to have her look at him again. He was never good at apologies except when it came to her. This time he wasn't sure what he was apologising for.

He could say he had no regrets. He was happy with his life, his beautiful children, his gorgeous wife, his wonderfully extended family and they'd gobble it all up. You'd think he was royalty with all the press he got. What he doesn't say is how much it cost him to have all that, all he had to let go of and give up so they could see him happy. A saviour mustn't reveal his private suffering in the face of flashing bulbs and Quick Quote Quills. He thinks she's the only one that notices. He was never good at saying what he meant. She was ever the only one to know the difference.

He could carry it by himself, no need for sharing the burden. Feeling more than the weight of saving the world on his shoulders. Feel it sink down through his ribs, compress his spine and firmly root his feet deep into the very earth he died on. He can't remember when he started to betray himself, to betray the ones he loved. Unintentionally, of course. He'd never become what he hated, what Vernon and Petunia taught him not to be. He'd never pass on his self-loathing to the ones he was supposed to care for, love. Except she's there. She's always there. Silent by his side watching their children play at the beginnings of their greatest adventures. He was never good at hiding things from her.

i'd blame damien rice... apparently i had feelings at three am. i'll just leave this here.
Tags: fronting as a scribe: fanfic, potter!verse, potter!verse: kiiiiiiiiiids, what the what?!

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