wolfstarbaby:

i-feel-mortality-surround-me:

When Ron asks him, eyes not meeting, as the sun sets on the second day, Harry stops.
He is thinking of crunching leaves and waving branches and vicious laughter and then silence.
“It’s like a punch in the stomach,” he says.

When Hermione asks him, with a soft voice and her head on his shoulder, Harry frowns.
His parents’ graves spring to mind: strong and proud under all that snow.
“It’s like a burial,” he tells her.

When George asks him, with too many tears in his desperate eyes, Harry holds his breath.
He is trying to remember how it feels to laugh.
“It’s like waiting for the punchline,” he lies.

When Neville asks him, with a trembling voice and a nervous smile, Harry sniffs.
He can smell wet grass and stale dirt and the sharp scrape of fresh blood and a little bit of fear.
“It’s like tripping over your own feet,” he offers.

When Luna asks him, with an expression that suggests she already know the answer, Harry sighs.
His head is starting to pound and his brain begins to buzz, bouncing around his skull.
“It’s like waking up in reverse,” he shrugs.

When Ginny asks him, with sweaty twisted fingers and a dying fire in her voice, Harry has to press his hands against his face.
He sees popping lights and remembers a lot of green, a lot of red, a lot of noise.
“I don’t know,” he confesses.

When Fleur asks him, sharp pointed syllables after too many glasses of wine, Harry almost laughs.
He feels something dripping at the corner of his mind, but doesn’t care to pursue it.
“It’s like the pause between two songs on the radio,” he answers.

When a reporter asks him for the twentieth time, shuffled paper and an enchanted microphone in hand, Harry hexes her.
He hears voices ringing in his ears, can imagine tomorrow’s headline.
“None of your fucking business,” he chokes.

When Teddy asks him all those years later, with a creased photograph that shows a tall man in grey robes and a woman with bubblegum hair, Harry closes his eyes.
He is back at the edge of the forest, staring at faded impressions of his family, wondering the same thing himself. His godfather’s words float through the air with a fragile sort of truth.
“It’s quicker and easier than falling asleep,” he whispers.

Fucking poetry

thatsadifferentstory:

A patronus, Harry tells Hermione, is acing a test and the warmth of a butterbeer between your hands. It is your friends holding you when you fall, and Ron’s sparkling eyes when you whisper hi. And there’s an otter, swimming, and Hermione is blushing.

A patronus, Harry tells Ron, is Ginny’s shaky smile lighting up the world at the end of second year. It is winning the Quidditch World Cup, unwrapping yet another knitted jumper, and your startled surprise at the sight of Hermione punching Draco in the face. And there’s a dog, chasing the otter, and Ron is laughing.

A patronus, Harry tells Luna, is the feeling of starlight on your skin and grass between your bare toes. It is snow melting through your fingers, the magic your mother used to make, something singing in your heart when you stare at the impossible. And there’s a hare, jumping, and Luna is shining.

A patronus, Harry tells Cho, is Marietta shouting the lyrics of her favourite song, dancing in the rain during a storm. It is the look on Cedric’s face when he saw you at the Yule Ball, his hand holding yours and never letting go. And there’s a swan, sliding, and Cho is crying.

A patronus, Harry tells Seamus, is Dean’s funny expression when he is about to burst into laughter and the sound of a explosion that turns out right. It is the fireworks, bright flowers blossoming in the night sky; and the fire burning in your lungs as you fly. And there’s a fox, running, and Seamus is smirking.

A patronus, Harry tells Ginny, is the world expanding underneath you and the wind playing with your hair. It is dancing and laughing until there are tears on your cheeks, Molly’s disapproving voice and Arthur’s amused eyes after one of the twins’ pranks. And there’s a horse, flying, and Ginny is grinning.

A patronus, Harry thinks, is that weird feeling that lives in his chest when the Room of Requirement glows silver, speaking of times when the world was golden.