the journal - h.s.

84

The woman’s deep brown eyes suddenly grew soft - feather soft.

“He’s in the ceremonial hall, sweetie. That way,” she pointed to a door opposite to the one I had entered the room from. I nodded a single time hitching up in my bag. I felt every emotion running through me; frustration over Harry being so fucking stubborn and stupid about this, hurt that he wouldn’t let me in, heartbreaking sadness because I absolutely hated seeing him like this and the deepest most suffocating most horrible feeling of such deep love for him. I loved him so stupidly endlessly; and this was just all wrong - so wrong. This entire situation was nauseating and just outrageously wrong.

I knew why he acted like this towards me; and therefore I felt acidic fire of plain hatred towards Harry’s father and whoever else was doing this to him. It burnt in my chest and exceeded everything else. Or maybe that very poisonous emotion was just feeding from all the others.

For whatever reason I just knew Harry would have to tear me to fucking pieces himself before I would give up on what we had - as long as I could see he still felt the same way. No one was going to pressure him into letting go of something he didn’t want to; force the mask on him. He wouldn't have to push me away in order to 'protect me'.

I wiped my eyes with the sleeve again. My breath heavy. I stopped outside the wide double door which with golden letters had ‘ceremonial hall’ written in an elegant cursive writing. The letters were blurry. With my heart beating out of my chest, the blood rushing in my veins, the thoughts out shouting each other - I didn’t even hear the faint delicate melody which floated from the room I was about to enter.

 

[harry’s pov]

The colors floated together. The pale blue lake mixing with the dusty green treetops. The grey sky softly blowing its color into the most beautiful blend. Into the most breathtaking eye color that would watch me with shy stolen gazes. Gazes that would be accompanied by smiles that tore my world apart and put every piece back into even more perfect place. And I saw her again; she had found her way into my vision, into my mind. No matter what I tried to occupy my mind with she returned. Even from the childhood memories of those dull faint afternoons in the park - she was even there in the mix of the colors of the park. She was in every note I played. She was in every single one of my breaths. The touch of her soft skin under my fingertips felt so real and burning.

But I had forced myself to walk away. Forced myself not to go over and touch her skin or kiss her lips. And I tried desperately forcing her out of my mind again. I tried. I tried so hard I couldn’t keep up anything else. I imagined her leaving the hotel, waiting for me to call maybe. Maybe she imagined I just needed time. I tried not to think about how she would react when that call never came. I forced myself not to think of her. But all her little things; all her small details; all of her persona just kept floating in and were making me sink. I couldn’t stay afloat when she was the widest ocean and the only thing I could see. She was my everything - like I had told Aria.

“You get too attached Harry. That is your weakness. Learn to control it. Never let others know.” The words from my father floated through my mind as I played the melody that had echoed through our otherwise quiet house those stolen afternoons. When he would be out on business trips and couldn’t tell me what to practice on; what to learn. Tell me that Chopin or Beethoven or Debussy were more appropriate. I had found the sheet notes for this piece at the public library; Meredith had given me a sly grin and pretended she hadn’t noticed me slipping the sheet notes of Comptine d'un autre été into the stack of books we were about to lend. The melody from that French movie Amélie, which I had been allowed to see.

I had been a young boy with dreamy eyes - how could she tell me no? I had packed away the music notes in the same place I had hidden the cartoons she had given me; only occasionally bringing out the strange music sheets and with wide eyes watched the front page with the yellow letters and the deep contrast of green and red colors. Only rarely letting my eyes wander over the black pattern of music notes that held the sound of an adventure. And only on those days when I saw my chance - did I try to play it on our piano at home. The one in the livingroom where I had spent hours practicing. And with every faint note I played, I had prayed with all of my heart that he would return home and that none of the servants would tell on me. They had never done so.