InsaneJournal

Lovers

Why do they have to be everywhere? Why do I have to see them everywhere I look?

Fourth year, the Yule Ball. Couples swirling around, their dress robes bright and shining, laughter as everyone had fun. Two seventh years kissing in the corner, the blonde’s hands buried in the brunette’s hair, their robes a patchwork, a rainbow that shone out from their corner, making everyone smile when they saw them. Krum as he bestowed smiles on Granger, how her face lit up when she noticed them, even as the blush crept down her cheeks. The rustling from the bushes outside when he excused himself from Pansy and took a breath of fresh air for a moment – although the squeals he half heard were worse. Even Padma Patil and her boy from Beauxbatons, kissing when Potter and the Weasel were otherwise engaged.

Am I constantly going to be plagued by them, wherever I go? Do they have to exist?

Fifth year, on prefect duties. He liked the duties, enjoyed the sense of power over everyone else, but he hated the rounds – or, more specifically, one part of the rounds. He hated the Astronomy Tower. He hated the giggling couples that he had to send back to their dorms after curfew. He hated finding the half-naked ones, not hidden well enough for him to miss. He hated the way the whole tower seemed to exude an air of smugness, how it seemed to think that it was better than he was because it held these lovers in its embrace, allowed them space to explore each other, and never gave him the same opportunity.

Do they always have to be so nauseating? Can’t they act with more discretion in public; pretend they the other doesn’t exist, for example?

Sixth year, fixing the cabinet. He was tired, he was hot, he’d had the unpleasant experience of seeing Potter and the Weasley runt making out under a tree when he’d gone for a walk at lunch time, and he thought that the Prefect’s bathroom would be empty. He was wrong, of course. Opening the door, he heard a familiar voice, one that he recognised from that day in the bathroom, with Potter. Moaning Myrtle’s laugh was joined by the calm voice of Helena Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady, Ravenclaw’s house ghost. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, their voices were too quiet, but as he pushed the door open, wondering whether he could ask them to leave so he could have his bath in piece, he caught sight of them and realised that they probably wouldn’t notice him having a bath anyway. Myrtle’s hands were in Helena’s hair, her next laugh was breathless as Helena did… something… with her tongue, and he really didn’t need to see any part of their bodies usually hidden beneath layers of ghostly fabric. Scowling, he left.

Why do they have to be so happy about it all the time? Yeah, so, they got sex, sex isn’t that great! Stop being so bloody cheerful!

Seventh year, the Dark Lord in his house. His mother and father had never kissed as much as they did now, when they were ‘alone’. His being there didn’t seem to deter them like it once had. He knew it was because it was the closest they could really get to being alone with the rest of the Death Eaters around, but he wished it wasn’t the case. Everyone at school was more passionate, too. He lost count of how many times he walked into people in dark corners of the school: desperate to get some action in before the Carrows caught them, or started making educational decrees like Umbridge had. He remembered the only time Carrow had looked tender was when he was looking at a picture he kept on his desk; a beautiful woman, a smile on her face. He had to put silencing charms on his bed because Theo and his fifth year boyfriend kept him awake all night otherwise – even their whispered words disturbed him, set him on edge, and why they never spent the night in Martin’s bed he’d never know. The best news he could’ve heard all year was that Potter and the Weasley runt were no longer going out, that he’d been all noble and dumped her. He’d never have to walk into one of their make-out sessions ever again.

Don’t you stupid people realise how imbecilic you look, with your goofy expressions, your declarations of undying love? It’s enough to make any sane wizard sick.

His wedding, the wedding of the year, although not for reasons that he would’ve wanted. Astoria didn’t seem to care that most people were there because he was an ‘escaped’ Death Eater, and not because she was going to be Witch Weekly’s Bride of the Year. Granger and Weasel where there, their hands together, their looks of hostility mellowed somewhat. Potter too, standing next to the Weasley runt, his green eyes burning into him. He could always tell when Potter was looking at him, had always craved the scorching gaze. That night, as he pounded into Astoria, as she lay like a limp fish beneath him, he imagined those brilliant eyes staring back at him, their colour lost in the darkness but their expression undiminished. When he finally slipped into sleep he found a familiar figure standing there, arms reaching out to enclose him, lips pressing against his temple, his cheek, his lips. There was a beach, the soft sound of surf against the sand, the feeling of being wanted, of being loved – all the things that he had yearned for from the one person who would never be able to give them to him, all the things that everyone else had and that he could never have.

Why can’t I be as happy as them? Why can’t I have him?