Ideal Illusions

His Obsession

He could keep on staring if that was how he intended it to be. To keep that aloof stature at his heels, and appear calm and uncaring. Because that was what he was supposed to be, what he was made out to be.

He could let that smile drift on, upon his face, ever so carelessly that he did not notice the facade enveloping his being. Until the feeling consumed into him.

Letting him choke up on the emotion. That if he wanted to get away, he couldn’t, because she would turn.

He wouldn’t let her notice, even if it meant suffocating himself, little by little. Even if the edges of his mind would blur together, acquitting the deliverance of his death.

If his dramatic symbolisms were to be correct.

If he so much as cried, she would run to him. Look into his eyes with a look he could only begin to fathom.

It was not that he minded the position she could eloquently place. For he had imagined it plenty of times. When sleep over took him, and the thought of both of them together was not laughable.

That her sweet ringing laughter could be heard. And her mirthful eyes would look at him, sharing a merciful secret. That only he and she would understand. An untold secret that he dare not voice aloud.

At least not right now, when reality was gracing him. Delivering her sweet laughter across the room, only when she knew he was not there.

It was this fact alone that hindered him of the chance. A chance he at first thought of to be possible. The ideal idea of both of them together.

It was only when he slipped in the shadows; not letting her know he was there, could he then only fantasize of them both.

“Don’t be silly! It will matter if you put that in there.”

How he wished she could speak to him in that uncaring tone. The one where she wouldn’t slip behind this mask she had made, albeit unwillingly. As it was this price she had to pay for being with him. But only if it could be so much more.

If only he was not who he was made out to be.

If only he was who she was with, with no baggage to claim.

If he ignored the person beside her, he could slip into that state of conscience he had acquired. The alternate world he had proposed to himself when this situation began.

Only would his tension cease, if her hands glided down his back. Only would his body shiver should she place her butterfly kisses on his shoulder. Only would sweet bliss conquer him when her eyes turned to him. Telling him that she wanted, no needed, him as much as he needed her.

It was the neurotic moments that kept this hope alive with him. The one fire he wanted to extinguish. If only to save the little bit of sanity he had left in him.

But he himself couldn’t let go. Not if what he imagined were to be true.

That she could possibly feel something more, like he did to her. Like he wished for in the deep hours of the night.

With his body curled up in a fetal position. He rested his head on his knees. Did he dare think back on his friend in that way? He kept berating himself to give up on this illusion of both of them together.

But his mind would violently protest. Into which he would cry out in mercy that this obsession was not plausible. The idea of him and she was destructible.

But that snide voice would contradict him. Exclaiming that what was a disaster was she and the one she was with.

Shaking his head furiously, he would proclaim that if it was such a fiasco then how come they were still together? Though the voice inside him would snort in desperation and tell him to look deeper, and to ask himself of how she looked upon him.

With this he could only desperately say it was his imagination. That these dreams were getting to him. No way in the seven hells did they stand a chance.

But it would object him, with his actual belief in his statements. That only when he thought this over, he would quietly shut up.

And the process would start all over again. The pattern binding into his veins. Feigning the illusion of what he thought of the proclamation. That the beginning could only bring on that vague sense of a déjà vu.

That he would forget at every new cycle.

His shoulders then shook softly. That owlishly did he blink to stop the darkness from overtaking his pupils. But as his vision came around so did she.

She was kneeling on her knees worriedly looking at him. Her hair was tussled over, that few curling strands were framing her face. Probably tickling her nose, as she delicately scrunched it.

Oh, how much he wanted to brush them away. If only to feel the soft texture at his fingertips.

“Harry? What are you doing here? And especially at this time in the night.” She furiously whispered over at him.

He could only take her frantic tone, for that is all she would give to him. All that she could ever think of giving to him.

Her eyes widened in panic, “Don’t tell me... did something happen Harry!?!”

Of course she would think that some event had occurred. Never would the thought possibly cross her mind, that he would listen to her from behind a corner.

“No,” he quietly told her. “I was just looking for you.”

She smiled a bit shyly at him. Then curiously gazed at the surroundings, not quite meeting his gaze.

“Whatever for? Why would you need me?”

He chuckled quietly at her reply. “Whatever would I need you for? Hermione that is about the stupidest question I have ever heard from you.”

Her eyes almost bulged out at the word stupid. Like it is against the law to include ‘stupid’ and ‘Hermione’ in a sentence.

He found her action too captivating to not stop his finger from brushing her cheek. As they made contact, he abruptly catched the look flicker in her eyes.

The one she would wear for him in the sequences of the night. It is with this newfound courage that he allowed himself to whisper:

“For everything.”