L'optimisme by Aphoride
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Was there only silence because neither of us knew what to say, or was it because we knew everything there was to be said?
I had expected confinement. What I had found was freedom.
It was not peace that I felt then, nothing like it, but it was comfort on some minor level.
The Elder Wand was inside, I was outside, and my blood ran hot in my veins.
Arrogance is always such a costly trait.
Loneliness, the painful separation of man from the pack, may be what kills me in the end, I think.
Once is forgivable; twice is not.
I was only interested in trying to work out how long it would take her to die.
I had to succeed; there was no question about that. It was imperative.
Ruthless and cruel of me, yes, but I do so hate to be denied.
Ah, but sense and love never did go hand-in-hand, and logic is all too easy to push aside.
Tricks, all tricks, nothing more than that, but oh, the results they can have!
Vibrant words, powerful words, set with a rhythm in my head something akin to a military march.
Hubris, in a sense, though not dangerous in execution – and never dangerous for me, in truth.
So you see, my darling, at the end of it all, wretched Gryffindor that I am, I am a coward.
Then, ah, then he would soar, a blaze of red and gold above, the sun would shine, and the world would be reborn.
Yet another lie for protection, but I suspect I have long forgotten whose.
You did not win that day, but I lost, and that is the heart of the matter; the loadstone of the wall built between us.
I wanted you to be happy; I still want you to be happy, only now I know it is impossible.
Secrets, Albus; how frustrating they are, how heavy they become when carried so long.
For so long I had existed in a state of limbo, between one thing and the next and not really either, without realising that was where I was.
You should have come, Albus, you would have adored it.
It is the way of love, though, to reduce us to our simplest and yet most complicated selves.
A stroke of luck, oder ein Putsch?
Which one, my darling, would give the greater good?
We are matches, floating on a sea of oil, and waiting, always waiting, for a single, flickering spark.
It is such a well-known myth of love: that it is always good.
As they say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, no?
Sometimes, though, Gellert, the things we want most are the things we do not deserve to have.
You and I, my Albus, we have always been running. We will never be still; we are too boundless for that.
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