I miss him. I miss him. Have I said
that yet? Because I do. I miss him and it is awful and I cannot help myself.
“Snape’s an arse. He always was an
arse.” Marlene says, throwing a Quaffle in the air and lying on my bed when
we’re meant to be studying for charms. I grip my bedpost. Dorcas leans over and
“McKinnon, shut up.” She looks over
at me, gently, like I am delicate. Easily startled. “You don’t need him, Lily.
You have us.”
Only- now here is the worst part,
the part I can’t ever tell anyone. Occasionally I think I would give them all
up if only to have him back. Not how he is now but how he was before, when we
were nine years old, on a swing, in a park, with the sun everywhere. That makes
me awful. What he did makes me sick and I continue to miss him regardless.
“Lily, please” he hisses at me in potions, because has Slughorn partnered
us up again, “I’ll do anything.” his voice cracks on the last word, and I
almost give in right there. But then- the field, with everybody staring, wind blowing
hair in my face, my heart a chutney in my chest. I set my jaw.
Arthur had never met anyone as accident-prone as Merlin. For every bump or scratch an ordinary person got, Merlin had at least three more. If other people had bruises, Merlin’s were always deeper. He found it strange because Merlin, while always slightly clumsy, had only recently started showing up almost constantly injured.
And as hard as Arthur tried not to worry (Merlin certainly didn’t seem that concerned about them) it was difficult not to when the man you were in love with looked like a human pincushion most days.