𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐢. it starts with you and ends with us.

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

       It starts with a painting.

A red fisherman's boat and three pairs of shoes. The boat dock, she'd said, they've sanded a patch of the grass near it, we used to stargaze out there. The pinks and purples of the setting sun swirl behind his eyelids until he can see it clearly; a red fisherman's boat, two pairs of grey sneakers, and a pair of pink tied around the mast. He doesn't understand the significance of it, though, he supposes he never will. But he does remember the way her smile grew wistful ( and didn't that just break his heart? ) eyes shimmering with a sheen of something he can't quite place, and the daze it seemed to put her in.

I'd like to take you to the beach, she later whispered when moonlight shone through the curtains and showered them faint moon blue, trees rustling in the background, and a slight breeze washing over them. Green eyes have such depth in the sunlight, I think yours would beautifully shine. She was such a cliché when it came to her words. It felt like every romance book he had ever read ( not that he's read many, but he's read enough to know ) where the girl seemed to say the most heartfelt things and the boy can never seem to convey how he feels in the same light. When she spoke, it was like she was speaking a language designed just for him; a beautiful language she'd created in that beautifully brilliant mind of hers, even if she didn't know it. He thinks he'd rather lose his magic than lose the aspect of that. It had a way of making him feel special, almost like the world tilted on its axis and spun just a tad slower to accommodate for them. Titled to the right to ensure they crossed paths, tilted to the left to move them closer. Spun slower to make the hours seem longer and the minutes timeless, so if he wished to never leave then he simply wouldn't. Gravity seemed to centre itself whenever she was around, and when she looked at him, Harry felt like he was at the centre of the universe. And sometimes, he swore he could hear the stars singing.

It was a muffled, spine-tingling tune when he thought about it. Sometimes, the voices were grating, like he wasn't really supposed to be hearing the tune but he was anyways ( and if that sometimes felt like a warning, somewhere buried deep in his bones, who had to know? ) and other times, he swore the stars were weeping when the tune started. He could never make out the words to begin with, but when the stars would weep it seemed to twist his heart in a sorrowful way. He only ever seemed to hear the stars singing when he was with Lavinia though, and if he only knew of a way to soothe whatever fears the stars seem to have, then he would ( h̶e̶'̶l̶l̶ r̶e̶g̶r̶e̶t̶ s̶a̶y̶i̶n̶g̶ t̶h̶i̶s̶ o̶n̶e̶ d̶a̶y̶) just to never hear the song again.

It starts with a painting, and ends with them laying in his bed. A hand on his cheek that smothers him with that warmth he misses, a soft smile on her face, and an echo of, 'happy birthday, mooie jongen,' and he knows he's concentrated enough to untangle his magic and summon his broom. A boost of confidence, he thinks, because he has so much more he wants to say to her, and so little time to convey everything he wants to say. If he could, he'd pluck the universe from to heavens and gift it to her, but how do you convey that to someone you think deserves more than that?