But we both remember, how it was when we peered out the high square windows stained by grime and marked by water spots, how he leaned on the vermillion gate, staring out at the secluded lane flanked by great willows.



He leaned against the door of his house with his heart roaring in his ears like a thunderstorm.



I may be a little bit in love with you. Maybe.



Inter vivos is Latin for "between the living," and also describes a kind of legal trust in which property is given to another person while the owner is still alive, as well as living organ donation.



So they woke in the morning, with the evidence of burning behind them, and the light of sunrise before them.



So he could see, without being greedy to possess what he looked at; and he could understand, without approving.



The sound of the door slamming behind him echoed in his bones, and then his heart, and then his soul.



I resent your reality and replace it with my own. Deal with it.



The restlessness would have bothered you, naturally, ordinarily, since you were raised in an atmosphere of sedate stillness for the most time.



There's a moment in time and it's stuck in my mind.

You lay down the memo and stare out the window at the falling rain, but it isn't the rain you're seeing now. It's one of those moments.

He moved around the room, book in hand, humming a snatch of old music under his breath. He'd paused in front of the window (to sit in that rocking chair, an alexandrite green you took a liking to over the years), a slant of sunlight making his hair shine until you had to blink and squint to go on looking at him, then laughed aloud at those yellowed pages you don't remember cradling (like he was, then).You had paused and looked at him, in astonishment, and then in fondness. Once, he never would have laughed like that at a book with someone else in the room. They might have thought it was undignified, and he could never bear to look undignified. But now he laughed and laughed and leaned back in his seat, and the light shone on his face.

You had realized how happy you were—not joyful all the time, not deliriously in love, but settled and content, with your happiness purring in the back of your mind like a banked fire.

It's that moment that's stuck in your mind.




He was flying or falling or leaping when he spoke and showed his true emotions, and, family or not, he was simply not used to being surrounded with so much truth.



His mood had changed again, to a quiet, floating unreality that was even better, in some ways, than the anger. Maybe he had a real chance to think now.



The words drifted like ashes away from his lips, as light and as empty.



But those who watch don't know, don't know how the nightmares come back and crouch on his chest and make him feel like he couldn't breathe.



Obssession. It was the sort of emotion that refashioned the world around it, so that people became helpful or irritating or stupid or beautiful simply because of where they stood in relation to the perceiver.



(Lily-green, but he would not think of that).



The truth doesn't turn our unhappy endings into happy ones any more than English or Latin does. You have to believe it, to keep it, to tell it.



After hours of thought, only one plan was clear in his head, fluttering brilliant wings and bouncing up and down.



And the world changed for him as inevitably and suddenly as though the walls of his room had fallen in on his head.




(Lily. His life had been a temple of mourning for her, and always would be).



We rose, and rose, and rose, breaking through the low-lying clouds. We opened our eyes, and the blue stretched ahead of us in an endless dazzle, turned to blade-like beauty by the mid-afternoon rays of the sun.

One day, we'll go flying. Together.



And maybe it would be better to have nothing at all than too little.



It was a mystery. And he did not like mysteries unless he caused them.



"You were asleep at the time."
"Yes, yes, I was. I'm asleep all the time, or I was until you entered my life."



Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk…



But they're there, and they're dramatic, and they don't follow the slow growth we went through. The world broke for each of us, and we fell through the cracks together.



He wraps himself in light and cloth, in grandeur and beauty. That's his way of mourning.



He didn't really understand the little things, either. He didn't understand that sometimes love was one of the ephemera, fleeting and melting from one day to the next.



Day 141
Even if the waters are a torrent, we intend to swim them. Together.



You will learn the joy that comes from seeing plans unfold—Oh, that I know.
—and the joy that comes from seeing the quiet dance of society go on around you, ordered and neat, precise as the small clockwork of a watch, and beautiful as the uncontrolled chaos that you have connected yourself with never can be.





Clowns to the left, jokers to the right! Here I am, stuck in the middle with you...





Day 140
Tilt your head back, stare at the clouds, and know that you were never thrown away.

(Apologies if you were waiting for the day diary, I lost inspiration for a while there.)



The hurt wells up, so that when you least expect it, it's able to escape from your clutches, drip by drip.





She's so hard to hold, but I can't let go.



It has suddenly occurred to me that the life-debt Harry owed Narcissa when she pretended he died from the Killing Curse Voldemort cast, in the Forbidden Forest, was repaid when he went back for Malfoy in the Fiendfyre. OHMYGOD THAT IS SO COOL.



Seeing his own difficult self-knowledge reflected and accepted in another's face made him feel as if he'd stepped out of a box he hadn't even known was there, and now he could see the stars.



A thin drizzle began to mute the landscape, and the wind swirled around them, making sounds like a thousand murmurs, filling the air with soft whispers. It had been a torturing, drawn-out fairy tale that had gone on for too long and with too little words, but ultimately, there was no need for theatrical white horses, no dramatic declarations of romance, just this blind, almost fanatical devotion-
This is true love, rare, undiluted and unstoppable.
we are given two hands to hold-
two legs to walk-
two eyes to see-
two ears to listen-
but only one heart-
because the other one was given to someone for us to find.



He had pasted a crumbling smile on his lips while everyone around him tried to cheer him up. He had joked feebly along with them, while inside he disintegrated and died, trapped within his clear plastic bubble of a world, separated and disconnected from the events around him.

the way he left teardrops everywhere-



Feather by feather
the goose is plucked.
- Scottish proverb

I realise this is rather morbid to be included in the flying-collection but hey this is cool!



A quick jab with a wand in the middle of a busy street and a whispered Avada Kedavra and it will be over for Harry Potter with none the wiser. Frankly, I often wonder why Voldemort never thought of that. Had he intended to glorify the matter by doing it in front of all his followers? It wasn't so much a show when he did it in the Forest anyway. Dumb, noseless, git.



Call it appalling ignorance if you wish. I've only just learnt that Khalil Gibran is the third best-selling poet of all time behind Shakespeare and Lao-Tzu.



Heaven's gates won't open up for me
With these broken wings I'm fallin'
And all I see is you.
-Nickelback – Savin' Me



Yes, this is a collection for you, who understood what it meant to fly. Flying is important, and you knew that. I hope you're enjoying this as much as I am.



I might have been born in a hovel,
but I determined to travel
with the wind and the stars.
-Jackie Cochran



In our dreams we are able to fly...
and that is a remembering
of how we were meant to be.
-Madeleine L'Engle



No one regards what is before his feet;
We all gaze at the stars
-Quintus Ennius



And if you can see this, I want to tell you that V is for vertigo.





All the objections were still strong and valid. None of them mattered a whit in that moment, with the sunlight from the window open to the gardens falling over them.



No matter what it is, we'll be all right.




The night spun around him, purple and silver. His heart had turned over like a broken eggshell upended. Joy unfurled dragon wings in his chest and hooked claws into him. The music of the wedding had become a single voice singing in his ears, high and piercingly sweet.
He laughed.

There was a flash of delight, irrational as all delight were, in knowing that brilliant sound was still enough to surprise him. It didn't matter that he hadn't had anything to drink that night, irreverent giggles continued to bubble up his throat.

And he laughed, because he could. The moon floated over a much brighter and bigger world now. Everything, had changed.

Grass rustled beneath their feet as they ran. He thought he could still see some traces of lighting sunshine on the horizon; this was the longest day of the year, after all. And because the moon and stars insisted on glowing overhead, they ran through three different kinds of light.

Joy made him run. Joy made him feel the hand in his as if it could lead him into eternal happiness. Joy blazed and sang and thrummed in him like a flight of hummingbirds. And beside him, he laughed, surprise and wonder and hunger for the future in his voice.

Sometimes, they do.




In that short span of seconds; Oh, god, he was home.



Discombobulated.



HOLY MOLY.



Holy moly the kids at the end: YOUUUU- SNEAKY MOM!!



I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words that laid the foundation. It was too long ago. I was in the middle of it before I knew I had begun.

darcydarcydarcydarcydarcydarcy ><