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it felt so good it almost hurt. you loved him so much it became painful, like a vice-grip to the lungs when he left for midnight astronomy class and you stayed alone in your bed, like a muggle gunshot to the kneecap when he left for quidditch practice with harry and ginny, like – well, it would be best if you didn’t go on. the point: loving him was like an ache you felt in your bones and the sinews of your muscle every moment you were not near him.
you needed him closer. always closer closer closer so close you felt a strange urge to eat him up and keep him inside you forever. you touched him on the thigh under the desk in history of magic – you had decided to move on with the NEWT mostly so you could spend more time with him, put less space between you – and he touched you back. sometimes you felt it was too much, and yet since you first shared a bed you had not been apart one night. it was something of a comfort to know he felt the same.
still, the only fires you had ever caused were unintentional, from the first bout of accidental magic way back when you were five and your mother wanted you to take a bath and you threw a tantrum, setting fire to the shower curtain, to last week in potions class when you burned a hole through your cauldron. this frightened you, and others too; they had never seen you soft like this before, only hard like fire heat calloused hands quick tongue fighting curse words bruised knuckles whisky breath dirty jokes square jaw.
it hurt so much and you were a masochist. you couldn’t leave him alone, he didn’t want to be left alone. you were in it together (he said this softly against your jaw and it made you want to retch from how much you felt). after dumbledore’s funeral he spent half the summer in bristol with his mother and step-father and sisters – you went with him. there were whispers of registration and branding and segregation and wand-breaking so you stayed far away from london. you knew you were safe. you didn’t know about him. so you ripped the words out of your throat and told him you would follow him anywhere – it was particularly agonizing when he swallowed them up and then swallowed you down and you came saying his name quietly, afraid to wake the little ones who didn’t know much of war or magic or sex.
you told him you loved him, chapped lips pressed to his collarbone, never quite close enough but as close as you’d ever be. you were seventeen. you were in love. he said i love you too seamus i love you you know that right i love you i’ll always love you don’t forget that and
when you woke he was gone.