Ultramarine -- REWRITTEN

Ten. [c.h.] -- REWRITTEN

          I peeled the foil off of my breakfast. Steam rose from the porridge, oatmeal, or whatever goo it was. I pushed the tray away and began to fold the foil into a bird. Theories from yesterday's revelation arose. Had my father been subject to the same torture? Had they murdered him because it didn't work? Had he been mentally powerful enough to keep hold of his memories? I feared that my questions would never be answered. I wanted the answers more than anything. I wanted him back more than anything. I'd be tortured everyday to have him back, to have the void in my heart full again, to know that he was walking along the shore and not buried six feet under damp soil.

          My heart throbbed and I took a deep breath, finishing the foil bird. Gently, I placed it on the flat pillow next to me, a minor smile finding its way to my lips as I recalled his words, his voice: "Cherry, you can't give up on your first try. If you give up on your first try then you'll never succeed in anything that you do."

          My smile faded as I tore my gaze away from the memory. Instead, I stole a glance in Harry's direction, who was already looking my way. My heart fluttered and my eyes narrowed. Like he had never seen blue eyes before me, I had rarely seen green ones. It still shook my core seeing green eyes and not blue ones when I was so used to seeing the latter.

          "Do you need something?" I inquired suspiciously, pulling my tray back onto my crossed lap.

          "I felt anger yesterday," he replied quietly. A light chuckle fell through my lips as I shook my head. I grabbed my spoon and dipped it into the goo, giving it a stir. Steam no longer rose off of it.

          "Congratulations, you've felt what I've been feeling everyday these past, what, thirteen days now?"

          "No, no, no. It wasn't just anger. It was something I've never felt. It was. . . greater than anger."

          I pursed my lips, scooping some goo and feeding myself. I looked up at the ceiling, thinking of words that described emotions greater than anger. After all, I did promise that I would help him with his "feelings".

          "Rage?" I offered.

          "Rage?"

          "Yes, rage. It's violent anger, or something," I hummed, taking another bite of the bland nutrients.

          "That sounds about right. . ." he mumbled. I looked over at him as I chewed. He stood and stared at the ground, like he was recalling the events that led to his fit of rage. Though Harry could be rough, I couldn't imagine him violent.

          "What did you do?" I questioned.

          "I threw a book at the wall," he muttered, lifting his hands to pick at his fingernails.

          "Why?" I laughed, finding it amusing that he seemed so embarrassed to mention it. He shrugged.

          "It's none of your business," he replied simply. I rolled my eyes.

          "Great, we're back to this again."

          "I didn't mean it like that," he groaned, placing his hands down at his sides in defeat.

          "No, no, I know what you meant," I sang, taking another bite.

          "I just don't feel comfortable telling you."

          "We all have skeletons in our closets."

          "Sure."

          I laughed, almost choking on the muck. I shut my lips, chuckling as I tried to safely swallow what was in my mouth. I took a deep breath, my cheeks growing sore from holding in my laugh. After succeeding, another laugh escaped my lips.