The night is ruthless to the lovers. Theodore wakes up gasping for air.
After a few moments he removes his hands from his hair. A dumb habit, that. He grasps his sheets, coming back into consciousness. He shakes his head.
Swinging his legs off the bed, Theodore thinks of a snitch. The small bird, an immortalized creature of gold. It's fast reflexes and speedy nature, oh how it longs for the freedom of the sky. They are all dead. Their sculptures imitate their desires without any feeling. A blank, golden, proud being.
In the bathroom now, Theodore splashes water over his face, but it isn't cold enough. He lets water run through his fingers until he feels it won't cool more if it freezes. He splashes water over his face again.
Looking into the mirror, his eye twitched. He never looks the same these days. When has he ever looked like himself? He reaches out a hand to pull on his skin, but his expression soured, remembering the feeling of foreign hands on his skin, a feeling so vivid, so far from reality that it made Theodore feel sick and made his eyes water. He splashed his face with cold water.
Why him? Why not some slytherin girl? Why not a damned death eater, relation to whom would get him thrown into Azkaban? Why the confident boy with bright eyes that shone like young leaves in March? The innocent gryffindor who stood up for anyone who was hurt, anyone who needed help? Why the boy who brought the end to Theodores future?
They will never prove in court that Theodore was innocent. He just knew it, he may not have the dark mark, he never fought for You know who, but they will find a way to lock him away. Maybe they do hate the old families, he thinks to himself, rubbing his fingers over the pendant under his shirt, leaving a wet stain on the soft fabric.
Theodore will never see the face of his saviour, the thunder, the bright sun ever again. He has no choice, and no right to it. Theodore thinks of the time turner in his trunk and shudders. He would sooner sell the entire trunk than use it, but he will get to it. He will destroy the morbid creation. Theodores hand anxiously reaches out to tug on his hair, and once he realizes what he's doing he instead drops his hand to hold onto the porcelain sink. He stretches his neck, hearing a soft pop from his joints, echoing in his mind.
He could go to Europe. They won't go looking for him there. He could ask Blaise for a place to stay, but he dismisses that thought as soon as it appears. He can't end up owing Blaise, not like this.
He splashes his face with cold water. Would it have changed something if he spoke to Harry, just once? Just once when he saw the boy who unknowingly held Theodore's heart in his hands, who gripped his mind and thoughts, what if he sat near him in a quiet corner of the library? What if he just said ‘hi’? Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and so he shuts them tightly holding in a breath.
It's late. He has work in the morning. He has to work on destroying his legacy further. He has to ruin everything father built for himself.
Back in the bedroom, Theodore walks over to his bedside table. He grabs his wand and casts Tempus. It is too late. It is too late.
-
The next time he sees Potter, Theodore is in the ministry. He catches a glimpse of him as they lead him into the interrogation cell.
It is too late.
Theodore never managed to destroy the artifacts. But it doesn't matter. All he sees are the burning green eyes.
It is too late.
His sunkissed skin.
It is too late.
The wind blown messy hair.
It is too late.
His bright eyes that shine like young leaves in-
...
It is too late.