His Mothers Eyes
I knew who he was as soon as I saw him in that train carriage five years ago. It wasn't his wide rimmed glasses, his unkempt black hair so much like his father's, or even the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. It was his eyes. They were his mother's eyes.
We've grown close since then; we're good friends now. He's like a son to me. That's why it pained me so much to see him lying there, in the middle of a battlefield, blood pooled around him, dying slowly, painfully. It's a miracle he survived this long.
No. Not a miracle, but a curse. There is no other way to describe him lying there, beyond help, in severe pain. But he didn't complain, not once, he just lay there.
At least he'll be with his family soon; that's what he always wanted. I felt a tear run down my cheek as I thought about the deceased. First, there were Lily and James. That was one of the saddest days of my life, but they died heroes' deaths.
Then there was Sirius, killed by his own cousin. I didn't want to believe that it was true, that I was the last Marauder.
Then there was Dumbledore. That was the day the world despaired; the day people saw that nobody was immortal. I couldn't believe it then, and still have a hard time accepting it, even after all this time.
And now Harry. I wonder if I have any family left as I look upon his dying body. I force myself to go over to the other bodies and what was a single tear soon became more. Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger. I had always liked them; they were loyal and brave, and they always tried to do the right thing. Luna Lovegood, who, despite her weirdness, was clever and quick witted, a true Ravenclaw. Neville Longbottom, no longer the round faced forgetful boy who couldn't do lumos without blowing up Gryffindor tower, he had become a brave, strong man skilled in duelling and forever loyal.
The list of loved ones went on until I felt like I would collapse from grief. I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder, cold but emitting warmth and love, and I looked up into Tonks' deep blue eyes. Her purple hair was blowing in the soft breeze, dirtied by sweat and blood, but she looked more beautiful than ever.
"Come on. We should go now," she said gently.
She helped me up and we started to walk away, but I saw Harry looking at me, smiling, and I had to go to him. I couldn't let him die alone.
Harry choked out one word, "Live." Just a single word, but one full of meaning and hope. It was over. He looked at Harry one last time; his part in the war was over. Over, but not forgotten. Never forgotten. His emerald eyes closed to the world.
His mother's eyes.