disclaimer/ I do not own Harry or any other characters. please don't sue.
The potter children
these are the Potter children, and people love them. They smile as they walk by, bright smiles as they watch them chatter and laughing together and happy as they talk to them in their obilivous innocences. But the faces are wistfully, they remember what these children cannot, in their minds they can see those other children, who walked these same footfalls and shared these same dreams. They look at these children and see us.
I used to wonder when we people looked at Harry like that, when they looked in his eyes and saw Lilly or looked at his face and saw James. After all, to me Harry was Harry, he was his own person and not just a reincarnation of the dead. I wondered how they couldn't see that. But god, I'll look at them sometimes and all I can see is Harry, I'll hear them call me and all I'll hear is Ginny. And then on those days when we're playing or reading or talking or something, and I'll think god, your Ron. And then I'll think god, I miss you.
I can talk about it. I had to be able to you see, for them. And hell, sometimes it was so hard just remembering them and what we had together. But I didn't want them to grow up like Harry did, who didn't even know his parents names until he was eleven, didn't know he had his mothers eyes in father's body. Didn't know them, and never seemed able to discover who they were, who'd they'd been as people. So I wanted their children to know everything, how Ginny had such a terrible crush on Harry when she was younger, and how Harry used to stay up all night doing potions homework when he was late back from quditch. How they would always hold hands when they thought no one was looking or seeing them, or go flying at midnight together, just because they weren't supposed to and it was rebellious and romantic. I would tell them about Ron too his stubbornness and his charm, and their other uncles, though I'm ashamed to admit I didn't know that much about them really. They would giggle and beg for stories about our squabbles, or the time Fred and George turned Malfoy purple, and year I told them the bad stuff too, not all of it,but some. I wanted my friends to be people to them, you see. I wanted them to love their parents, like I had loved them, not just because they were their parents but because they meant something.
But don't talk about the end. Heck, I try not to even remember it, but that's hard at night when the fears come out in the shadows, and I relive it again and again in my mind. I know the days coming when their gonna want to know, what happened, and why I'll sometimes crawl into bed with them late at night with my eyes bloodshot, and my voice strained as I whisper them back into sleep. They've asked before but I've always turned them away, claiming their to young to hear about that, and go along and play sweetheart. But I know its just me too afraid to tell them, to let all that pain and blood spill from my tough my heart and onto their shoulders. I don't think its right.
Maybe I just want to keep them innocent for a while longer while I can. I know they have to grow up soon, after all we were only a few years older than them at the beginning, but we lost our childhood to early. And how many died so that they could stay pure? Who am I to take it away? Make it all for nothing.
These are the Potter children. And people look at them and smile. Them with their green eyes and flaming hair, and freckles and nobly knees. They are their children, they have their mother's heart and their father's soul, their uncle's laugh. And I'd like to think that I'm in there somewhere too, maybe I'm their brains. And people love them, but their faces are wistful. They remember what these children cannot, they remember those other children, the ones who walked these same footfalls and shared these same dreams. And they smile. Because they look at these children and they see us.