Disclaimer: i don't own Harry Potter. and i cry. (sob sob)
A/N: this came to me in about five minutes, from idea to final. so i hope you like it, in all its shortness.
Hazel
It's sometimes that I think about us, now. Sometimes when the moon is bright and full and hanging in the sky like some sort of silver shield, I remember that night when you left. Of course you had to go, had to go off and face your destiny. None of us were surprised, really. We all knew that you would leave us one day, that you would charge to your destiny and end this, once and for all. I don't think we could have guessed what, exactly, you would've been ending. Not just his life. Your own, too.
I used to think about you more often. Every minute of every day, my mind swirled with thoughts of you. I couldn't bite back the memories and I didn't want to. The raw pain felt good, reminded me that I wasn't dead. I was still alive, even though I had lost you. I could and would go on. Because that was what you had wanted me to do. That was what you had told me, almost to the letter. I always had a good memory, didn't I? Still do.
I got married, some years ago. Not to Ron; I know you might've guessed that. But no. After you had gone, we drifted apart. You were the glue that held the trio together, and without that, what were Ron and me? The Golden Duo? No. Some other man, someone who will be good to me for the rest of my life. You probably would've liked him, except that you probably would've been jealous, had you still been alive. But if you'd still been alive, I never would have married him. I would have married you.
I sigh quietly and to myself. The love I have now is like a candle, slowly burning, still bright even at its end. But the love we had was like a firecracker—one brief explosion that was brighter than a thousand, thousand candles. Sometimes that thought consoles me: short as our time together was, we had so much more than most people even dream of having. Sometimes it fails completely to console me. But those times are becoming less and less frequent. I told you already, I only think about you sometimes now. When I lay awake at night and can't fall asleep, I can close my eyes, and my husband's arms aren't his and they're yours. Less and less frequent, though. He's usually him; you're usually you.
No, I only think about you now when I look in the mirror and see my brown eyes gazing back at me. And I remember looking deep into your emerald eyes and seeing all the love there and being so glad that you could see it shining back at you.
Green and brown, mixed together: that was us.
Hazel.
Fin