The eyes.
Her eyes.
One glance at them was enough to bring that now familiar surge of hatred for the boy. Her eyes staring out of his face, her eyes which contained such pain the last time he saw them, her eyes always there to remind him of his failures, accusing him of not providing what he promised them he would.
Was he fated to see the boy meet her sad fate? See all the hope and life and joy fade from his eyes too.
He told himself there hadn't been anything he could have done, not without giving himself away and even though the others agreed there was always that doubt in the back of his mind, that little voice that said he could have found out more. Everyone in the Order was relying on his information being correct; he was responsible for the lives of each and every one of them every time they acted on his reports.
He knew, deep down, that there was nothing he could have done, that there hadn't been time to give a warning but he still saw the accusation in those eyes each and every time they looked at him and took the pain and guilt he felt out on the boy.
He was sure that one day the boy would come to him and ask what his part had been, if he'd done nothing to stop what happened, if he'd even cared. Would he accuse him of having a hand in it even after he'd helped the Order in their fight for so long?
If he could have brought himself to say anything he would have said he was sorry, that he felt responsible for what happened, that he always would.
He was more sorry for what happened than he could ever say but Neville would never know.
Her eyes.
One glance at them was enough to bring that now familiar surge of hatred for the boy. Her eyes staring out of his face, her eyes which contained such pain the last time he saw them, her eyes always there to remind him of his failures, accusing him of not providing what he promised them he would.
Was he fated to see the boy meet her sad fate? See all the hope and life and joy fade from his eyes too.
He told himself there hadn't been anything he could have done, not without giving himself away and even though the others agreed there was always that doubt in the back of his mind, that little voice that said he could have found out more. Everyone in the Order was relying on his information being correct; he was responsible for the lives of each and every one of them every time they acted on his reports.
He knew, deep down, that there was nothing he could have done, that there hadn't been time to give a warning but he still saw the accusation in those eyes each and every time they looked at him and took the pain and guilt he felt out on the boy.
He was sure that one day the boy would come to him and ask what his part had been, if he'd done nothing to stop what happened, if he'd even cared. Would he accuse him of having a hand in it even after he'd helped the Order in their fight for so long?
If he could have brought himself to say anything he would have said he was sorry, that he felt responsible for what happened, that he always would.
He was more sorry for what happened than he could ever say but Neville would never know.