Memories

by Evan Malfoy

The journey here has been difficult. The memories that use to linger slowly fade away from my mind. What little of my childhood I remember is painful. I remember I was lonely. Somehow, now I am so used to what I suppose is being lonely, I feel wonderful, sitting here alone my old body slowly deteriorating. Looking at my hand I remember my smooth skin, not the sagging, rough skin hanging off so-called muscles and aching bones.

I feel slightly dizzy, as if this earth I have lived upon is spinning too fast for me; too fast for me to stay on, any moment now I will be flung off, cast away like an old doll too ragged to be cared about.

All the things that brought me comfort don't anymore.

The trees are old, dying like me. They are no longer cared for in this age of technology. Metal replaces beauty; there are no havens from this barren world. It is cold here, and I can remember when the sun could be felt. I could run barefoot in the gardens for hours. Those days are no longer here, time flies by and the world has built up around me.

My heart is dying, arteries clogged by all the fat I ate as a child. Dying from heartache too old to remember. I blink and green eyes close. My children don't know me anymore. My wife doesn't either; she seems to think I am too lost, too dead to even care about anymore. Not that I ever truly cared about her. I love another. Though, I can't even remember who the person is that I am in love with. I can even picture their face, but I know I love them.

"Rob?" A voice calls from above me. "Rob, dear?"

I look up sleepily and grunt. "What the hell do you want?"

"Robert, I am going out with the children, do you want to come?" a high-pitched voice screeches out like a fingernail trailing down a black board, I shiver.

"No, woman."

"But honey, the children want to go to the war museum." she says trying to get me to move.

"Fine... If it gets you to shut up..." I grumble and push tired fat self out of the chair and get dressed.

We go to the museum, our children and their children, all noisily walking up to building. We pay and enter and walk through the sterile hall. My grandchildren are my age when the war started, only teenagers. My twin granddaughters walk up to a portrait and squeal.

"Ooh, look he is so cute. Too bad he is old now." One twin sighs

I look at the portrait and frown at the man with white blonde hair and grey eyes, with his young yet tired face. I look at the familiar smirk and sigh, tracing the name with a trembling finger.

"Oh my gosh! He was a Death eater? Why do all the evil guys have to be so hot?" They walk off looking at the other 'hot' guys.

"Ooh Look its Harry Potter's portrait... wow he was dreamy, too bad he is dead." The girls sigh.

I walk up and look at the even more familiar face, I look at the shy boy blushing and looking away from all the attention before waving timidly at the girls. Everyone walks on forgetting me for a while. I stand before the portrait and whisper, "Potter you stink."

His eyes flash curiously, "Who are you?"

"Who do you think?" I replied, my voice no longer silky but gravelly

He smirks, "Not so perfect now, eh?"

I laugh softly, sadly, laughing at my foolish younger self. "Never perfect, Potter."

'I loved you; I should tell you shouldn't I... You're only a portrait now.

I will forget this soon anyway.' I think as Harry snorts at my last comment.

"Hmm never thought I'd ever hear you say that..." he says grinning wickedly.

"I love you, Potter." I whisper, breaking the rules and touching the painting, touching his face. "I always did."

Harry looked shocked and confused for a moment and then sad, as if he regretted something. "But you never told me till now?"

"No I never told you..." I reply.

"But you were a... I don't understand" he whispered.

"Robert!" A shrill voice calls, and I turn.

"Goodbye Potter." I say softly and walk after my wife.

The next morning I wake up again and go downstairs, my wife looks up.

"Robert did you have fun at the museum?"

I grunted softly and tried to think, "What museum?" I reply.

She sighs, "Nothing dear."

The museum workers noticed something wrong with Harry Potter's portrait. Harry was crying silently and curled up in ball on his chair.

He wouldn't look at people; he would only stare off at something only he could see.

"What's the matter Harry?" a man asks.

Harry murmurs softly and then looks at the man. "He loves me, Draco Malfoy, he loves me... always has he told me so just yesterday."

"What? That is stupid... He is dead... died a long time ago in the war, never found his body, but it's obvious he died, found his wand all broken up." the man replies.

"No he isn't dead, only hiding." Harry whispers and goes back to staring at thin air.

Fin.