Disclaimer: Not mine, of course!
A/N: Written for the One Year Later challenge. Sorry for any typo's, I have checked it, but it isn't my strong point I'm afraid. Quite short and drabbly, but I'm surprisingly proud of this piece! Spare a review for the poor?
Teddy Lupin doesn't understand. He is a baby, waving his still-fat fists at a passing butterfly as it flits casually away into the blue sky of the spring day. Happiness is easy to come by.
He doesn't understand that there was a battle, and he doesn't understand that there is peace. And why should he understand that? His tiny mind can't register peace. He can register smiles and brightness, but it is not a huge surprise there isn't much of that to come by.
He doesn't understand what it is like to live in a world where the laughter falls easily from the lips of heroes, instead of the sadness that so obviously shines from their sorry eyes.
He doesn't understand that the man next to Uncle George in the pictures isn't just a reflection. He doesn't understand that his ear isn't the only piece of him that is long lost and well missed.
He doesn't understand what the markings mean on those grey slabs that seem so huge to him. He doesn't understand that these are his parents names, marking his parent's graves. Because he doesn't understand that he has no parents thanks to their victory. He will grow up to be a child without a mother and father. But he doesn't know that yet and he is safe for a few more years.
He doesn't understand the guilt that runs cold through the veins of multiple people when he cries because of the scars on Uncle Bill's face. He doesn't understand what they are, or why they are there, but they upset him.
He doesn't understand the conflict that sits on his Grandmother's heart like a stone, pushing even more painfully with every heart beat. He doesn't understand that she, unlike him, is plagued with the memories of years gone by and family and friends lost to the world.
He doesn't understand why people burst into tears as he changes his hair from yellow to pink to blue. He doesn't know that his mother used to do the exact same thing during the worst months of the war to make other people feel better.
He is just a baby, what can he understand about anything of importance? Of love and loss and anger?
He can not understand, they know. And yet, sometimes people are sure they see a flash of something behind his young eyes. Something that gives him away. Gives away the fact that he understands something of the burning fire of the love of this world. His eyes change from shining violet to a colour so bright and sparkling that they don't even seem to have a colour anymore. They are the colour of love.
But then he chuckles in his darling way and he is a baby again, grabbing anything he can get his hands on. And he can not possibly understand.