Harry Potter dug into the earth with single-minded determination. He needed to get to the casket. His mind was blank of all outside forces. The dirt he tossed from his shovel landed in a pile, roots and seeds and plants weaved throughout, though their resistance was unheeded, almost nothing in the face of his desperation.
It was five years since the end of the final war with Lord Voldemort, and Harry had lost all of his family. Seen half of them die for him and half of them die with him. None of them mattered anymore though, he wouldn't need them soon. If only he could reach his goal, he would be complete. His life finally back where it began.
He was digging into his parents grave, hoping to see her, praying there was something left of her. He had heard rumors that wizards and witches preserved their dead. He was counting on his mother and father to follow this tradition. He was sure he would be devastated if only bones remained. It was flesh he needed, a face to put to a name.
He was almost completely submerged in the hole he had dug, now nearly to where his mothers corpse would lay. His tool hit something solid, a thrill of anticipation raced through him. Finally, he would get what he came for. What he had been aching to have even before he knew what it was. A solid link to his parents, something no one would ever be able to deny.
Using his wand as a crowbar, he broke open the wooden box; the final resting place of Lily Potter. There she lay, perfectly preserved - looking for all the world as if she were sleeping. Harry knew better, he knew she was dead. He had always known she was dead, since he was a child with dreams of green light and flying motorcycles. He smoothed both of his hands down each side of her face, removing any obstructions. A caress.
There.
What he had come for. He lifted her eyelids with his thumbs, trembling all the while, and gasped softly into the stifling dirt hole.
His mother's eyes.
His eyes had always been compared to her's, but now as he saw them, he realized it was a gross understatement. His eye's were identical. Devoid of life, and unseeing. How he wished he could see them as they were, full of fire and passion. A sudden urge so powerful burned through him and brought tears to his eyes. He wanted them.
With a shaking hand he brought out a small knife. He pressed his hand against his mouth and sobbed out a hysterical laugh, he couldn't even fathom what he was about to do. He was desperate though, and he had already decided. Frantic now with the thought, though severely incredulous that it had even come to him.
Harry pressed the sharp edge of the knife along the outside of her brow, smoothly cut along the area, until the eye hung loose in it's socket. He used it other hand gently to grab it, and bisected the attached hanging parts. He repeated this process on her other eye. Holding up his trophies to the light of day he was overcome by vertigo. They were magnificent, all white and clean, red veins bulging. In the center a bright green iris sat, the perfect shade of green he had always seen when he looked in the mirror. Finally something tangible - a part of his mother. He lay down beside her mutilated body, finally content, basking in his completion.
They had always told him he had his mother's eyes, but now.. now he believed them, now he really had his mother's eyes, and with them; peace.