Good afternoon.
I know that it's hard to believe I would stand here, willing to speak to an empty room and say good things about someone that I seemed to hate so much. The truth of the matter is that if it weren't for Tristan, my life would be much different than it is now. I didn't truthfully hate him, even though I let everyone think I did. He said that it would be better to do that. That people would judge me – and him – more than they should, and in different ways than they should.
He was right, but I didn't want him to be. And now he's dead, so I can say whatever I want.
It's not like you're going to care. And who would you tell? The Centaur Liaison office is one of the biggest jokes around; we all know that people only come here when they're about to be sacked. Except me. I come here to talk to walls, so that at least then I can say I've delivered the eulogy I promised a dear friend.
Or was he more than that?
I don't know anymore.
Is it because of Ron that I can't think straight? Or because of another reason that runs further down than that? A combination? That's the most likely answer. Tristan would know. He would laugh and then he would tell me to please sit down because this explanation would need a long time and I wouldn't want my feet to start to hurt, would I.
I can still remember the first day I met him. It was after I graduated Hogwarts, after the war. Directly after. I left the ceremony, left Ron and Harry and all the professors who wanted to give me their good wishes. Nobody followed me because they know I have moments where I just want to be alone. And they were hardly going to tell me to stay away from the Forbidden Forest. If anyone knew what was in there, it was me.
He wasn't far from the edge of the tree line, just standing there looking out at the grass as though he wanted nothing more than to go out to it. He probably did, but he didn't want to with the entirety of Hogwarts not terribly far away. For a moment, I thought he was going to be terrible. But then he smiled when he saw me, and his green eyes lit up and I felt like he was looking into my soul.
"Hello. I'm-"
"Hermione Granger. I know." His smile widened. "You sit by the tree every afternoon, if the weather is nice enough, and you read. Write. Observe."
"You observe as well, evidently." I remember smiling back, completely comfortable with him. It was hard to distrust him. "And who are you?"
"Tristan, a soul searching for a place beyond the boundaries of this forest."
And from there, our relationship was a whirlwind. Chemistry abounded, and romance too. And I hated going home to Ron.
I don't know what to say about Tristan, to be honest. There is so much, and yet there is not enough. Words fail me, when usually they are what I rely on.
Terry Pratchett once said, "Stories of imagination tend to upset those without one." Tristan quoted that to me once, and I believe that that is what he would say here. He had the most brilliant imagination, and I miss it every day.
I think about him every time I walk out of my flat, and look up at the sky…especially at night. The stars sparkle in the dark, winking. I like to pretend that it's him, telling me everything is going to be okay. He wasn't as dreamy as most centaurs, didn't rely on the stars as much as all the others. But still, it only feels right to feel closest to him when it's possible to read the planets and all.
There are so many words to describe him. So many.
The definition of amazing is causing great surprise or wonder. Tristan did that almost constantly.
He was astonishing, astounding, stunning, and staggering. He was shocking, startling, stupefying, and breathtaking. He was awesome, awe-inspiring, sensational, and remarkable. He was spectacular, stupendous, phenomenal, and extraordinary. He was incredible, unbelievable, mind-blowing, and jaw-dropping. He was wondrous. He was impressive.
He was not Ron.
What would the world think if they knew my heart belonged not to the war hero that it is supposed to, but instead to a centaur? Sometimes, I wish I could find out. Sometimes, I want to let them all know. I'm tired of hiding the truth, tired of lying. But I promised that this would be a secret, would stay a secret, for the rest of my days. I can't break a promise to a dead man.
But why must he be dead? He didn't deserve to die. He did nothing wrong. It should be me, the one who lies to everyone. Good people. It's always the good people.
This is a horrible eulogy, but this is the best that I could come up with. As I said earlier, my words fail me when I need them the most.
I miss you, Tristan. I miss the way you held my hand when he walked together, and I miss the soft clop of your hooves. Your laughter and smiles were contagious. I miss the way that either of them could make my bad days better. Your eyes used to get brighter when you were telling me a story, used to dance when you watched my reactions. And your voice…I miss the way I could tell all of your emotions just through your voice.
I miss you so much, Tristan. So, so much.
I'm sorry that I never told you this when I was with you.
I'm sorry that you died.
And I'm sorry that I couldn't help but love you.
a/n;
This was written for Round 10 of the Harry Potter Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition.
I write as Beater 1 for the Montrose Magpies.
The overall round setting was the Ministry.
My localized setting was the Goblin/Centaur Liaison. I went with the Centaur part.
My prompts were;
- 7 (writing style); eulogy
- 8 (quote); "Stories of imagination tend to upset those without one." Terry Pratchett
- 9 (word); chemistry