One of them was surrounded by fans and lovesick girls. He had been the conqueror, no doubt. But the other boy was looking to conquer something else.
For some time, he watched him as he thought. He would not go over, for it was not the time.
After some time, the boy who sought to conquer drifted off.
"Oi! He looks awful funny in that moldy lace, doesn't he?"
"I've always felt our futures belong in the world outside of these walls!"
"A fake wand? You got a deal there!"
"Of all the jokes in the ear-joking world, you say 'I'm holey?' Really?"
His eyes snapped open. Butterbeer bottles were open and smashed on the floor. Butterbeer! He loved butterbeer, but it wasn't so buttery sweet anymore.
A girl came to sit next to him. She carried a folded sweater with runs in the wool, but he could still see the letter on the front of it.
He thought of ageing potion, of long white beards, of wands that turn to mice and a thousand galleons given to 'the cause'.
The boy had thought he conquered everything bad, but he didn't. Not what kept two brothers apart.
A poke in his arm jolted him back to reality. Someone was holding out a worn, knitted bag. Taking it, the boy let his fingers wander around the inside of the fabric. It smelled like home.
In the bag were a picture frame and eight corked bottles. He avoided the newspaper picture at the bottom of the bag. There was a note.
The memories are not all mine. I have collected them from some friends. You can string them out so you can remember them, too. I'm so sorry. Everything, including this war, is my fault. If I had never been born, none of this would have happened. I should've let him kill me eighteen years ago.
H. P.
He looked at the boy across the aisle. Had those green eyes been watching him this whole time? He looked away, but couldn't avert his gaze for long enough. For a moment, there was an understanding in the eyes of both of them. Neither spoke. Maybe one of them was trying to speak with his thoughts, but they would never do it the way he had done with his brother.
"Look, I'm really sorry about –"
"Don't say his name."
Eyes locked once more. Awkward, the younger of the boys pushed his hair out of his face and off his forehead. As he left the compartment, the older boy's head was filled with images, but the most coom one was this: a scar. The scar that had begun the hiding of the enemy. The enemy who killed the one I loved.
Had he been the enemy? Or had he been one who sought to conquer the true enemy?
Only one man had come close. He had been the master of the true enemy. Not a conqueror.
The boy leaned back into his seat, sinking into darkness again. But this time, the shadows were his own memories.