~~
Your eyes. They still burn in my mind, like the images of my childhood – the flashes of memories, without sound or context, just there, without explanation or reasoning but simple images that I know I'll never be able to shake. Between the flashes of green light, the few glimpses of my mother's face – even some of my dad, looking just like me only older, wiser, less worried – there's those beautiful grey eyes that weren't in the slightest like the sky on an autumn day or silver sparkling. They weren't the grey of stone, they weren't smooth and they certainly weren't like a mirror or glass. They were walls, keeping everyone out.
But then you let me in.
Like quicksilver slipping through my fingers the memories seem to pass by me, as I'm trying to grab one to hold onto. I want any memories now – you, you and me, me with you or me thinking of you, anything to remind me of you and how you were. But its hopeless – things blur in and out of focus, your face only a vague outline of pale skin and still those eyes are as bright and clear and sharp as ever. I don't remember the look of your lips but in a sudden rush I think I can almost remember their softness pressing against my lips, I try to recall how you taste but I don't think its exactly right, you were never that sweet but as I think about it I can't remember if your lips were even that soft after all – they were never quite like hers, even if I tried to pretend they were.
My hands would run though your hair and I think it might have been soft but it smelt like apples, not at all like the bitter vinegar and sharp wine I would expect but when I buried my nose into your hair I could smell apples and now whenever I bite into one I know why I think of you only it's not quite you, because I'm not entirely sure whether or not I lay my head against yours. Maybe it was someone else. But it might have been you and perhaps if I tell myself it was you then it will have been you because God knows I need more memories of you and your hands and arms and skin and eyes and lips and smell and voice and touch and oh – I wish I could just remember a few more of your words, I know exactly how you said them but trying to remember what you said is difficult because I used to play things over and over in my head until I was satisfied that you loved me and weren't pretending even if you acted like it sometimes.
If I close my eyes now it seems real that maybe you leant against me and whispered "I love you" into my ears because of course that's the sort of thing you'd do, because of course you were just misunderstood and weren't really evil and nasty you just needed someone to save you which of course I was just obliging to do. Or was I? I suppose I would have put up a fight, I was never taught how to love, except perhaps by you but how would you know anyway?
They're here now, the people who come to visit me now and then. They seem old. They are old, because I am, and I know it, although I don't know how I got this way because I feel as young as I did all those years ago with you, but I suppose I am not. "Harry, Harry," they say. "How are you feeling/what have you been doing/have we shown you the pictures of the grandchildren/your goddaughter/our holiday/have you heard about the Ministry/Hogwarts/Quidditch?" To which I say yes or no depending on which I fancy more, and those two exchange glances like they know something I don't and I stare at the ceiling and think about how you'd never patronise me like that but of course you're not here now to be on my side. The redhead – Ron – pats my shoulder every so often as if he's reassuring me but I don't know what on earth he's doing that for – I'm perfectly happy lying here thinking about your eyes every day, except when Hermione comes here and takes me for a walk but of course it's much more like a show shuffle because of course I'm getting old and need to save my energy, who knows what for though because I've done what I was here for – to love you, and also get rid of Voldemort but I much preferred loving you.
And even know I wish they were gone because I'm just beginning to remember the black polished wooden coffin being lowered into the ground and I remember wondering why you weren't getting out and laughing at me and everyone for believing you were really gone, but of course I never did. I'm still, of course, waiting for you.
Once they're gone, I'm happy to be back in my world with you where you're standing next to be my bed and holding my hand clasped in yours. You lean over and whisper to me and for a moment, I believe its you, when I smell the apples and feel your lips and hear your silky voice tease me as you whisper 'see you soon' and the seventeen year old Draco Malfoy swims into view for a brief instant. As I settle back against my pillows and close my tired eyes I smile because of course you're not lying to me now. I reply to your images, the words slipping past my lips softly like silk, a breath of air, like quicksilver fading into black.
Your eyes. They still burn in my mind, like the images of my childhood – the flashes of memories, without sound or context, just there, without explanation or reasoning but simple images that I know I'll never be able to shake. Between the flashes of green light, the few glimpses of my mother's face – even some of my dad, looking just like me only older, wiser, less worried – there's those beautiful grey eyes that weren't in the slightest like the sky on an autumn day or silver sparkling. They weren't the grey of stone, they weren't smooth and they certainly weren't like a mirror or glass. They were walls, keeping everyone out.
But then you let me in.
Like quicksilver slipping through my fingers the memories seem to pass by me, as I'm trying to grab one to hold onto. I want any memories now – you, you and me, me with you or me thinking of you, anything to remind me of you and how you were. But its hopeless – things blur in and out of focus, your face only a vague outline of pale skin and still those eyes are as bright and clear and sharp as ever. I don't remember the look of your lips but in a sudden rush I think I can almost remember their softness pressing against my lips, I try to recall how you taste but I don't think its exactly right, you were never that sweet but as I think about it I can't remember if your lips were even that soft after all – they were never quite like hers, even if I tried to pretend they were.
My hands would run though your hair and I think it might have been soft but it smelt like apples, not at all like the bitter vinegar and sharp wine I would expect but when I buried my nose into your hair I could smell apples and now whenever I bite into one I know why I think of you only it's not quite you, because I'm not entirely sure whether or not I lay my head against yours. Maybe it was someone else. But it might have been you and perhaps if I tell myself it was you then it will have been you because God knows I need more memories of you and your hands and arms and skin and eyes and lips and smell and voice and touch and oh – I wish I could just remember a few more of your words, I know exactly how you said them but trying to remember what you said is difficult because I used to play things over and over in my head until I was satisfied that you loved me and weren't pretending even if you acted like it sometimes.
If I close my eyes now it seems real that maybe you leant against me and whispered "I love you" into my ears because of course that's the sort of thing you'd do, because of course you were just misunderstood and weren't really evil and nasty you just needed someone to save you which of course I was just obliging to do. Or was I? I suppose I would have put up a fight, I was never taught how to love, except perhaps by you but how would you know anyway?
They're here now, the people who come to visit me now and then. They seem old. They are old, because I am, and I know it, although I don't know how I got this way because I feel as young as I did all those years ago with you, but I suppose I am not. "Harry, Harry," they say. "How are you feeling/what have you been doing/have we shown you the pictures of the grandchildren/your goddaughter/our holiday/have you heard about the Ministry/Hogwarts/Quidditch?" To which I say yes or no depending on which I fancy more, and those two exchange glances like they know something I don't and I stare at the ceiling and think about how you'd never patronise me like that but of course you're not here now to be on my side. The redhead – Ron – pats my shoulder every so often as if he's reassuring me but I don't know what on earth he's doing that for – I'm perfectly happy lying here thinking about your eyes every day, except when Hermione comes here and takes me for a walk but of course it's much more like a show shuffle because of course I'm getting old and need to save my energy, who knows what for though because I've done what I was here for – to love you, and also get rid of Voldemort but I much preferred loving you.
And even know I wish they were gone because I'm just beginning to remember the black polished wooden coffin being lowered into the ground and I remember wondering why you weren't getting out and laughing at me and everyone for believing you were really gone, but of course I never did. I'm still, of course, waiting for you.
Once they're gone, I'm happy to be back in my world with you where you're standing next to be my bed and holding my hand clasped in yours. You lean over and whisper to me and for a moment, I believe its you, when I smell the apples and feel your lips and hear your silky voice tease me as you whisper 'see you soon' and the seventeen year old Draco Malfoy swims into view for a brief instant. As I settle back against my pillows and close my tired eyes I smile because of course you're not lying to me now. I reply to your images, the words slipping past my lips softly like silk, a breath of air, like quicksilver fading into black.