Curtains Will Close
by : epiphanies
-
He has a pretty sort of face. One that would look nice on a boy, or a girl. One that would have a body that would do spinning tops and cabaret numbers, had it have been born in that time. In that era. But he was not.
He was born in the era he was destined to be born, and thus my downfall was forged.
Upon our first meeting, his eyes never opened. Only fluttered, once or twice, with the cries of his father, his mother. Barely a cry or a whimper out of the child. I could not understand it.
He was protected. Though without a faint green glow, I could never tell such a thing. I was not aware of myself at that moment, very obviously, or I would have thought before pointing my wand at the little creature, sitting in the wicker basket, curled up in a woolen blanket that I would remember later to be exactly the colour of his eyes.
They say he has his mother's eyes. And one would think I would know, wouldn't one? Because wasn't it I who killed her? Wasn't it I who looked into the tear-filled epitome of paternal desperation and uttered a few simple phrases, thus ending her existence from thenceforth?
And yet I do not remember her eyes. I do not remember her hair, though they say it is worthy of Weasley. I only remember her mouth, and the shape of it when her piercing scream echoed through their little mud-shack of a home, until all of her breath left her in a sudden gasp. Her mouth had been crimson, the colour of blood, until the lips had turned white. In the last moments.
Upon our second meeting I was astonished at the size of the child. Such a thin little boy - I couldn't remember ever being so small, in my lifetime, even when I was a much younger child than he was. Attributes in common we had several - but I had never been as weak-looking as that lanky little scamp. Piercing eyes, like his mother's scream - and deep inside the cerebral of his mind, he could hear that scream, and knew that scream, and would hear it for years to come. Perhaps, even still.
Ebony eyelashes framed them, perfect white flesh engulfed them, a poignant noise centred between them. Straight eyebrows. The first time I ever really noticed the eyes of anybody, really noticed what they were. After all, when one is trying to read another's thoughts, the ultimate perfection of their facial mechanics isn't the first thing on the mind.
To look at the boy, and think "the hero?" Never. I never would have. After all, not a soul save one ever suspected I, and I have told the boy before how much we have in common. His stubbornness about staying on his own side ceases to surprise me, for isn't that another characteristic we share?
One may ask why I spend this time thinking about the boy's eyes, and not fantasising about his ultimate demise. And then I may answer, "To kill the boy, he must be understood. For, that is why I have never died." Or, I may simply kill them.
As the boy grows into more of a man, I fear less and less of killing him. His escapes are growing dull. I do not mind watching the boy grasp at straws until he finds that there are none left. After all, that is all I look for. On the alert, I constantly see him when he is asleep, and I can sense when his powers are mounting. All I wait for is a hint - one moment that will tell me that yes, this is the day - this is the boy's one unlucky day.
That is the day that the top hats will be thrown away, and the dancing batons splintered. The stage curtains will begin to close, and the spotlight will fade until he finds himself in darkness.
He will barely flutter his eyes.
the end.