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Viewfinder (the Open Eyes remix)

Nyx Vasquez

Prologue - Camera Eyes

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They didn't miss the funeral.

Somehow, none of them knew him personally, but everybody knew of him - 'the Golden Boy', 'the Boy Who Lived', 'the Chosen One'. Everybody who is anybody is here; there is no fathomable limit to the head counts. The range is enormous - from the wealthy to the poor, the ragtag to the ball gowns. The women, holding handkerchiefs to their mascara-stained eyes. The men, standing at attention with a comforting arm around their delicately sobbing wife's shoulders. The children, squirming in and out between rows of adult legs. The babies, squalling in their mothers' arms; restless, hungry and unsure. It is the event of the century.

Harry - fucking - Potter's funeral. Nobody missed the funeral.

It isn't what he would have wanted, you know. The funeral, that is. Too many sad and despondent people; too many flowers. The garish colours will blind you if you aren't careful. And, as usual, nobody knows exactly where to go, but everybody finds the place. Hogwarts is becoming the 'In' place to host a death. First Dumbledore, then McGonagall, then Slughorn. Then Harry.

Minerva McGonagall was killed in the line of duty. Protecting a small, huddled mass of Gryffindor first- and second- years, she was hit by the Avada Kedavra. That was one of the many moments of the war I will never forget - her body, sailing backwards in a graceful arc, a stunned look on her face. When time ceased to exist for her, nobody knew. But immediately, as if hit with a Stunning Spell all at once, everbody stopped fighting. The kids screamed, horrified and sobbing, as their idol, their rock-solid protector, dropped to the ground in front of them, lifeless and sprawled inelegantly on the marble floor.

Slughorn went down screaming and kicking; firing off hexes and curses everywhere, a massive island in the sea of war. "Fuck you - " were his last words before he took a well-aimed Crucio right to the chest from the wand of Anthony Dolohov, the wizard with the pointed face who was friends with my father. He screamed; oh, how he screamed! Twitching on his back and jerking his legs like a marionette on rampant strings, the sounds that issued from his mouth were inhuman. To this moment I can remember them, those screams, clear as day.

Then the Killing Curse - with the alien rush of hissing green death, speeding towards his shaking body like a bat out of hell - struck him and his eyes glazed over. Gone. Just another body in the sea of many.

I never could have done it. Killed Dumbledore, that is. I knew - when I disarmed him - that he was doing something else, and he was. He was immobilizing my Technicolor lover. With Harry right there, and this wizened, strange, kind old man right in front of me, I knew I never could have done it. Never could have killed him; never could have killed anybody. Fucking stupid Severus.

Please excuse my ineloquence; I can think of no better terms than the guttural to explain this - all of it. These words are fragile, but they are my own; and so if you'll please excuse the instability I shall continue.

Still, I can only imagine what is running through every single person's mind at this time. Molly Weasley's face is ashen and tear-stained; the seat that would have normally been filled by the gangly presence of her husband - if he were alive - is now filled by Bill. I cannot fathom the expression on his face, it is as if a stone wall has come up behind his eyes and repelled all intruders. Percy's absence is noted, but familiar.

Ginny (Ginevra) Weasley is standing slumped, her arms loosely draped around Hermione Granger's neck and chin resting on her friend's bushy-haired head. Her eyes are worn and tired; red and sleep-deprived. What used to be such a vivid hazel, the ones that Harry loved, is now a dull muddy color. I can see her lips moving into Hermione's hair and tears streaking unwontedly down her cheeks. 'Mione is shaking silently, repressed sobs wracking her slight frame with sorrow. She won't let us see her cry; I know this. But I fear holding it in will only tear her apart.

Ron Weasley is holding her hand, his eyes dead and cold. Tears do not threaten him; I assume he is as dried out at a sponge by now. Still, I can see the misery in those unfathomable hazel depths, hidden but ever-present these days. The war has taken it's toll on everyone, but this must be like a last knife twist in the heart for him. Yet now I just wish to go up, grab him by the collar and shake him and scream into his face, You weren't the only one that Harry ever loved! But this is a funeral, and the casualty was his best friend, so this is not the time for rivalries. Not the time. Once, we would have fought for Harry's affection; now, we are fighting to put the first flower on his grave.

Luna Lovegood sits next to Ginny, her over-large silver orbs drowning in sorrow. No orange radishes swing from her ears; no butterbeer cork necklace to keep her neck company. She is unadorned and fragile now. Something broke inside her that night that cannot be fixed, no matter the situation. Now that Neville is gone, she keeps her own company and does not ask anything of anybody. Fred and George Weasley sit in repose next to her, wearing robes of the deepest navy (which only makes their flaming red hair stand out like wildfire). Not a single emotion comes from them, and they only move to scratch their nose or sneeze. But their eyes lack their luster and their faces are sunken in; and I can see their hands subtly intertwined beneath their sleeves, reassuring and oh-so-solid.

Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks stand over to the side, holding each other in an unashamed despondency. Tears stream down both their faces in unplanned streaks; Tonks' hair is a navy blue (same as the twins' robes). They fit together like a puzzle, this worn werewolf and life-happy girl. Not woman, but girl. I can only dream about what must be going through Remus' head right now - first his lover (Sirius Black) and then his pup. Tonks can evidently sense this, because she buries her head in his chest.

All I want is that.

That sense of comfort, of needing, of wanting, of effect, of reassurance. I want to break something, shatter it into a million shards, rip and tear so I can feel something, so I can let everybody know that I'm here, and don't I deserve this kind of reassurance too? All this feeling welling up inside me is going to overflow, but I won't let it. A cavernous hole has been opened in my chest, and something has irretrievably flown out and lost. All I can do now is want. I want my Technicolor Eyes back, I want to feel him next to me when I fall asleep and again when I wake up, I want to see him hunched over his schoolwork, I want to see his eyes above, under, beside me while we're making love, rough and loud (or would you call that fucking?), I want to feel his hands on my skin, I want to feel him alive alive alive and all fucking over me, I want to be wrapped up in him and trapped and never let out! I want him back, more than anything. I want him back, I want him in my bed under me over me inside me around me next to me EVERYWHERE...

... but I know I can't have that.

(pleasedon'tcrypleasedon'tcrypleasedon'tfuckingcry)

'They' (the ever-present pseudonym) might call it 'falling' in love, but I call it crashing... burning... exploding... breaking... shattering...

Sweet, salty tears spill up and over my eyes, and my view of Harry is blurry now. So I look at the sky, but the creaking of a chair and the scream of a hex snaps my head back into the place where everyone is; terra firma.

Ginny has tears streaming down her radiant face, her once-again hazel eyes blazing. Seven reporters are covered in bats (Bat-Bogey Hex), and she is standing up straight, wand out.

"This is it," I hear her, above all the noise and panic. "My last chance."

She roughly pulls Hermione up, who looks suprised through all her tears. Her face is still beautiful, even through all her tears, and her violet eyes register confusion. All eyes are everywhere but there, except for mine. Mine are trained on them.

"I love you, 'Mione," Ginny whispers to her, and lands a soul-searing kiss on the other girl's lips. I can see Hermione's brain working furiously in her head, first registering shock, then confusion, then relaxing into the kiss; and my eyes well anew. "Always and forever."

"I... love you... too... 'Evi, but..."

Ginny (Evi) presses a soft finger to Hermione's lips, then shakes her head. "No questions. I just needed you to know."

"Goodbye."

She kisses Hermione again, softly; gently, and Disapparates with a loud crack! and a cloud of purple smoke. This is odd, this is a new addition to the story. Ginny... and Hermione. I'll have to get used to that. Hermione sinks to the grass in a heap, and in all the confusion, I simply walk - glide? - up (I can't feel myself moving) to the place where my Technicolor Eyes rests, safe in his mahogany cage.

The casket is open.

I brush a piece of hair out of my eyes, tears still streaming down my cheeks, and kiss first his scar and then his cold lips. Tears fall on his serene, still, white, battle-torn face - it is a harsh reminder that he is dead; gone.

It reminds me that I won't hear him say "Hey, Night Eyes," first thing in the morning, when he props himself up on one elbow to gaze at me through the early sunlight. It reminds me that we won't have anymore late-night escapades in the back of Sirius' old Toyota pickup. It reminds me that we won't get drunk and black out on top of eachother anymore. It wakes me up to the fact that he is gone, and I am here, but I don't want to be here.

So I Disapparate from all the chaos, back to our bed in his dorm room, where the sheets smell like him - lime, freshly mown grass, and smoke - and sweat and sex, and drown myself in Firewhiskey and forget that he is gone, forget who I am, and think I'm just waking up in a car, in a truck bed, where he's laying next to me, and looking up at the stars, his hand pointing up to the Sirius constellation - "that's him" - and then the endless expanse of night sky.

Do you know, I once had a lover with Technicolor eyes...

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End Prologue

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Author's Note: The reason this is called the 'remix' is because this was a story in a notebook once, but I revised it and am now posting it. Hence, the remix.

PLEASE REVIEW!

Love Muches,

--Nyx