They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul and while I'm not usually one to get sentimental I can't help but note for Lily's son this is most definitely the case. The boy's heart and soul are as pure as his mothers were. In spite of this I treat the boy cruelly, I know. Sometimes I wonder what Lily would say if she were here. In my heart I know she would be disappointed. Disappointed that I am punishing her little boy for his father's past mistakes. There are times when I lay in bed and tell myself that I will stop with this treatment, but every time I see the boy with his messy black hair and his round glasses I submit to cruel teasing and hurtful comments. Am I punishing him for what his father did? Yes. Why I do this I do not know. The resemblance between the boy and his father is so shocking that sometimes I forget who I'm speaking to.
Despite this there are times when I recall Lily so strongly in the boy, though. The way he defends students that are getting teased rather than do the teasing. The way he shows love and mercy and forgiveness.
But every time I see him at the quidditch matches or every time I see him messing about in my class, all the memories of Lily vanish, leaving behind the form of the boy that used to taunt and ridicule me during my school years.
There are times when I cannot bare to look into his eyes for when I do I see nothing but what the boy truly is; an innocent child. Someone pure and courageous; just like Lily.
There are times when even I wonder why I bother to come to his rescue when he needs it. But every time he is in danger it becomes almost like a reflex. I feel that maybe if I can save her son then Lily will forgive me. Forgive me for the happenings by the lake that day. Forgive me for revealing the prophesy to he-who-must-not-be-named. Forgive me for treating her son so coldly.
And that is why now, as I stand concealed in the bushes of the forest of dean, that I conjure my doe patronus. And that is why now, as I watch the boy approach the sword of Gryffindor's hiding place, sunken in the river, that I whisper the words; "Good luck … Harry Potter."