His Father's Eyes

By Esmee

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          He looks like his father, but he has his mother's eyes.

          Thank god he doesn't have his father's eyes.

          It was always James' eyes that struck the deepest cord in my soul. Eyes that seemed to never have a bottom; depthless, fathomless, eyes that could make you fall into them and despair of ever finding your way out again.

          But, then again, I didn't want to find my way out.

          Those are what I hate the most about his son, and thank the heavens for at the same time. He looks so like him, but with out those eyes. I think if he had his father's eyes I would lose myself again.

          I try to rationalize it to myself, to convince myself that it was infatuation, or lust, or something, anything: that it will pass and I can go back to hating others and myself. I tell myself that he didn't care, that I didn't really care, that it is all some huge cosmic joke, but in the end it comes down to this; I did care, do care and can't stop caring no matter how bloody hard I try.

          That is one of the reasons why I did what I did.

          James and his friends liked to test the limits of my endurance with teasing, bullying, anything they thought would make me mad. James especially seemed to enjoy picking on me, taunting me. I never told anyone the way I felt for him, but deep down, at an almost subconscious level, I think he knew or at least recognized my attraction for him.

          Finally, in our fourth year, I broke. It was like some dam inside me had shattered, letting my pent-up emotions and frustrations flood through me. I think they were surprised that they finally broke me, surprised that I had lost the control that was so precious to me. In other words, I freaked out.

          After that I felt a great need to get out, to get away fro them, from him, and I eventually found myself in Hoggsmead. It was then that I met a young man who would change the course of countless lives, mine included, and he would later be known as Voldemort.

          I became a Deatheater.

          I'm still not really sure which of the promises was the one that got me to join; it could have been anything. Promises of power, of revenge, I don't know. But I somehow think it was the promise of letting me forget, of letting me shed these disgusting emotions that got me to join without any hesitation.

          Then my life started to fall apart.

          I'm not sure just what possessed James, but one day he saved my life. Maybe he felt guilty about making me snap that day, or maybe he just couldn't let anyone get hurt if he had the power to prevent it. He was goody-two-shoes that way. But he saved my life and I started to doubt my choice.

          I hated him for that. For making all my self control crumble just by looking at me or speaking a kind word. He made me question just what the hell I was doing, and why I was doing it. I didn't want to rule the world, and I didn't hate muggles though I did think they were incredibly stupid and insipid creatures. The only thing I had ever really wanted was, well, James. And they could not give me him.

          It was several years later, as I was watching Voldemort kill one muggle woman that I finally knew I couldn't do this any more. But, unfortunately, once you give your allegiance to Voldemort, you don't back out. But it would turn out that I didn't need to back out at all. Voldemort died and I was free. But the death of Voldemort was caused by the death of James and his wife Lilly.

          I think I hurt on that day.

          And if it wasn't bad enough that James was dead, his child was still alive.

          The Boy Who Lived. Harry Potter.

          I lived through the years after James' death without realizing I was alive, but knowing on some basic, instinctive level that I was not dead. And then He came. He came with his mother's eyes and his father's face.

          The first time I saw him clearly was as he was being sorted. It was eerie watching the child, almost like I was reliving the first time I had seen James. Half liking the clear look of his face, half hating him because of that clear look: half hoping he would be sorted into my house and half fearing he would, all confusion.

          The hat screamed out 'GRIFFINDOR!' and alternating cheers and hisses echoed throughout the hall.

          I think I felt a vague sort of disappointment.

          The next time I saw him clearly was in my classroom. He was sitting with a young, freckled red head, whom I was able to immeaditly identify as the younger brother of those horrid Weasley twins. I hadn't been able to see his eyes before, and now that I could I released the breath I had been unconsciously holding in since the sorting. He had his mother's eyes. Clear, bright and green. I had half hoped he had his father's eyes and had half dreaded it. Strangely enough, now that I could see them, I wished they were James' eyes. To have the boy look so like his father and yet have her eyes was probably the cruelest joke James had ever played on me.

          I know that the boy hates me. I can see it gleaming in his eyes that are mother's eyes as he looks at me in Potions. I think she was the only one who ever knew about the way I felt for James. But I don't blame him, even I hate myself so why shouldn't he? But I still feel this responsibility to the boy. This need to prove to him, to James, that I am not so weak, not so petty, that I am strong and don't need him, never needed him.

          I've told myself that so many times I almost believe it.

          And that is how the years go by. Now the boy is fourteen, and looking more and more like his father every day, acting like him as well. And his mother's green eyes watch me through him, a warning; a reminder, I'm not sure which, but those eyes, like the scar on his forehead, are there to tell me that he is her's now and always.

          He looks, acts, like his father, but he has his mother's eyes.

          Thank god he doesn't have his father's eyes.

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Esmee's note:  . . . don't kill me, I'm only the messenger for my muses . . . they told me to write this . . . review this please . . . I shouldn't be let near a computer . . .