Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter
That day you were content. We played with little Harry, and I remember thinking that I couldn't be happier. You picked him up and held him out to me. You told Harry that I would make him the best Seeker in the world. He laughed and clapped his hands as though he understood us. Actually, he probably did. You looked at me, and your eyes were full of sadness. I wanted to make all that sorrow go away. I didn't want to understand it; I didn't want to know what it meant.
But I did.
Our child, our poor innocent child: murdered, or murderer. How could I even bear to think about it? And you. My love… my life. You were haunted by what he could be. And yet, we never bridged the subject. Instead we clung to the selfish hope that Alice and Frank's son, Neville would be the One.
Heck, they were probably hoping the same thing about Harry.
Later, after you had put Harry to sleep, we clung to each other. Your tears fell on my shirt. My tears fell on your head. Your pain was my pain. And the cause of our pain slept on.
And I told you that I would do anything to stop the pain. You laughed tearfully and told me not to be silly. I wasn't being silly. That was the one time one you misinterpreted my words. Or maybe you didn't misinterpret my words. Maybe you just didn't want to think of the implications of my words. You just didn't want to lose both of us.
And I just didn't want to lose you – either of you. You meant the world to me. You still do.
I wiped your tears from your eyes and you smiled back up at me. I gazed down at your face and in that exact moment I memorised every feature on your face. Your beautiful, beautiful emerald eyes… your red hair… and memories came flooding back.
How on the first day of school I bumped into you in the train and knocked you over. You glared at me with such ferocity and I remember thinking (and maybe saying?) that you had an anger management problem. You stormed back to your compartment and your face stayed with me. You intrigued me – you were so different from other girls.
We were placed in the same house and you blatantly ignored me. I wasn't too fussed – I got enough attention as it was.
I don't think it was until fourth year… or maybe third year that I realised you were so different from the other girls. You didn't run after me and flirt with me at every given opportunity. You didn't giggle; you didn't cry. You were just… there. So I pursued you. You hated me… or at least gave every outward appearance of it. Funny how these things work out, right?
And now you are here. In my arms. And I realise that I've always had you. And that I will always have you. Forever and a day.
That night, Harry lay between us. You insisted, and although I didn't understand, I agreed. It was a mother's instinct, I suppose. For those few peaceful seconds we were a happy family. Then it all fell away and we were pretenders. Marauders. The irony strikes me now. It was then that I heard something downstairs. I went down to investigate.
Lord knows what you were feeling. The time you had to wait for me to stumble up the stairs must have been agony. Even now, I can still hear my words, rough and desperate:
"He's here! Get Harry out! I'll hold him off!"
Desperate words from the mouth of a desperate man. In that instant I knew that I would die. So I looked at you for the last time, then I realised I didn't need to. Because you would always be with me. Not just your image – you.
I don't remember much after that. I just remember that cold, cold voice and the green light. And it was gone. The nightmare was over. The dream had begun.
And then you came. You came and I knew we would never be separated again. Never. And I rejoiced in the selfish knowledge that I had you forever.
One thing our son never would.
It was said that that night we died, and Harry lived. In truth, he died and we lived.
For what is life without the knowledge of love?