The Bird

The Bird

He sees it the first time he enters the garden. A little grey bird, sitting on a branch in a big oak. It's not very beautiful; just an ordinary bird. But somehow he can't take his eyes off it. It seems so small and fragile, yet so filled with power. He can't explain why, but he becomes fascinated with it. He goes forward and sits down under the oak, watching it. It doesn't move much, and neither does he. They world is still and quiet around them and he feels himself relax. He closes his eyes for a moment, just listening to the soft rustling of leaves in the tree above him. He sits like that for a while before he opens his eyes. His eyes search for the bird and his heart starts beating faster. What if it's gone? But no. It's still there.

Somehow it brings him peace, to watch the small grey bird. The nightmares where he is crawling on his knees in the mud, where Voldemort's laugh is hovering over him and where Hermione's scream is in his ears begins to fade away. The sight of Bill, Ginny and Charlie, lying sprawled on the ground with blood everywhere begins to disappear. The memory of Ron, his best friend, stretching out his hand towards him, a silent scream on his lips, his face covered with blood (Oh God, I couldn't save him, he reached out for me and I wasn't there) isn't taunting him as much as it used to. The days he is allowed to go outside he sits under the oak and watches the grey bird.

The doctors are whispering behind his back, talking about him. He knows what they are saying. Why isn't he talking? What's wrong with him? Why doesn't he ever say something? He knows what they are saying and he doesn't care. Why should he? It doesn't matter, none of it matters. He doesn't need words; he's fine as he is.

Silence. Under the big oak it's always silent. And he enjoys it. Just he, the grey bird and the big oak. Nothing else. He tilts his head backwards and studies the bird. It's so small. Suddenly it opens its beak and starts to sing. He freeze in his position and (it's not silent anymore, it's noise, it's noise and mud and tears and blood and) he finds that it's beautiful. The bird sings and it's beautiful, it's so goddamn beautiful. He feels tears well in his eyes. He hasn't cried in such a long time. His heart froze during the war. How could it not? If he had been soft he wouldn't have been able to kill his enemies, to watch his friends being tortured and die in front of his eyes. No, a heart of stone, a heart of ice, that was the only possibility. And now he feels his heart soften from the bird's song. The song melts the ice, and he can feel, for the first time in so long. He watches the bird, tears running down his cheeks.

***

The bird never sings again. It is just that one time. He keeps the memory in his heart, deep down. Locks it in, so that it will never escape his lips. Never.

***

Sometimes when he's watching the bird he thinks that it reminds him of someone. Someone with grey eyes, silver eyes. Grey, silver. He tries to catch the memory, but he is always one step behind. It's a person, it's someone and he can't remember and it's frustrating. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night, his body covered in sweat and a scream building up inside of him. He never lets it out. Sometimes he dreams that he is haunting the person, that he is running, and just as he reaches forward to grab the stranger he wakes up and he can't remember. He can't remember and he won't remember and (so much blood, he's covered with it, it's everywhere) he sinks down on his knees and buries his head in his hands. Grey eyes watch him as he cries.

***

One day there's an intruder under the oak. He sits there when Harry comes out, in the first golden rays of the rising sun. It's Malfoy. It's Malfoy and Harry doesn't mind. He doesn't mind because he sees how silently Malfoy sits, sees that he's also watching the small grey bird, as he himself has done so many times. He doesn't mind, because he sees the almost tender expression on Malfoy's face and somehow he knows that Malfoy would understand. That Malfoy wouldn't ask him to talk. He steps forward and places himself next to Malfoy and they are watching the bird together. And Malfoy doesn't ask him to talk.

***

They sit under the oak as so many times before. It has become a ritual for them; they have done it for a long time now. And yet neither of them has spoken. Not a word. Now Harry turns his head towards Draco and looks at him. And that's when he discovers it. Draco's eyes are grey. Grey and silver, shimmering pools of light and darkness. Draco returns his gaze and he knows, and Harry knows that he knows and the bird sits on its branch and suddenly Harry feels something break inside of him, something that has lasted too long.

Harry takes Draco's hand and looks into those silver eyes once again. The words come naturally, as if he has done nothing but speak for the last eight months. He talks and talks and Draco listens. In the tree above them, the bird opens its beak and starts to sing.

In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.