The Boy with the Vibrant Eyes

Who is this boy who comes every afternoon? When lunch is a forgotten jumble of scents and a thick sleepy silence has descended on my room. Who is this boy, with eyes so sad and wistful? The faint smudges of darkness under his eyes. The sallow cheeks and the sharp, stretched look of someone who has grown too much in too short a space of time. Seen too much for one of his tender age. Knows too much to ever go back to a place where he is just himself.

She frowns, lips pursing in thought as she brushes back that one curl that always comes back to rest, irritating, against her eye. Why is he so sad? How can someone be sad when everything around them is so beautiful, so happy and breathtakingly alive? Something has come for this boy, she can tell. Something has come and taken away his joy and his life. Or maybe he has just forgotten. Yes, that must be why. His eyes, so sad and lost, are clouded, blind.

I will show him, she smiles. I will make him see. See how beautiful it is, when the door is open and I catch a glimpse of the secret garden Outside. How beautiful it is when the warm rays of sunlight are caught up by the glass of water on my cabinet and then thrown back out into the room, carving patterns of gold and light on the faded ceiling.

She will make him catch his breath as he sees the beauty hidden in the clear, fragile wing of a fly and laugh, laugh so loud at the sound she makes when she blows along the creased lines of a Droobles wrapper. She looks at this boy who never laughs. Who is sitting there, head bowed and arm resting on the side of her bed, lost in thoughts that will never cease plaguing him. Her heart pangs. There should be someone here to show him those things. Someone to make him see.

She reaches out and gently cups her hand over his. They are so different. The lined, weathered one over a slim, scarred hand. Even my hand is more alive, she muses. He stiffens, pulled out of his thoughts and relaxes when his gaze falls down on their hands. A look crosses his eyes. A memory? But he sighs and shakes his head, and his eyes are lost once more.

There! He was there, then, she thinks, entwining their fingers, trying to coax back that look. He looks up and smiles at her, but his eyes are still gone. I will get it back, she thinks, her eyes taking in the scar above his eyes. The boy has wonderful eyes, eyes she cannot forget and that are one of the first things she remembers when she wakes up. She remembers a time, long ago, when those eyes all but shone with hope as they met hers. But then they had faded, clouding over in disappointment over something she does not know. What she loves most about the boy is his eyes, but she loves them better when that cloud is gone. Even after all this time, she can still see a faint hope when he first looks towards her each day. Every day, she tries to grab onto that look, protect that look but it goes away again.

Someday, she is afraid, someday it will go and it won't come back.

He is saying something. She is still not used to his voice, it sounds so low, so out of place. Something pricks in the back of her mind, and she flinches involuntarily. He stops then, and looks at her warily. No, keep going, she wants to say. Something wants to be remembered when he talks and I want to know what. Is it his voice? Have I heard it somewhere? Or is it what he is saying?

It is two weeks since he started coming everyday, two weeks since she really started to notice his voice and his eyes and that irritating niggle that came with them both. He is still talking. He has never talked this much before, always stopping and checking himself, only murmuring quiet hellos before sitting down and quietly helping the man next to her with his paintings. Its working, she smiles to herself, I am starting to make him see.

He is still talking and holding her hand but something is wrong. He is slowing down and his grip on her hand is becoming painful. The words seem to block his throat, refusing to come out. What was he saying before? She cannot remember, had been lost in her own musings, but now she is determined to keep him seeing. She smiles again and he is heartened by this. She can see that cloud fade a little and so tries to listen to what he is saying.

"I'm sorry about what happened," he says. She is confused and it must show, because he takes another deep breath. "I'm sorry about not coming before. I was so scared and I didn't want to be reminded. I wanted to run away."

You should run away, she thinks to herself, to somewhere beautiful and tropical and lovely and alive. For the past few months, everyone who has come has been so grave, so solemn. She can tell that even as they talk soothingly to her, their minds are away, delving in things that she will never see because she must get better to go Outside, and she is afraid because she does not know how. This boy must go somewhere where people are better and live.

"I wanted to run away, but I finally realised that I can't," he goes on. "I had to stay and help." He says it and his eyes are lost again in their makeshift prison. "They were all staying. All helping. But they needed me." He stops and shudders. Suddenly that cloud has gone and his eyes are alive and in pain.

"I was there. I had to do it as well." She is confused again. Do what, dear? she thinks. He stops and stares intently at their entwined fingers, composing himself. "Kill V-" his breath hitches as he fights to keep down his tears, lost in a deluge or memories. "Kill Voldemort." It isn't right, the way he says that. The way that word simply rolls off his tongue, hard and direct. She frowns to herself. That word is horrible. It should be whispered at most, feared unlike any other word. Not uttered in a flat tone by a tear streaked young boy. Killing is bad. She doesn't know how she knows that, but that fact is there, printed plainly in childish letters across her conscience. The boy is gasping on.

"He's gone," he says and now there is something else hidden in the pain. Disbelief. "Gone." He stretches out the word, as if he can make it sink in by doing it. 'Gone', she thinks to herself, thinking it must be important but not knowing why. "I should be happy," he goes on, "but I can't be happy when I remember what happened. I still see the blood, the glazed looks. G-Ginny... Boot, Dean, Goyle.. Angelina and Bill and Blaise.. Nott... Snape... those Aurors... D-Dumbledore..."

The last name is almost a whisper and she sees his irises dilate, as the pain burns more fiercely. He says these names as if they mean something vitally important, but try as she might, she can't remember what and they stay just names. But she squeezes his hand anyway. He glances up gratefully and his grip has become even tighter. "Sometimes I'm afraid I'll forget," he whispers. "I'll forget and then who will remember them? Who will know what they did? They'll just disappear."

She understands his sadness. Sometimes she wakes up afraid and lonely. Sometimes she is scared when someone talks to her about things she tries to remember, but can't. She is scared of that blackness, of not knowing how she came here, why there are fresh flowers by her bed each morning. Why this boy comes. Who this boy is. But then she remembers his careful, wonderful eyes and she is less scared.

The boy is silent now, lost in his thoughts again just like he was before. No, she thinks, distracted by a half pulled thread that sticks up cheekily from her bedsheet. No, he won't be like before, he will see. She is about to take this sad boy and show him the beautiful flower blooming by the white lady's desk, when he speaks again.

"I killed someone. I killed the one who killed Sirius, the one who did..." He stops and looks up at her expectantly, nervously. "He didn't want me to." Who? Who didn't want you to? "He- my... friend. He said he wanted to do it himself. That he had waited so long to do it. That he had a right. And he did." His voice has dropped away again and a flash of guilt shines through. "He did have a right. But I did it anyway, I was so mad. S-something came over me and I could feel this cold. This energy." In the middle of the warm room, hand firmly in her grasp, he shivers slightly. "And I said it and I meant it." He lets out a long breath and looks up again, ashamed. Meant what? she wants to ask, but she doesn't as she looks at his lined face.

She feels scared for him. This isn't what a lovely boy, so young, should say. It's alright, she rubs the back of his hand. It's not your fault. But was it? She doesn't know. But this boy with those eyes that shine true, no, he couldn't be at fault for anything. "I'm sorry," he whispers. But she can tell from his lost eyes that he isn't talking to her. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault." The niggle in the back of her mind gives a sudden pang, making her frown. The boy is lost again, forehead crinkled in memory, faces, darkness, blood flowing in front of his eyes.

You should be smiling, she thinks, following the line of the scar running across his face. It is still red, the edges slightly white and stretched. I'll make you smile. She sits up then and swings her short legs over the side. The boy is startled and stands up hesitantly. He is so tall. She doesn't know why he had come today, why he comes any day. She feels like she had once known the reason, but has just forgotten it and has come to take his presence for granted. Much like the man who lies still on the bed next to hers. She frowns down at him, the niggle more insistent, then jumps off onto the cool marble floor.

"Would you like your shoes?" the boy asks. She stares at him. Shoes? No, shoes she doesn't want, she wants him to smile. Not letting go of his palm, she walks forward, tugging him along. She comes to her table, where she keeps everything that is precious to her locked away. No one can come here without her. No one. This is where she works hard trying, day after day, to be able to catch that sunlight and throw it up again and make patterns in the light of her own.

She picked up a slender oval of glass. It is blue, a beautiful blue that can make everything seem better. It is her secret weapon. It has even made that kind woman in white laugh. She lets go of his hand and gives it to him. He just stands there. Take it and see, she wants to say. It makes you smile until everything is alright. He just stands there puzzled. "What? What is it?" She is impatient. Don't you want to smile? She thinks. But then she remembers. You've forgotten how to smile, haven't you? She feels another pang in her heart. I have to make you see.

She takes the glass out of his hand and places it over his eyes. See? She beams. See? His eyes are distorted by the glass, making him look like a bug. She laughs. She remembers how funny everything is, how you can make the wardrobe look like it is moving, you can make something change its shape, all by looking at it through the glass; it is magical. She laughs again and sees a sad grin light up his face as he looks at her with his blue bug-eyes. She laughs. See?

~~~~~

He has gone now, that boy with the sad eyes and the world on his shoulders. He has taken her present and put it safely folded away in his pocket, and she knows he will take good care of it, like he has with all her others. The lady in the white coat has come back again, is tucking her in. She smells of safety and chatters away in a soothing hum. She gives her pills she must swallow, strange sticky messes in coloured vials she must drink in order to be good. She wants to be good. She hopes that one day she will be good enough to go Outside, where everyone lives. But not yet, first she must get better. She is tired now and sees the lady nod her head in satisfaction and disappear. Just before she brushes back her hair and closes her eyes, she remembers his eyes.

~~~~~

She is scared. These aren't her normal dreams. There are no fields, no visitors, no rooms full of coloured glasses. They are different, wild, and the boy is here in her dreams, just off to the left, watching her. She is somewhere that isn't here, isn't in her room. She wonders if she is Outside, and if she is, how she got better so soon. It is dark here, dark and quiet, and she thinks that it would be nice to stay here and rest. But suddenly she is moving, flying through the darkness, somehow avoiding trees and plants and other dark forms that appear in her path.

Now she is in the middle of something; there is light everywhere. There are people everywhere, shouting, making no sound. She can only hear her breath falling into the wind. She looks around and sees chaos. She sees forms firing beautiful lights at each other, but there is something here that takes away the beauty and leaves her scared. She feels the boy behind her and turns, but he is different, he is running and her heart speeds up with joy as she realises that he is alive.

He stiffens, his hair a dreadful mess. She can tell something is wrong by the way he is favouring one foot. He stops and looks straight at her, and she is scared again, because he is not looking at her with sadness, he is looking at her with the fierce heat of hate. What have I done? she wonders, but then realises it is not at her that he is looking. Someone steps through her and she sees a beautiful light come from them towards the boy. He cries out in pain as the light hits, and she can see a dark red patch blossoming on his arm. The other figure is still firing spells, but now the boy is wary, is ready and the light is shot into the sky. Leave him alone. He is just starting to see! she wants to shout, but no one can hear her.

They are running now, the slender figure dodging, weaving, sending out light. She cries out as she sees the boy shrieks in pain. Let him be! But the figure will not listen. Suddenly another deflected light trips the figure and she can see it open its mouth in a silent howl. The boy pounces and jabs something at the dark figure. She leans closer, wondering if this is some game like the ones the white lady shows them each week. The boy stares into the face of the figure and she can see it taunting him.

She is right in front of the boy now, can see the uncertainty in his face, the scared little boy inside the build of a man. He glances up and looks, not through her, but at her. His eyes widen in shock, before they are drawn back to the taunting face in his grasp. Pure hatred flashes through his eyes and he yells something and then everything is a beautiful, blinding, glorious green. She squints and runs forward. Stop! she wants to yell. Stop! Something is wrong and that niggling feeling has come back. The figure in front of him keels backwards and falls at her feet, looking up into the night sky. Those eyes. The niggling feeling is tugging at her mind now. "Remember," it says. "Remember."

I can't! she cries desperately, but then the wind blows and the hood of the figure is gone, leaving behind a beautiful face. A face with lidded eyes and an expression tainted with malice. And suddenly she is screaming. Her yells are of horror, of pain, of wanting to let go, of wanting to drift away, of wanting it to stop and be over. She screws her eyes shut and lets out an unearthly scream of lost love, of lost chances, of hate, of being betrayed of not giving in. Laughter fills her ears, mocking her pain, but still the horror goes on. She wants to let go, but she mustn't. She has to stay, but- Oh God, it hurts.

She opens her eyes and is shocked. She has left the field and is somewhere different surrounded by dark figures all laughing and towering over her. She keeps screaming, ignoring the protest of her dry throat and yells for someone to come, someone to protect her from everything and keep her safe. There is someone, a voice insists, but she can't remember who. She couldn't let go until they came and tucked her in and smelled of safety. Suddenly her eyes lock onto a struggling man- the only one without a mask.

His brown hair is dishevelled and his eyes- there is something about his eyes that softens her screams of terror. He is sweating so hard, chest heaving, forcibly restrained by darkness and so far away. But his eyes are hers. Never leaving her face and full of something, full of guilt, full of love. He is crying but he stares at her while she screams. I mustn't let go, she tells him with her eyes, I mustn't. His eyes widen and she can almost feel the force of his grief. But I can't stand this anymore. She sees him suddenly lunge out even more desperately, sees him yelling something. I can't hear, she thinks sadly her screams still filling the room. What are you saying to me? He looks at her again and suddenly she hears him in her mind, echoing around her, safety at last.

"I'm sorry." A soothing whisper. "It's all my fault." No it isn't, she thinks back, staring into his wonderful eyes, his vibrant eyes. Then she remembers what had caught at her memory. He has the boy's beautiful eyes. "My fault." His voice is low, is comforting and safe, wrapping around her and tucking her in.

She closes her eyes, still screaming, and lets go.

~~~~~

They were holding her down, yelling over her screams. "Get the potion!" she heard them say. Quick! She had to get out. Her throat burned but she kept on yelling. She didn't even know what she was screaming, but it felt safe. She listened to herself. Prank? Frang? She listened harder, willing her voice to rise above the new ones that joined it. Frank. Even as she listened to herself, she felt safer. The more she drew out the name, the less threatened she felt. She stopped screaming and started murmuring the name like a calming mantra.

Strong hands were holding her down and she looked past them at the shaken, pale faces of strangers. "She's speaking," one man kept saying. "She's speaking." I'm sorry I caused all this trouble, she wanted to say, but the effort of her screaming had drained her and the soft mantra was all that was keeping her awake. "After all these years," she heard another whisper in disbelief.

Her heart still racing, she closed her eyes. Frank. She remembered vibrant brown eyes gazing at her. Frank. She was still scared, but somehow she was reassured. Then she did what she always did when she was frightened after waking up. She thought of him. The one who was so sad and so lost and so Frank.

She thought of the boy.

~Fin.