Like Jack And Sally

 

I am eight years old. We are playing Kingdom. As always, I am the princess. Small and frail and freckled, I can practically swim in the old dress of Mum’s that she charmed to look like a fancy gown. You are the Prince. Small andfrail and freckled. Looking silly in an old suit, complete with boutonniere.

I climb to the top of the steps and cry my little lungs out. Playing the part of the damsel in distress. A stuffed dragon sits beside me, and I pretend to be frightened of it, pretend that it’s horrifying. But all I really want to do is hug it.

You race up the stairs, a plastic sword in hand. You stab the dragon in the side, knocking it off the railing, and sweep me into your arms. You aren’t that strong, but I’m not that heavy, so it’s ok.

When we are safe in the middle of our cluttered kitchen that acts as our castle, you set me down on the floor and I smile up at you. Even at the age of nine, you are still taller than me.

And then, to end the game, you kiss me, and we both imagine a whole kingdom of people cheering as the prince and princess wed in front of all. And it isn’t wrong or dirty because it’s just a game and it never goes beyond that.

--

I am nine years old. I have just discovered faeries. They fly in shimmering groups through the forest, and I have seen them more than once. Beautiful, more beautiful than any thing I have ever seen.

I think I am learning to call them. Learning just how quiet to be, how attentive, to catch them in their flight before they vanish.

And one night, I decide to take you to see them. I lead you deep into the forest, my hand in yours, where it fits so well.

I push you down to a sitting position and press my finger to my lips when you start to ask me what we’re doing.

It is a few minutes before they arrive. But when they do, there is no mistaking it.

Tiny balls of light. It seems like there is one of every color. Red, green, purple, pink, yellow orange, pure white. All glowing and sparkling as bright as the stars in a clear sky.

And I look over at you, and your eyes catch mine, and the smile on your face tells me I have done something very right.

--

 I’m 10, and you’re leaving for school. I’m happy for you, but I wish I could join you. Mum thinks the reason I want to get on the train is Harry Potter. And it’s true, I find him fascinating. But who wouldn’t? The hero of our world. Any girl would want him to notice them.

I spend my fall, winter, and spring wondering about you. You don’t even come home for Christmas. That day, I put on my own Weasley sweater – pale pink – and picture you in your own maroon. It makes me laugh out loud, and I glance about in embarrassment, but no one has noticed.

No one but you ever did.

And when you return for the summer, things are different. At first I can’t put my finger on it. You don’t want to play Kingdom, you don’t want to see the faeries. You spend your days playing Quidditch in the yard and your nights writing owls to Harry and your other friend Hermione.

And when Harry comes, it is like I disappear.

But that’s ok, because that’s what I’m good at.

--

I’m eleven. I have a new friend, one who lives in a diary. He is sweet and understanding, but sometimes frightening. He seems to be the only one who knows why I can’t remember my nights.

And he can tell all my secrets.

Somehow he knows about you and I, and he makes the way I feel seem dirty and wrong. I think about all the kisses we’ve shared, the ones that before seemed so innocent, and now they seem to hold a whole new meaning.

But it’s ok, he promises, because soon I won’t have to worry about anything.

And, yes, part of me loves him, because he is the only person who knows, really knows me.

But he will never be you.

But that doesn’t matter, does it?

Because you don’t even notice.

--

I am thirteen. The mess with Tom is slowly fading from my mind, but still brings with it a searing sort of pain.

You were overprotective for a while. But now that, too, has faded, and you are once again lost in the world of the Trio.

That’s what everyone calls you three, you know.

And even when you are so jealous of Harry you cannot bear to speak to him, it’s not me you choose. It’s Fred and George, of course.

But that’s ok, because I will never tell you that he still haunts my nightmares and I cry out in my sleep for you.

--

I am fifteen. There is a war raging around me, and I am terrified.

No, not of dying myself, but of what may happen to you.

You are deeply connected to Harry, and that places you in danger.

But you care about nothing but protecting him, and I remember when you used to be like that towards me. But those days are long gone.

Then, one night, you come into my room. It is long after everyone else has gone to bed. You sit down on the bed beside me and whisper that you are scared.

As tears begin to flow out of your eyes, you press your lips against mine.. And it is so hungry, so desperate that I know at once that it is not a brotherly kiss.

It is something else altogether.

--

I am sixteen, standing beside your grave. The funeral has just ended, and Mum is trying to lead me to the car. But I shrug off her hand and continue staring at your headstone.

It says you are a loving son and brother.

Well, everyone said, you died protecting Harry. You wouldn’t have had it any other way. But part of me is furious at you for leaving me that night. I never got a chance to tell you how much I loved you.

A loving brother.

I suppose that’s what you were.

~*~fin~*~