Champagne

Champagne

Harry pours the champagne into the flute with more smoothness you ever thought he were capable of.

The champagne is chilled, of course. You would never drink warm wine.

You can already see the mist breathing at the glass, mixing with the stifling air in the room and turning into drops of liquid that look uncomfortably like tears.

It's strange that Harry picked this set of wineglasses for the occasion. You did give them the set, after all. "Keep it," you had said. "I'm thrice richer than you any day."

It had been your favorite set.

The flute is long and narrow, reflecting a strange sort of opulence that makes it look curved and dented in places it wasn't. Déjà vu, you think. Sort of like Harry.

Spring is gone, summer has faded, and autumn has crumbled and fallen into dust. Now it's winter, and the enchanted ceiling of Hogwarts still has the merry cheer, the artificial stars that continuously sparkle and make you want to be sick in the closest sink.

You remember how Mother used to read you those trashy romance novels that told of tales when time froze once you met your true love. The pictures that told of two people in a standstill with passion burning in their eyes as sharp as a rock whittles through water. You never liked those books, even though you thought love was real and love was forever. The pictures didn't move, and you told Mother you thought they were creepy. So she stopped reading them to you, and both of you left it at that.

Then Harry Potter came into the picture and broke down all the wrecks of memories you had always wrapped around you. Or maybe he didn't.

You're not sure about these sorts of things anymore. All you remember is that time never freezes for anyone, the world never stops turning and the war just never stops. Because you know, you know, that when you met Harry, time kissed you on the forehead and whirled rapidly out of control.

But now, the skies are smiling down upon the both of you like fond friends and the walls are breathing down your backs in open curiosity. The gates of Hogwarts are thrown open and the wind stopped flowing in a long time ago.

You like to think there is no more wind because it has been consumed by you and Harry. Always you and Harry. But you know deep down it's only that you can't feel it anymore, just like the clear-eyed glow you once felt in great radiance around Harry. Now it's only a sick dread, a dead kind of knowing; a blank stare that hits right past the head, beyond the shoulders, and into a distance where the rose petals melt into red water.

"This is for you," says Harry, and he looks you straight in the eye. He knows you will turn away.

You don't.

"Why," you say, with borrowed calm. "I've always been partial to champagne."

"I know," says Harry. "1964 Chateau Red. Straight from France."

You wrinkle your nose. "Such aged champagne?" you ask. "It's definitely turned sour by now."

"It's your favorite," replies Harry coolly. "Just older and less expensive."

A smile quirks at your lips. "Having a hard time forgetting me?" you ask, almost desperate to see the old childish youth Harry used to have. That fresh green of his eyes which so easily felt pain.

"No harder than you have forgetting me," he replies. "There's always of trace of you there, Malfoy. Curse me if you don't feel that too."

"What are you trying to find, Harry?" you persist, and realize he just called you 'Malfoy' whereupon you called him 'Harry'.

"I used to ask myself that," says Harry. "I tried to find myself a long time ago. Do you remember that, Malfoy?"

There it is again. Malfoy.

Malfoy, like silver curtains pulled over a cracked window; purple silk ornamenting splintered vases; heaven and oblivion sent by a gash of dark green.

"Did you?" you meant to sound it as a quip. It sounds almost like a threat.

"But we only see reflections of ourselves in others," continues Harry as if he didn't hear you. He kisses the edge of his wineglass, and you wonder if his lips forge a void in the vapor.

"I was your mirror," you murmur, and as you finish dawn flutters in through the high windows. This used to be your favorite time of day; a few minutes of redemption, of good, of light. Only now do you see the streaks of ashy colours in its midst, as if dawn itself was tired for playing the role of novel inspiration.

"Yes," he replies, and lifts the flute into the air in salutation.

"What is this for?" you ask. "Have I done something worthy of prize?"

"This is for everything you taught me, everything you've made me into." Harry states clearly, as if the amber of the wine was listening in.

The glass hits the light of sunrise and fractures the rays into tiny needles of color. You shuffle your eyes and see there is only one color.

Out of courtesy you walk over, place your hands over his and lift the flute up to Harry's lips.

"Do you remember what this tastes like?" you say, noticing the flicker of Harry's eyelashes and the warmth of his fingers against your own cold palm.

"Cinnamon and gold," he whispers, as if it was a secret no one should ever hear.

"Cinnamon and gold," you repeat in satisfaction. "Now drink Harry, before we both leave like last time."

"I'm leaving first this time," says Harry with certainty as he tips the wine into mouth and gulps.

Just like you remember.

The glass lingers unevenly at his mouth; curved, flowing edges angling his lips. You then see the tiniest dribble where the wine has slipped through the corner of his mouth and onto his jawline.

You lick it away for him.

He tastes like the warm wind on water, no touch of the champagne reaching your lips.

Harry lets go of the flute in shock and you almost drop it in surprise.

"Clumsy," you retort as if he had said something.

"No," he says, shaking himself. "You are." And he turns and leaves, knocking you on your shoulder as he passes by. You don't even realize the wine has now just spilled from the glass and is dripping down your wrist.

You catch one last glimpse of his face when he inclines his head slightly against the blinding arc of sunshine in the doorway. It's only his shadow, but you imagine him there, as you did years ago before he left you for what was right and moral and destined to be. He takes off his glasses, very slowly, and puts them in his hands; you hear the tight crack as he clenches his fist and the glass breaks in his palm and cuts into his skin. You can see the blood now, trickling from the tiniest creases in his fingers and as he lets the broken shards fall noisily to the tile floor.

"That's for you," he says quietly, and you can feel the wind again as it brings you his words.

"No," you reply. "That's for us." And you fling the half-empty flute of wine at him, 1964 Chateau Red, France.

It splashes onto his robe, but Harry doesn't bother to clean it off.

Instead, he leaves, closing the gates as he goes. He locks them too; from the outside.

You almost think it's funny as you stare at his bygone shadow, a shadow you will into the ground, for a few minutes.

Then you raise your wrist to your lips and kiss it deeply enough to taste the champagne.

Sort of tastes like apples, you think.