A Rose for the Dead

A Rose for the Dead

Harry loves beautiful things. He owns a great many wondrous objects; all exotic, all unusual, all beautiful.

He has white-laced silk billowing in the breeze, velvety to the touch; pale honey champagne flowing in frosted glass bottles; magical lilies, preserved forever, still shimmering with the dew from September.

He has brushes with Renaissance murals carved in ivory handles, and Goblin-made mirrors which can be found also in fairytales. He sleeps in a satin bed amongst rose petals and he dreams sweet dreams, amongst their floral perfume.

But he is only proud of one thing.

It lies next to the window sill, propped up against the satinwood frame, right against the laudanum blossoms outside. In the day, it is bathed in golden sunlight and at night, in lambent silver. It is more precious than silver and gold combined. Harry treasures it more than anything else, because it is more beautiful than anything else.

It sits serenely, angelic maybe, and Harry loves how when the time is set right, he can almost see light dancing in the eyes. He's almost afraid to touch it, fearing that his grip might damage or break it. So instead, he lets his fingertips lightly skim it.

He strokes it gently, along its porcelain skin and flaxen hair, which spills over on the ledge like a spider's gossamer thread and ensnares him. He kisses the cherry lips, and if he looks hard enough, he can see the red, red juices of poisonous berries running down the corner. If he listens hard enough, he can make out the sounds of light panting and a laugh which sends goose pimples of delight, across his own sunburnt skin. If he smells hard enough, he can smell that fragrance wafting to every chamber of his heart. If scent is memory, Harry will remember forever.

He kisses a treacherous cheekbone, lips running over its sharp curve. His finger taps daintily the grooves along the back, sliding past the cashmere sweater. And if he imagines hard enough, he is convinced that this is real. That there is a faint heartbeat underneath his own heart, that this is really Draco Malfoy.

Most of the time, he cannot imagine. He is stuck in mundane reality, with only his memories to console him. The details are blurry, he cannot relive the past. But the things he can recall: the kisses in delightful areas, which are wasted on the chaste; a droplet of glistening blood on pale skin, like a smear of strawberry jam; a pair of colourless eyes, mercurial in both colour and nature... he can recall these vividly, as if they have just happened a few minute ago. These memories are beautiful, and for that reason, Harry cannot part with them just as he cannot part with this ....

The doorbell rings. As if roused from a dream, Harry answers it. It is Hermione. She looks very fresh and alive, her hair combed back and her eyes bright. "Hullo, Harry," she chirps. She motions to the brown paper bag she is carrying. "Mind if I drop in?"

Harry shrugs, and Hermione used to his reticence, does not comment. She does stop and admire the Italian marble tiles though. "Harry, did you get new tiles? They're gorgeous."

Harry just smiles and Hermione follows him to the kitchen. He is used to her presence, no amount of wishing will make her go away. As much as he doesn't want, she has a right to belong in his beautiful world.

"You have so many pretty things," Hermione remarks, as she fingers the shiny mahogany table. "It's almost extravagant of you. My, what a stunning doll." She inspects a doll leaning on the wall. "It looks just like a real person."

Harry stares at the vacant eyes and vapid smile. "No," he says uncomfortably. He clears his throat. "It's fake, you can tell that it's a doll."

Hermione smiles up at him. "You're being unreasonable, Harry. Of course it looks like a doll. It is a doll, after all. As if you have seen better."

"I have," is Harry's undisputed comment.

Hermione's smile turns to a grin. This is good. Harry's improving. He's no longer so moody and brooding 24/7. He's talking again. "Then you can show me," she says enthusiastically.

Harry shuffles uncomfortably. "Um."

"Well?" Hermione demands and Harry gives in. He want show her what real beauty is, he knows that once she's seen what he sees every day, her life will change. Everything that was once dear to her will become gauche and gawky and completely graceless. Harry is lonely in his world, and misery loves company.

Hermione follows him, fingers tracing the carved runes on the walls. To fill the void of silence between them, she talks about how lovely Harry's lilies are. Harry tells her that they're magically preserved. Hermione can only gape and Harry brings her to his room, his haven.

With a pounding heart, he twists the doorknob (leaving a misty fingerprint on its finely-polished gold) and pushes the heavy wooden door open.

A light gust of wind blows laced curtains, letting them flutter mid-air. The doll's silvery hair flutters as well.

Hermione's eyes widen. Harry knows that she's impressed by it.

"Oh my G..." she murmurs, as she edges towards it tentatively. "It looks so ...." She clutches her chest and peers into its eyes. She takes in the glassy eyes, glossy nails and glistening hair.

"It looks real, doesn't it?" Harry asks, wry smile on his face.

Hermione shudders. "It looks too real. It's... like he's staring at us, look. The expression and everything is the same."

Harry feels a stab of irritation. "That's the whole point."

Hermione doesn't answer. Her arm tentatively touches the hand. It feels heavy, and not at all doll-like. She quickly flinches.

She bravely makes another attempt. This time, she runs her thumb along the eyelashes. And eyelash falls. Her hand flinches again.

Harry brushes the stray eyelash, annoyed.

Hermione is unaware, as her brown fingers reach the golden strands of hair. To Harry's consternation, she pulls one strand out and inspects it.

She gasps. "Harry. This is real hair!"

Harry calmly takes the hair away. "Yes, it is."

"Then this is..." Hermione screams. She jumps back, falling on her behind, so eager is she to get away. "Oh my God. Harry, that... that's...." Words fail her.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Harry smiles fondly. "Of course his hair and nail still continue growing, so I have to give it a weekly snip...."

Hermione scrambles away from him, something strangely like disgust and fear in her brown eyes. "Harry, get away from him. It's, it's...."

Harry ignores her. "You don't appreciate real beauty when you see it Hermione. You think dolls and flowers are beautiful. But they're not, they're common. Draco is beautiful. He's proof that we humans, are not just mindless mounds of walking heavy flesh. Have you seen anything as perfect as he is? Seen the flecks of dark grey in those eyes? And unlike us, he'll be beautiful forever. He always wanted to be immortal."

"I don't think he meant it that way," says Hermione shakily. "Harry, please," she pleads tearfully. "Harry, that... that's not Draco. Draco's gone."

"No, you've got it all wrong." Harry smiles.

"You have to understand Harry!" yells Hermione hysterically. "That's not beauty. You're fondling a dead body! It's grotesque, it's disgusting, it' s horrible. That's a shell, Harry. It's not living. It's gone and unnatural, and it isn't beautiful. It isn't beautiful at all."

Harry can only stare at her, bemused. If Draco isn't beautiful, then what is? Why can't she understand?

*

Now Harry sits in a green, green park. The daisies are blooming, but Harry has no eye for them. Daisies are just weeds, after all, and they are so common and their petals, so flimsy.

The sky is brilliant turquoise, but Harry doesn't care because since when is the sky not blue in the day.

Everything is alive around him, but what difference does it make, if Harry feels dead?

Harry tries to remember: ghosts of smiles, fine wine and diamonds so sharp, they draw blood. They are like wisps of smoke though, as they elude him. Harry tries to remember silvery lashes adorning grey irises and acerbic sweetness in his mouth but try as he might, he just cannot remember.

He is too overwhelmed by the pigeons' cacophony and the raucous sound of brats playing ball in the school next door. There is nothing beautiful here.

And Harry curses the world. All he wanted was beauty, was it too much to ask for? He was happy and they ruined it.

Harry closes his eyes and thinks about Draco. If he could die, he would. But he is not as beautiful as Draco, and his body will never be as beautiful as Draco's. He is not like Draco, he was not made to die for beauty.

fin