Behind these Hazel Eyes by stareyed_in_LA
Behind these Hazel Eyes
June 19 was always a hard day for me. June 19 was the day my whole world crashed down on me. That day, fifty years ago, the love of my life died. Fifty years to the day Harry Potter died, I found myself once again in Godric’s Hollow, a place I sworn never to set foot upon again. I had been traveling, and had decided to stay at the village for a while. In a room above the Cat and Mouse pub, I was having difficulty sleeping. Rain was thrashing itself upon the grimy windows and weak, wooden shutters. Droplets fell splat, splat, splat upon the thatched roof, leaking into the rooms below. Buckets were set up to catch the water. I sit in a rickety, wooden chair set up next to the window, looking out into the cobbled streets below.
Seems like yesterday
You were a part of me
I used to stand so tall
I used to be so strong
Your arms around me tight
Everything, it felt so right
Unbreakable, like nothin’ would go wrong
Now I can’t breathe
No, I can’t sleep
I’m barely hanging on
Harry was my protector, my knight in shining armor, my soul mate. He made me strong at times when I thought I had lost all hope. He was there for me; I was there for him.
The last night, the last night together, still stands out vividly in my mind. I can still remember it as though it were yesterday. Harry and I went out for a midnight stroll near the lake. Like a date. The dress I wore was a soft, creamy white, looking like a wedding gown. My red hair pulled back into a bun, ringlets falling to my collarbone and framing my face. Harry was very handsome in his black suit. It looked like we had just left a wedding, or a fancy party.
We spent the entire evening holding hands and talking softly to each other, trying to hide our fear from one another. We both knew that the next morning, Harry was to depart and head south to a village called Little Hangleton. There, sources were told that Voldemort was hiding there, in the manor house once inhabited by his father and grandparents, the Riddles. Harry was to go there and kill Voldemort, after already destroying the last Horcux, a gold box with an eagle embossed on the lid that had once belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw. I was not to go with him. It was the type of thing where one must do it alone in order to protect those close to him. We both knew it would possibly be the last night together. We would make it a night to remember.
I still remember what had happened next. We were sitting on the banks of the lake, looking out into the distance, watching the giant squid moored in the center, watching the moonlight reflected onto the glassy surface. Then, all of a sudden, Harry got down onto one knee, held my hand in his, and holding a ring in his other hand. Looking into my eyes, he said to me, "Ginny, I have always loved you, ever since I met you. I want to spend the rest of eternity with you because you have a beautiful, caring soul. You have always stood next to me and held your soul strong for me when I needed it the most. Ginny, I love you. Will you marry me?"
I was so surprised. I had expected a quiet walk on the school grounds, not a marriage proposal. After a short period of silence, I answered to him, “Yes, I will marry you.”
There was never a wedding. The next evening, I had received word that Harry died. Voldemort was destroyed, but the effort involved had also killed Harry. When I heard those cold, cold words from Professor McGonagall, I collapsed into a ball, crying so hard. At that moment, I felt like I had died with him. The feeling was as if a Dementor sucked out my soul, leaving me as an empty shell, a void numb with grief.
Here I am, once again
I’m torn into pieces
Can’t deny it, can’t pretend
Just thought you were the one
Broken up, deep inside
But you won’t get to see the tears I cry
Behind these hazel eyes
Even after so many years, I still am in mourning. Though I try to mask it from everyone, they still know. My family and friends knows that I mourn for my fallen lover. They have helped me in the past, but I still grieve. I always wear black mourning clothes, my eyes forevermore red from crying hard into the night. I swore to never marry anyone else, and I still keep that promise. The ring Harry gave me still sits on the fourth finger of my left hand. I remain engaged to a dead man.
But I am a Gryffindor, proud, bold, daring, brave. I haven’t wept publicly since the funeral. When I am alone, tears fall from my hazel eyes till I cannot cry anymore. I know for a fact that I will never recover from the shock I had gotten the day I learned Harry had died.
I told you everything
Opened up and let you in
You made me feel all right
For once in my life
The night before the funeral, I held a vigil, and spent the entire night with the mortal remains of my lover. The funeral was held in Godric’s Hollow, the village where I am now. The village where Harry lived before his parents died and he was sent to live with his abusive relatives. The church were his body was in was dark, a single candle lit and casting eerie shadows upon the walls.
“Why did you leave me,” I asked, holding onto his cold, lifeless hand, stroking his black hair. “We had a future together, now it is gone.”
Tears silently poured down my face as I spoke to him. During the long hours, I spoke to him, still holding his hand.
In the morning, Ron found me asleep, my head resting on the rim of the coffin, my hand holding Harry's. After he told me this, I slapped him, hard.
Now all that's left of me
Is what I pretend to be
So together, but so broken up inside
‘Cause I can’t breathe
No, I can’t sleep
I’m barely hanging on
After the funeral, I did my best to get on with my life. I graduated from Hogwarts, and got training to be an auror, like what I had planned before my life went downhill. I didn’t look like a mess, and my hair and clothes were neat and clean. I did this all so that people would guess that I was fine and that I had gotten over the worst of his death. But people knew I was still in mourning. My bloodshot eyes had dark shadows under them, and I was growing skeletally thin from the lack of eating. But my family and close friends knew, and they did their best to try to help me. I was always depressed, but the help I was getting wasn’t helping me. Finally, six years after the funeral, I got fed up with my life in England and decided to run away. Yes, runaway. I went to Australia, Sydney that is, to start a new life. The life of a Muggle. I put my wand and robes, and other telltale signs of my being a witch away and became a Muggle under the name Virginia “Ginny” Wilson, English teacher for foreign students.
Though its the middle of the night, and though its still raining pretty hard, I decided to visit Harry's grave. I have on the white gown I wore the night before Harry died. Though it is old, dirty, threadbare from the many times I had worn it, and ragged, it still fits me. A dark green cloak is fastened over my shoulders. Looking at myself in the mirror, I am shocked by what I see. Gone was the young, pretty, carefree, vivacious redhead, now replaced by an old hag. Her hair wispy, white, and dead looking, her skin pale, and wrinkled, dark shadows under her eyes. This wasn’t the reflection of a human, this was a skeleton, a corpse bride.
Here I am, once again
I’m torn into pieces
Can’t deny it, can’t pretend
Just thought you were the one
Broken up, deep inside
But you won’t see the tears I cry
Behind these hazel eyes
Swallow me, then spit me out
For hating you I blame myself
Seeing you, it kills me know
No, I don’t cry on the outside
Anymore...
It rains in the village square as I enter the streets. Rain is falling on my head, my face, my outstretched arms. All the buildings are closes, the lights in the windows out. In the distance, I can make out the ruins of what had been the cottage of Lily and James Potter. A lasting memorial to those who had died under the brutality of Lord Voldemort.
Ten minutes later, I arrive at the iron gates of the village cemetery. In the haze, I can see the outlines of hundreds of gravestones, tombs, memorials, and mausoleums, each one representing the hundreds of past inhabitants of the village who had died and were now buried here. Harry’s grave was a simple tombstone set between the graves of his parents.
Harry James Potter
July 31, 1980- June 16, 1998
The boy who lived and died trying to protect the world
Seeing the simple grave marker evokes painful memories. The day I met him for the first time on Platform 9 3/4, the day he saved me from the basilisk, the night he asked me to marry him, the day I learned he had died, the funeral. Strange enough, I can’t cry. Not a single tear can form. It was as if all the tears I had had just simply dried out. That was the last time I would ever cry again.
Crouching down on the ground, I placed my hands upon the cold grave marker. I don’t what to say to it, except that I had returned to England after living in Australia for forty-four years.
There is a song my friend, Hermione Granger, used to sing along to. It was one of her favorites and one of my own as well. I don’t know who sang it, nor do I know what the title of it is. But I still remember how it goes, and at the grave, I slowly recited the lines.
Here I am, once again
I’m torn into pieces
Can’t deny it, can’t pretend
Just thought you were the one
Broken up, deep inside
But you won’t get to see the tears I cry
Behind these hazel eyes
Here I am, once again
I’m torn into pieces
Can’t deny it, can’t pretend
Just thought you were the one
Broken up, deep inside
But you won’t get to see the tears I cry
Behind these hazel eyes
For the first time in a very long time, I felt very happy.
Thanks to Atarwyn, my friend and beta reader, and to Spark Kano, who also read this story and who wrote the marriage proposal. Thank you very much guys for making this story possible.
I am just flattered by the response I am getting from you guys, the readers. I plan on writing more stories in the near future. Thank you for reading and voicing your opinions. ;)