His head rested against the bulk of the tree, staring up at the sky with unfocused eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
His heels dug into the grass, into the dirt. His fingers deep into his pockets, holding a stack of pictures given to him by Sirius and Remus. Pictures of the people his heart would never get to know. Pictures of the people his hands would never get to feel.
Do I look like them?
Do I look like them?
Do I
L
O
O
K
Like THEM?
Harry didn’t know when his hands reached out from his pockets, when the photos entered his eyesight and blocked the night sky. The same dark, unruly curls facing back at him. The same bright emerald eyes wide and staring back at him. His shoulders, her hands, his smile, the scrunch of her nose.
Sirius said we made the same expressions, my dad and I
My legs to my shoulders and my chin.
Like him.
My eyes, big and wide.
Like my moms.
From my heart to my words and my love.
Like her.
He held the small photograph close, a finger gently caressing the unfamiliar faces again and again like it was an obsession. From his legs to his shoulders and his chin – just like his.
But Harry didn’t know who he was, no not at all.
From his eyes to his smile to his hands – just like her.
But Harry didn’t know who she was, no not at all.
He was made up of the two of them, from their love to their interests to their looks, a smashed up piece of the two. of. them. Yet he didn’t really know much about them. ‘Cause everything worked out in some twisted way without them.
Their gravesites would remain old and loved, but not by him. Oh no.
How could he miss something he never had?