The Eyes Have It
I think his eyes were what first attracted me to him. Those soft brown eyes
with little flecks of gold in them that glow when he's feeling strong emotions.
I remember those eyes the day we met, peering shyly up at me from brown eyelashes
kissed to gold by the sunlight. We'd just run into each other, literally, at
Diagon Alley, and he was apologizing to me, his voice so soft, as if he expected
me to belt him or something. Now, of course, I know why he thought that, but
at the time I just thought he was way too shy for his own good. The moment I
found out we would be at Hogwarts together, I made up my mind to change that.
I don't remember those eyes at the Sorting, mostly because he was looking at
the floor the whole time. He was nervous, expecting to be put in Slytherin for
what he was, or perhaps expecting to be outed to the entire school. I do remember
when the Hat pronounced him a Gryffindor, the golden head shooting up in shock,
those soft eyes training immediately on me. And I remember when he sat next
to me, and shortly after that James sat on his other side, his expression was
so full of joy and contentment it took my breath away.
I remember the night we confronted him about the wolf, of course. The way those
beautiful eyes widened in horror, then turned into liquid amber as he began
to cry. The way they refused to meet our eyes as he started to run, and the
way they looked when we told him to stay. When we told him he would always be
our friend. His entire face lit up with this fierce, incredulous joy, but I
remember the eyes most of all.
The night we became Animagi he cried again, joy and gratitude shining in those
eyes. He exclaimed over Padfoot especially, and that was the first time I caught
a hint of something beyond friendship in that gaze, the slightest indication
that he might care for me as more than just a friend.
And the day after I sent Snape to the Willow. I will never, ever forget those
eyes on that day. He says he didn't hate me, not then, but I think he must have.
He didn't speak to me again until my mother died three months later.
I remember his eyes then, too. Soft, sympathetic, caring. Forgiving. He and
James held me as I cried, and that night there were three bodies crammed into
my four-post. I remember his eyes, trained on mine as he told me that yes, I'd
been stupid, yes, he'd been angry, but he could never hate me and we would always
be friends.
I remember his eyes the night that changed. The night before graduation, when
somehow the butterbeer we smuggled from Honeyduke's got spiked with Ogden's
Firewhiskey, leading me to confess my burgeoning feelings for him in a spurt
of alcohol-induced honesty. He'd been angry at first, thinking that I was drunk
- which admittedly I was - and thinking I was having him on - which I wasn't.
I remember his eyes the next morning. After three strong cups of coffee (Black,
of course) and a half-dozen Sobering charms, plus a truly noxious Muggle remedy
which Lily never did disclose all the ingredients of (perhaps I'm better off
not knowing), I approached him, telling him I'd meant every word, drunk though
I might have been. He'd been stunned, at first, and disbelieving. I kissed him,
as best I could, and when we pulled apart from one another, those eyes were
a bit glassy from lust, perhaps my favorite way to see them. I can't remember
what we said to each other, but I remember how, once convinced, he smiled joyfully
at me, glowing, as though somebody had lit a torch in his heart and the light
was shining out through those eyes.
And I remember that night, those same eyes, that same foggy, lustful gaze as
we made love for the first time, moving together with the combined awkwardness
of the very young and new lovers. We whispered words of love, promises of forever,
safe in the knowledge that we were young, and in love, and nothing could stand
in our way.
I prefer not to think of the dark years, when doubt and mistrust separated us
emotionally though we were never geographically far apart. Thinking of that
inevitably leads to Azkaban, to the screams and sobs and mad ravings of men
and women whose suffering was caused by their own bad decisions. Men and women,
I suppose, not that different from I. After all, our decisions might have been
different, but they were ours - and we all ended up in the same place, in the
end.
In Azkaban, all I could remember of him was that I loved him, and that he hated
me, and would never know that I hadn't betrayed them. I forgot the way he smiled
at me when he was planning to seduce me. The little whimpering noises he made
when he started to come. The way he always looked vaguely disheveled, professorial,
even when we'd just been having wild, passionate sex. The way he scowled at
me when I had done something stupid. The way he arched an eyebrow when something
struck his curiosity or he was trying to be droll. The way his hand felt in
mine. The way he tasted. And worst of all, I forgot those beautiful eyes.
I'll never forget again. I vow that to myself now, as I lie in our bed, staring
at his sleeping form. Our bed, for when I came back to him, pleading forgiveness,
he took me in his arms and embraced me warmly, much more warmly than he had
that night in the Shack. That had been the embrace of two friends who had not
been together in many years; this second was the embrace of lovers, long parted
by mistrust, and fear, and the lies of a traitor. It was also a promise that
we would never let anything part us again.
That was yesterday, and now, cradling him in my arms, I close my eyes and let
the memories flow through me. All the memories that I lost in the dark years,
the light of his eyes brought back to me. And now I have new ones. Flesh against
flesh, shared heat, and those eyes. And for the first time since my imprisonment,
I'm sure everything is going to be all right.