Remain

Remain

She stands before you, looking up at you like a spectator.

For many a day you have stood here, your blank eyes staring out into the peaceful calm that you fought so hard to keep behind those round-framed glasses. Your smooth, cold hands clutch a wand and the other a sword. The instruments of justice.

You look truly majestic, she thinks. The robes fall about your strongly parted legs almost as if they were silken; soft and warm. Your face is turned, looking away from her, jaw clenched so that one could almost see the sinews standing out.

Such details.

She walks around you, her hands brushing the rough stone that you are perched upon, but still you do not look toward her. Here she is, wrapped in a heavy jacket and scarf, hat upon her head, arms about her torso to shield herself from the cold, but you, here, with nothing but those old school robes.

You would have caught your death.

She looks up at your steely jaw, set in determination, almost as if daring someone else to threaten the safety that you had so desperately strived for.

She cranes her head to look at you more properly, set up so high that she can't see your eyes. Without hesitation she climbs up the slippery rock and draws level with you.

But still you remain.

Funny. You haven't aged a day.

She watches you. You're standing in your constant vigil, not giving her a moment's notice. Your hair stays in its regular unruliness despite the bursting of the wind. She shakes her head. You never could get it to lie flat.

She searches your cold face, drops from the rain from that afternoon still caught on your cheeks. Leaves blow about your unblinking countenance. She wipes away the damp, but still you do not flinch.

Your scar is still upon your cool brow, standing in subtle, yet sharp relief against your unnaturally smooth skin.

She shakes her head. Well that wasn't right at all.

She brandishes her wand and mumbles something under her breath. The blemish leaves your face in an instant.

But you never move.

She smiles at her work but it quickly dissolves. She whispers something in your deaf ears.

She looks at you, her smile dissolving at your lack of a response. She looks down upon the sword grasped eternally in your hand. “Harry Potter” replaced the words of “Godric Gryffindor”. She takes a shaking breath and puts a hand upon yours, but your grip upon the sword never relents.

She looks up at you. You feel awfully cold. She rips off her old school scarf and wraps it about your neck.

But you never once thank her.

She pauses for a moment, simply looking at you. You stay, forever locked within your image.

She kisses your frigid cheek. “Congratulations, Harry,” She says softly.

She turns her back and hops off from the rock. You stay ever solid, ever standing, gazing in a completely different direction. She leaves without another glance.

The damp that she had dried from your cheek returns.

There was no more rain today.

But still, you remain.

Author's Notes: All I can say after this one is: have fun!

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