Somewhere Only We Know

Canape 9: Somewhere Only We Know

It is a waking dream.

It begins as all his waking dreams do. He is a young man again—supple of limb, fleet of foot, a hundred plus years falling away from his body as if they have never been.

He is walking into the forest, his movements calm and sure, a flood of memories buffering the pain and terror of that day. He ambles over the path worn smooth from endless dream-walking, the Snitch in his hand fluttering in time with the beat of his heart.

He passes the wispy silhouettes of mementos—events in his life played out on an invisible screen before his eyes, in his mind—centaurs and pink toads, chocolate frogs, hand-knitted sweaters and woolly socks. A brook meanders by the path, babbling like a fussy friend constantly reminding him of rules broken and papers due. He smiles to himself with bittersweet fondness, bidding his life farewell.

He stops near the fallen elm like he always does and brings the dully gleaming Snitch to his lips, whispering, “I am about to die.”

And the wings cease fluttering, the golden metal cracking open to reveal nothing, the two empty halves rocking slightly in his flattened palm, as they always do. The Stone is not there.

He casts aside his broken hope and walks on alone, through a maze of twisted tree limbs grown so close together they resemble intertwined lovers. His heart pangs at the thought, remembering bright blue eyes, silken ebony hair and a sinfully wicked smile. Arms like alabaster, only warm and soft, always open to him.

He stumbles at last into the clearing, chilled beyond comfort by ghosts of the past—giant spiders ruthless and hungry, red eyes hostile and calculating. A wind blows through the field, the trees rustling overhead, and Harry thinks of his gentle friend, immense even in death, buried in a sun-soaked valley in France with his beloved Olympe.

Beloved. His heart aches. The dream ends here, always alone. He slumps onto a rough boulder, desolation threatening to swallow faith. He suddenly feels all of his hundred and twenty years.

Here at the end of everything.

Where he began again, one moonlit night long ago, making promises to have and to hold, to cherish and keep. A graceful figure in a slip of white linen, her laughter chasing the demons away. Ushering in an age of warmth and peace, marked by children, companionship and love.

A thestral approaches, luminous eyes holding his muddled gaze, a crooning whinny easing his despair. A velvet snout nudges his fingers, depositing a cracked object in his hand, and as the long-sought Stone turns over in his slick-skinned grasp, she appears before him.

Bright blue eyes, silken ebony hair and a sinfully wicked smile.

Arms like alabaster, only warm and soft, always open to him.

~*~*~*~

A/N:

Originally written for the pphp_ldws community at Live Journal.

Prompt: Open you music library, pick any ONE song, write a drabble inspired by it. Song title must be the title of the drabble.

Somewhere Only We Know by Keane

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmXY2MSrguE

“I am about to die.” - p. 698, Deathly Hallows US edition.