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As always, she’s trapped behind his eyes; stuck in a labyrinth as unfamiliar to her as her name is to him.
Tonight, they meet in a forest not unlike the one he’s been traversing. The dark oak trees still tower above him like strange everwatching sentinels, but here in this dream-scape, the light does not pierce like a sword. Here, it is soft and gentle and drapes over him like a warm blanket.
“Follow me,” she sings, skipping along a winding path made of smooth stone. Her voice is bright and clear like summer rain. He longs to drown in it.
Harry trails behind her, watching as the silk of her dress catches on the bramble; thin wooden fingers caressing the torn blue fabric as one would a lover’s hair. (He does not think about his own ambition. How often he has imagined running his own hand through her locks. How many times he has tried and felt nothing but starlight pass through. How envious he is of an inanimate objects by virtue that it may touch. He has half a mind to snatch the fabric away from it.)
The girl turns, and as though his thoughts were whispered she replies, “The bramble needs it more than I do. I quite think they’re lonely. Visitors do not often find them.”
“You’re too kind.”
She tilts her head in recognition and carries on in that light way of hers; bare feet barley touching the ground as she walks. When she is a spot in the distance, Harry kneels to the ground and plucks the silk from the bramble’s greedy hands and pockets it into the depths of his cape.
He too, is very lonely.
***
Although time cannot move, they wander for what seems like hours.
Their conversation blooms and bursts between the meandering landscape of their journey. Harry speaks of his travels; how the blistering sun kissed the back of his neck bright red, and how he had to bade his companions farewell at the egde of the forest. She speaks of the animals that came to visit her and how she bore witness to a wrackspurt’s mating ritual — a once in a life time event that ends in the death of its partner.
“That’s awful!”
“I think it’s beautiful,” she tempers.
“How so?”
“One of them will die for the continuation of their species. They were born for this, and I think it gives their life great meaning.”
He stops walking and the silence stretches thinly; pulled taut until it is transparent.
“I won’t kill you. I can’t.”
“You may not have a choice.”
“I do.”
They do not speak of their destinies for the rest of the journey to The End, and when they find it, it appears before them as a waterfall. Illuminating and iridescent. A rainbow appearing in its mist.
He does not need to use the loud noise as an excuse to sit by her, but he does so under the pretence anyway. The mossy rock gives way beneath his touch, and around them the smell of decay perfumes the air. Harry knows that if he were to look down, the bottom of the pond would show the bleach white bones of skeletons refracting a thousand times over.
“It still surprises me. I didn’t expect you to smell like neroli.” She says, wrapping her arms around her legs. “My mother told me it has healing properties. It helps keep the Thimblewhisps away too.”
He leans in closer to her, his hand reaching for the approximation of her neck, and inhales. “It’s unfair. I don’t know what you smell like.”
“I don’t know either, not here. But you are not as well versed in potions as I am.” A curious look passes over her for a moment, “But I think I smell of peppermint.”
“Because you’re so refreshing?” Harry grins at his joke, and she does too. Or at least he assumes she does. Her face moves and he can feel it move but he cannot see her. Not fully. Her features blur. Her already transparent countenance melts under the heatwave of an overbearing sky.
He feels her shift to stare into the centre of the pond. “It’s what allows me to sleep.”
He too now looks down, more solemn. They don’t speak. He knows what she’s thinking about just as she knows what she’s reminded him of. Their earlier conversation echoes in the space between them.
For Harry there was no doubt the star-plucked prophecies were true. Even if the starburst scar on his face did not mark him as The Boy Who Lived, the near monthly visits from The Girl Who Will would have convinced him of it anyway. Their fates were intertwined since the world became light, and nothing but.
A flock of birds soar through the air above them, dark splotches on a pale canvas. Finally, he responds, “I have dreamed of you every month for two-hundred years. I could no more forget you than I could live without you. Let the stars try to take you away.”
She leans her head against his shoulder, the weight of her as heavy and light as a promise.
“I can feel you in the air. My stars burn brighter than before.”
“And my days have grown darker, the clouds heavier. I haven’t seen twilight before but if I keep walking at this pace I might —” His words are cut off, lodged in the back of his throat. The green of his eyes blacken as he turns to her. He knows their time is about to end when the question all but pours out from him.
“May I have your name?”
She does not move her head and he can feel her smile something soft and open like the wide open air. It takes his breath away. And like clockwork she poses him a riddle.
“I wear every face but cannot be seen and when I leave the world weeps. What am I?”
“Time?”
“Yes. There is an infinite supply and yet we have so little of it.”
“I know, so please before time runs out, I must have your name.”
“It’s yours, my name is —”
Laughter curdles from the thicket of trees and out pours a myriad of nymphs who take hold of the girl, their wooden fingers tangling in the soft of her hair, and steals the words from her mouth. Slender hands take hold of his own shoulders, holding him back, removing what they deem to be rightfully theirs. The blue silk strip paints a colourful streak against the muted backdrop of the woods.
No longer can she speak.
“This time, your name was stolen by mischievous nymphs but I will find you. Needs must I track you down. Wait for me.”
They drag her away like the wind where the scent of crisp green leaves and cloves trail behind her as she falls through the veil.
***
Harry wakes to the silence of the forest. The bedding has degraded over the months and now chafes at his face leaving a fine mesh imprint on his cheek. A low murmured lux vanishes the spelled darkness. He rubs at his face, mapping his whereabouts on the topography of his scar. Even hidden in the confines of his tent, the sun penetrates through cloth leaving him hot and wary.
From the end of his bedroll, a small warmth jumps on his legs and comforts him in the early morning. He leans over to stroke its brilliant white fur, closing his eyes in the ritual.
It fell into their trap some months ago. Ron, mad with hunger, spoke about eating it but Harry ceased the thought before Hermione could even start. Something about the way its bright blue eyes followed his movements, spoke to him.
He’s glad to have kept it alive. Under a moonless sky and walking in a friendless forest, it became his only companion. A steadying presence in the vast unknown.
Harry opens his eyes and looks down at his friend. Another day has come, and so too must his journey.
Thus begins his morning routine. Tear down the tent. Store it in the satchel Hermione gifted him. Keep moving until his legs give out.
And in the trail of his walking nightmares, Harry thinks of the promise he made to The Girl Who Will. How he spoke of their end as though the stars would be kind and not require bloodshed despite fate insisting it must. Now in the privacy of his mind, he can only waver at the enormity of the task before him. Not how he must break his word, but how he must defy the world when he doesn’t.
He looks into the leering sun and grimaces.
It’s easy to count the days when time is all you have. Twenty-nine light cycles have passed since she’s come to him and deeper into the forest has he ventured. The world has closed around him. A canopy of leaves block almost all signs of light. His arms tremble as he swings his sword across the bramble. (Not in tiredness, but anticipation. To tire himself out would be to find bliss.)
His body is mechanical as he slices through the forest, fatigue dragging at his limbs like a chain. And then he sees it. The first flash of blue petals. He does not think, only acts.
He cuts a path through the remaining trees where the more he clears away, the easier it is to understand the sight before him. The forest parts to reveal a clearing where a sweet fragrant meadow of delicate bluebells greets him. Above, where the trees have opened like an eye, blackness fills the space, exposing a sky thick with stars — glittering, twinkling, shining down on him like teeth.
It is the first night sky he has ever seen.
And resting atop the small hill at the field’s centre is a castle shaped like one of Ron’s chess pieces, standing warily on its perch.
As though in a trance, Harry's feet carry him to the tower without his permission. Fixated on the missing dream before him, he does not notice when his companion flees. Colour melting off its fur until nothing remains. Its body vanishing under waves of soft petals.
Inside, Harry is greeted by a spiral staircase that, when he cranes his head, seems to vanish into a pinpoint of light. The air is stagnant and the perfumed scent of flowers is overwhelming to his senses. Still, with no where to go but up, Harry begins his ascent.
***
The tower is endless. With every step he takes another appears above him, keeping in sync with his endless devotion. But neither speed nor intention makes a dent in his journey. The tower keeps its promise to protect the princess from danger.
It is only when Harry stops to look down the centre of the stairs and sees that he is but half-way up that he decides to rest. (Not only his aching legs but his weary heart as well.) His head falls back on the wall behind him.
***
He does not know how long his mind has been gone, for the sky remains the same dark cloak above him as when he entered. And it is in this waking confusion, ungreeted by the girl from his memories, that he fails to catch himself as he falls backward into the stone wall behind him.
He lands on his back to a place that should not exist. Above him, the ceiling is decorated in landscapes of painted sorrows. Fields and meadows are threaded together by golden words, too small for him to read. But he knows without needing to look what they will say. It is the story of their births.
But in the middle of the room, illuminated by the stars is a silhouette of a girl blurred by gossamer threads.
His head is filled with cotton as he pulls the curtain aside and gazes, for the first time, at the true face of his beloved. She is as lovely as he thought her to be with a gentle expression carved on her sleeping face. Her hands are folded neatly in front of her and her hair is laid perfectly around her head like a crown.
The knife at his side grows hot with certainty, singing its song of blood and desire. His hand moves to quell it, grasping at its base to throw it aside. But the moment he makes contact, it melts into him — metal searing into flesh. He cannot let go.
The world conspires against him. It urges him to plunge his dagger-hand into her heart. The need burns through him. The prophecy. The unbearable weight of being. The understanding and the knowing he must kill her to end their endless days.
There is only one thing he can do.
He leans in and — kisses her. First on the temple, then over her eyes, and finally he presses a whisper of a kiss to her lips.
Her eyes open, and he is set on fire.
They are as clear and blue as the most perfect summer day. And when the tears well, he is helpless to stop them from falling.
“Good morning, Son of the Sun. You’re brighter in person than I dreamed of. ”
Beneath him, the girl begins to melt into the bed.
At first he thinks it is a trick of the light. The edges of her warp, her outline loosening as though she has been painted in water and someone has dragged a careless hand through her. His fingers close around her wrists, but they do not find skin. They catch only silver moonbeams spilling through the window.
Her body sinks further.
The stars above grow brighter. Hungrier.
He’s frantic now, hands sweep through the space where she still is and is not. Each time he feels as though he has grabbed onto something solid, she dissolves into pale light and slips through his fingers like water.
“No, no, no — you can’t leave! Please, tell me your name.”
“One day you will find me again, and then you will catch me.” She reaches out to him, a smile on her face.
“Please,” he begs. “I have to hear it from you. I must know where to look.”
He feels himself falling after her, running at the speed of light through the never-ending cosmos. It is the sun chasing the moon across the universe.
She draws in one last breath to answer and —