We Can't Wake Up

Marcus thought deeply about what Anne had said to him. They were saying that you’re evil and that you use people in the most horrible ways imaginable. That you will become worse than Lord Voldemort and anyone who gets close to you in anyway will be murdered. They say that the Lestrange’s aren’t your real parents.. The words flowed through his mind like a river on circuit. Who did they think were his real parents? he wondered. Did they suspect that Lord Voldemort, the very wizard that they compared him to, was his biological father? Of course not. he thought scathingly They are all stupid girls with nothing better to do than talk about me.

He also thought about the other things that she had said to him. You are the most wonderful person I’ve ever met but you are also the worst and the cruelest. He could not get that out of his mind. She knew that he could be cruel and heartless, but she obviously believed that he cared about her in some way.

Do I? he thought, late at night lying on his bed, unable to sleep as usual. “Do I actually care about her?” he whispered to the space above him. He was not entirely sure of the answer. He knew that he wanted her to be his; he wanted her to always come to him when he needed her, when he wanted her; when she needed and wanted him. But he did not know about caring. He had not been brought up in a home of love and adoration. He had been brought up in a house of fear, anger and coldness. Everyone feared him because he was Lord Voldemort’s son. These were people who had once followed Voldemort religiously, but now they were afraid of his own son.

Marcus lay on the cool grass in the clearing, waiting for Anne to arrive. He knew she would be here soon, she would walk up and sit beside him; touch his cheek with her hand, smooth his forehead if it was creased. She would trace her fingers along the contours of his face, memorising them and run her fingers through his hair. Her hands would trail down his neck and across his chest, resting to feel the steady heartbeat. She was always silent until he opened his eyes. Until he opened his eyes, Anne would touch his face, hair, neck and chest and would do nothing more.

When he opened his eyes, Anne would meet them with her own and they would stay silent, staring deep into the other’s eyes. Marcus was always the first to move, to pull her down to him, to press his lips firmly against her own.

Thinking of this, Marcus waited for Anne to arrive. He did not have to wait long. He heard the quiet rustle of her robes as she walked up to him and sat beside him. She didn’t move for a moment and then her fingers moved across his forehead. Marcus opened his eyes. Anne smiled slightly at him as her fingers played gently with his hair and then traced down his face. They danced lithely down his neck and across his chest. Anne rested her hand above his heart and her smile grew slightly wider as she felt the gentle throb.

Marcus moved his hand to her face and gently brushed her cheek. His fingers caught her chin and he pulled her to him, pressing his lips against hers. Anne’s hand remained on his heart as Marcus held her face securely as if she were a bird that might fly away at any moment.

“Why do you always do that?” he asked quietly. “Why do you always rest your hand on my heart?”

Anne blushed and smiled, “Because, it means that you are real and you are alive.”

Marcus frowned, “Of course I’m real and alive,”

Anne gave a little laugh, “Yes, but I’ve heard that Lord Voldemort did not have a heart at all.” She paused to gauge his reaction, but Marcus gave away nothing. “So, you having a heart proves that you will not turn out like him,”

The frown on Marcus’ forehead increased and his eyes became flat. “Why would I turn out like him?” His heart rate increased marginally.

Anne smiled wider, “You won’t.” She gently smoothed his forehead and lay down beside him.

Marcus warped his arm around her and they lay still and silent, Anne’s hand still resting on his heart.