Porcelain

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"There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away. 
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting 
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication."

-Tool, 'Schism'
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Sitting still, all but coveting the classic thinker pose.

Shadowed by the lake, hidden beneath the willows, highlighted by 
the gray sky morning. How appropriate the weather is, nearly matching 
his mood in bitterness cold and temperament black.

He is pondering as only an aged wizard can. Only an aged wizard 
knows the trials of time.

Time now passes, and has past accordingly, and has never faulted or 
flickered as of yet. The lines at the corners of his eyes pay tribute, 
as does his silver hair and gnarled hands. 

Yet his memory burns anew every waking hour, from dawn until dusk. His 
mind is still as fresh and new as it ever was. Simply more full now. 
And the images sting at the corners of his eyes. 

The faces of those who had fallen before him. The children he 
couldn't save. The victims he *could* have saved, had he acted differently.

James and Lily Potter.

Cedric Diggory.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Faces, names, fallen angels. Dead or dark. Destroyed.

He can still remember closing James' eyes with a gentle hand in 
the mortuary, eyes that had been frozen open in shock and determination. 
He remembered with horrific clarity the way both he and Lily stared 
with unseeing eyes and lay forever frozen in a parody of their final fear. 

The way Cedric looked almost porcelain skinned and glassy-eyed as his 
body lay flat on the grass, Harry clinging to his lifeless wrist. 

And how nearly fifty years ago, a boy with tangled black hair and wild 
forest-green eyes all but cut down his victims and then laughed, and 
Lord Voldemort was born.

A boy who could have been stopped had someone interfered in his youth.

A boy who he ignored then, because he wasn't a Gryffindor, and 
therefore was not his problem.

So many had fallen for such a foolish mistake.

And then black tangles became snakeskin, and his own auburn locks dimmed 
gray, then silver-white. He was a shadow of his old power, while his 
rival had risen again. His prodigy was only fifteen, far too young. Hope 
was hard to cling to.

There would be many more faces in his memory before this war was over. 
More glassy eyes and porcelain skin and frozen expressions, and 
with it more students who he cannot save because they've been drilled 
in darkness by family and were too far gone from the start. 

A familiar hand gripped his shoulder, and he tensed instinctively. 
Blue eyes glanced at a sallow skinned arm hidden by black robes and 
marred with an insignia of evil. It is strange how such a scarred and 
bitter figure could be so beautiful. 

"Albus..." He sighs, and does not continue. Severus Snape knows nothing 
of words of comfort, for he had no need to use them. But Dumbledore understands, 
and grasps Snape's free hand gently. It is all they both need for now.

And the thinker pose is lost and the gray sky morning parts, and comfort 
is derived from the presence of a lover, however sordid their affair may be. 

Time will continue to pass. But for now it will go unnoticed.