Our lives alibis

Epilogue

POV Albus
Venice.
- You'll stop looking at him, this gondolier, yes?
- What? But I do not even look at him. It's him who looks at me. What do you want me to do?
- Stop being so beautiful. It annoys me. It's because of your blond hair.
- Do you want me to shave them? I'll do it for you. But you will not be able to hang on to it anymore, my angel, you murmur in a mocking tone.
I pout, temporarily turning away from you. The gondolier looks puzzled.
We are approaching the island of Torcello, deserted by its inhabitants. Venice and its clichés. The canals, the vaporettos. We arrive and head for the Cathedral Santa Maria Assunta, seeming lost in the middle of nowhere. You are passionate about mosaics and our stay mixes artistic discovery and tender naps at the hotel.
This happiness seems almost miraculous, incredible.
All these hours spent together, to love each other, to learn pleasure, addiction to your body and abandonment, it is a gift from the sky unexpected. How could I miss this during these months?
How could I have so much doubted you, you who have left everything for me, who have given me all the proofs of your love, since?
How could I live without your breath in my neck, at night, without your tender kisses, in the morning, without the passion of your body, sometimes, which tears my soul and sends me into the clouds?
I'm not afraid anymore, since you. Very bad.
My heart beats, I am alive.
Sometimes the communion between us is so perfect that I would like to die right away, in your arms, never to come down again. But we never go back down altogether. It's just like a hot wave, which just goes away to come back better.
It is almost cool inside the Cathedral, and I shudder. The sun through the windows reminds me of James' marriage, when we saw each other again, after all this time. You were so beautiful, in this nave. So far from me. Your thin figure tore my eyes and heart.
Now you're with me, in this cathedral, and I sometimes need to slip my hand into yours to be sure that all this is real.
And it's real.
You remain a long time motionless in front of the mosaics of the Last Judgment, and I look at your end profile, and your artist's eye. I still do not understand the mysteries of the stained glass, but I know you'll teach me one day.
On our return on the vaporetto, you seem dreamy. I put my head against shoulder, ignoring shocked looks. Your cell phone rings, for the 3rd time of the day. You put it out, overjoyed.
- You do not answer ?
- No, it must be the gallery. It annoys me.
- How are you, Scorpius?
- Yes Yes...
- Hmmmm ... that means no, that.
- But, it's okay.
- It's your painting, huh? Do you worry?
- Yes maybe. I have more inspiration at the moment because I have no more gaps to fill. I think I'm too happy, with you ...
You smile gently but my heart is tight. I do not answer right away.
Scorpius Malfoy is my lover, but Scorpius Malfoy is also a great painter. A registered trademark, almost. What am I, in front of his work?
Reluctantly, I whisper:
"Do you think it would be better if we separated? Do not live together anymore? Well, at least not all the time?
Your eyes widen under the blow of surprise:
- Would you do that? For my painting?
I am looking at you. I see your thin face, your tender eyes, your mouth that I kissed this morning, your neck that I licked tonight, and I do not want to lose all that. Do I love you enough to give up all this? What is love already?
You wait for my answer, anxious.
There are moments like that, where you play your life head and neck.
In a few seconds. Without really thinking, I answer:
- No
...?
- No, I would not do that for your painting. I want to live with you, all the time. Every day, every night. I do not care about your painting, Scorpius, so much the worse if you're not rich. I'll empty garbage cans for you. I'll do the round, if necessary, to live with you. But I will not let you go again. Never.
Your mouth crushes on mine and you take me in your arms, with passion. The gondolier glares at us. At the edge of asphyxiation, you finally resume your breath:
- That's exactly the answer I was waiting for, you know. Too bad for painting. Let's both leave, let's settle somewhere where life is good, and live.
POV Lily
The ballad of Nelson Melody (Placebo)
I close my mobile phone, with a snap. Three times I leave you messages, in vain. I put away my cell phone, emptying my glass, and swallowing another blue pill.
I take a look at the crowded bar. My jeans who discovers the top of my thong hypnotise a lot of guys, but there is only one that I like. Nearly. His t-shirt reveals tattoos and an almost disturbing animality emerges from him.
His girlfriend does not suspect it, but he will fall into my arms. Soon. I put my tongue on my lips and I send a small wink. He barely smiles.
As I expected he followed me to the bathroom and asked me my cell number. That I give him, with a seductive smile.
Do not hesitate to call me, honey, I have nothing planned for the rest of the night. Of the week. Of my life.
He asks me who I am.
Who I am ?
No need to get tired, I'm the one who says yes to everything. Right now.
The one that will satisfy all your desires, even the most violent, especially the most violent ones.
The one who will throw you like a Kleenex, in three weeks, or in three days, when the adrenaline falls again.
Who I am ?
I am the last of a family of three. Finally, I was. Because I got lost in the numbering, since.
I am a girl in love in a family where male loves are sacred.
I am the ugly duckling.
I am the instrument of my mother's revenge.
I am the fire ravaging the paintings.
I am a junkie who does not rest.
I am a slut, according to the man I love.
I am the one by whom the scandal happened.
Fourteen autumns, and fifteen summers.
I'm the one who stuck you in the bathroom.
The one you raped, the one who asked you.
I am the only girl you touched.
The only girl who made you suffer.
The only girl who made you cum.
I'm the one who took you all.
I am the one who gave you everything.
I am the first to have a baby
A little Malfoy / Potter, sorry
The one my mother passed
The one I never told you
Because you would never have liked him.
Fourteen autumns, and fifteen summers.
I am the heroine of your story.
I am the one who poisoned you
Well, no, it's you who wanted to poison me.
I'm the girl you fucked and you wanted to kill.
I am the one who will accomplish your will
The one you'll never forget
POV Albus
Leo
Two years later
At the border of Italy, time slows down. There is so much sweetness of life here that one can only be happy there. Besides, we have been happy for two years now.
When we found this old building, I thought I was changing a century. But there is no century to be happy, and now I have the impression of living there forever. Eternal holidays, with a well in the middle of the garden.
The impression of having always heard the birds, when I woke up, to have always lived under that sweet sun, this morning pink mist, to have always had breakfast under the wisteria. I like the sounds of the morning, when the air is pure and a little spicy. I like making you a coffee, I like your air a little absent, the traces of the pillow on your cheek.
I like the moment when you return to your studio, in the old barn, and where the crickets start their haunting song. This is the moment when I look at the mails of the gallery, and the proposals of the art dealers. The exhibitions to organize, the various and varied requests. I gave up alchemy and my basement without much regret. The only mystery I seek to elucidate now is happiness. What is he holding?
To this house where we hid, the money of your paintings, your legs on my shoulders? To these trips that we both do, from city to city, according to the rhythm of your exhibitions?
You never leave alone, I'm always there. The discreet shadow that accompanies you, which reassures you. You call me again at night, while I'm in your arms.
Your painting has evolved in two years but the success is still there, and sometimes we see tourists prowling around the house.
It's ten o'clock. I hear a bell tower in the distance. I get up and look past the orange trees and the cypresses, the Lombardy countryside.
On the other side of the house I hear an unusual noise and I need a few seconds to remember that the house is filled today. The cries of the children and the characteristic sound of the dives makes me smile. This is the first time since our hasty departure from the Manor that the whole family has gathered here. Well almost.
Draco, my father and Isadora, more connected than ever to this incomprehensible love. Linked by the hardships crossed, by an absolute will to be happy. It took me a long time to understand and accept, I think. To forget the united family of my childhood, the clichés of the traditional family. Our family is not traditional.
Ysé and Léo, James's children, shower Sirius Amadeus copiously in their small plastic pool. Moïra and Isadora go shopping in the village. My father does his laps in the pool, tireless, while Draco reads his newspaper. A smell of coffee goes up to our room.
Sirius is a little frail next to his cousins, a little apprehensive. But Narcissa watches over him like a wolf, and makes order among the little ones. She is beautiful, cheerful, the pride of her parents. His parents who are also his teachers at Hogwarts. It does not bother her. All the better.
It's ten o'clock and you call me, from the bed:
- Albus, come on.
- Now ? But everyone is up. We must go join them.
- Come my love. Please.
A small feeling on the side of the heart. I smiled and I slipped into those already crumpled sheets, in your arms stretched out towards me. You are naked, like every night. I find with happiness this smell, in your neck. Our lips unite, as often in the morning, and my legs become entangled with yours. Your lips are tender, greedy.
You release yourself gently, and you look at me, lying against you. I know you're looking for that color in my eyes. This green sprinkled with blue, the color that you invented, the one that made your glory.
Every morning you check that the spark is still there, in my eyes. Because the night is made for liars. Because night darkness disguises all feelings. But in the morning, in the blinding clarity, nothing can be hidden.
I am not afraid. You can look at me as much as you want, you will always find my love for you, in my eyes. The same as 15 years ago, when our first kiss had the taste of our blood, when I did not even know that I loved you.
The same shining under the stars that summer, when we were camping.
The same as two years ago, when Sirius was born, when we finally found each other.
No, stronger, I think.
With tenderness, your mouth redraws my body, like a brush. My hand is lost in your hair, and my sighs guide you, in this path that you know so well, some are the tender detours. The path that leads your mouth to my mouth, your fingers in my fingers, and, inexorably, your flesh in my flesh, or the opposite. Again and again. With sweetness or with violence. Have words of love or in silence.
The same gestures, every day, every night, and a love constantly reinvented. A love always new, burning, intense. A love we hide, that we preserve, fiercely.
A love that makes us live, makes us sleep, soothed, your hand on my belly.
Our love, chasing the ghosts of the past.
oooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooo
I go down to the kitchen, eat some brioche leftovers, and redo coffee. The bouquet fades gently. Just now I will pick other flowers in the greenhouse and in the fields, with the little ones. We will mix all the varieties, even those that you cultivate for your pigments.
You'll moan a little, for the form.
There is a letter for you on the buffet, which I open.
This is a request for interview from English journalists. You will refuse, and I will convince you to accept.
They will come here, in our house, to rave about the decoration and the natural light. They will ask you the same questions as the others, all the curious ones who are interested in you.
Why, how, and since when?
I know that at the end of the interview, to be polite, they will pretend to be interested in me. They will ask me an anecdote. But happy people have no history, it's well known. I will smile kindly.
Maybe they will ask me who I am.
Who I am ?
My name is Potter. Albus Severus Potter. An impossible name.
What else to say?
I have a big brother, James.
I had a little sister.
Her name was Lily.