One trembling hand clutched the letter to his chest. The other, pale and shaking, was pressed to his mouth, holding back his sorrow. Tears were streaming uninhibited down his face, from wide, red-rimmed eyes. He sunk to the ground, legs unable to hold him upright any longer. This wasn't right, it couldn't be true. Not now, not now of all times. His heart ached as it shattered in his heaving chest.
A woman walked into the room. She stopped in shock, "Harry, darling, what's wrong?"
Mutely, he handed the piece of paper over. His hands moved to cover his stomach, as if trying to hold the pieces of himself together.
In morbid fascination, the woman began to read the letter aloud as another man entered the room.
"Dear Mr. Potter,
We regret to inform you that your husband has been reported dead. Accounts say that he met his death honorably, and brought down an as yet unnamed number of Death Eaters, before being hit by an unknown curse and his subsequent death. His body has yet to be recovered from the scene of the battle. His name will be added to the Monument to Those Killed in the Battle for Hogwarts. We, the Ministry Of Magic, wish to express our most fervent condolences.
Sincerely,
Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt."
A terrible gasping sound came from the man on the floor. His mouth open in a silent scream as the tears continued to pour down his face. Harry rocked back and forth, arms cradling himself. The woman immediately dropped to his side, pulling him into a tight embrace. Seconds later, the man joined them.
Three months later, the Monument was erected. A wall, built of perfectly shining obsidian stood on a hill, overlooking the castle, and the field of the battle. Lines of names in white lined the black stone. At the base, a collection of items left to those who died that day.
A trio of people trekked up the hill.
On the left was a woman. She was young, but her large, doe brown eyes, betrayed the depth of a much older woman. She held her head high, tilted up towards the monument, a single scar shining against the pale skin of her neck. Brown hair fell in unruly curls around her shoulders. One slender arm wrapped around the figure in the middle.
On the right was a man. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and muscled arms leading to a pair of hands tucked firmly into his pockets. His eyes were bright blue, the same color as the bright autumn sky above them. A spattering of freckles lay across his honest face, telling tales of carefree days long past. Ginger hair fell into his eyes, when he looked quickly across to the woman, a fond smile curling his lips.
The final man, in between his closest friends, kept his head down. The sparkle in his emerald eyes had dimmed, and finally died, in those three months since the letter had arrived. They were blood-shot, as if the heart-felt weeping of that day had never ended. Sinew and lean muscle lay hidden underneath his light jacket. The jacket stretched uncomfortably across his rounded stomach, protecting the delicate life that lay beneath. He leaned into the woman, as if not strong enough yet to stand. He was a man broken by too much loss, and consumed by the never ending sorrow of death.
He was Harry Potter, the Man-Who-Walked-With-Death, accompanied by his eternal companions; Hermione Granger, without whom, he would have lost sight of his vision for the future, and Ronald Weasley, who now struggled to keep him from losing his fight with despair.
They were the Golden Trio. Friends closer than family. The blood that each had spilled in the cause linking them with a chain stronger than death.
Together, they crested the hill. The pull of a life hidden by the Veil, led Harry to a spot on the wall, near the dew coated grass. He knelt reverently, a scarred and callused hand traced the carved letters with tender delicacy.
"Why?"
The whisper fell from his lips as a plea.
"You promised."
Bitterness laced his breaking voice.
"You promised you would come home safe to me."
The hand tracing the letters clenched into a fist, pounding against the unyielding stone.
"I didn't get the chance to tell you about our daughter. I'm six months pregnant."
His other hand curled around the growing life.
"I'm going to name her Lily."
A bleak smile crept to his unwilling lips.
"I thought perhaps that I would be able to finally provide you with someone you could love, as you never were able to love me."
Those words that had sat carefully hidden in a corner of his mind pierced his heart, tearing at the already shattered organ.
"I'm going to tell her stories about you. About how brave you were, how you were pulled into the darkness, than fought your way to the light. She's going to love her father, though not as dearly as I did."
His hand dropped from the obsidian to the newly budding grass.
"I love you."
The stone remained silent, taunting him. Silent tears coursed down his face again, finding familiar tracks.
He wiped them away, then placed a photograph in a gilded frame next to the carved name.
A happier version of the man stood next to a taller man. He smiled up at the figure, mouth moving silently, trying to coax a smile out of the stern man. The other shook his head, but the corner of his mouth curled up slightly.
Harry stood.
Words hung in the air, waiting to be said.
He opened his mouth as if to speak them, then he pressed his full lips into a tight line.
"Not yet. I'm not ready yet, Sev."
The words hung in the air. Unfinished.
They clung to the man as he left the hillside.
They followed him for the next three months, clawing at his mind.
Still, the man remained silent. Waiting.
One year from the day on the hillside, another man stood at a door.
He raised his hand and knocked.
The words vanished like leaves on the wind. Blown away by a simple sound. Scarred flesh against strong wood.
They would wait, until they were needed again. But not now. Not now of all times