In the flowerbed by Potter´s cottage, the frilly pink peonies still bloom each May. The lady of the house planted them with a new born Harry gurgling in the ankle-high grass and a line of mud marking her forehead, and despite the petals´ lively colour, they remind of grief.
So he cuts them when the colour is its brightest and lays them down on her.
James longs to see the hidden simper as his wife pokes her freckled nose between the flowers, like in May of seventh year. She had worn a swanky sundress then, the same she wore to their quickie-wedding and her funeral, and a rainbow barrette clutched red strands of hair.
He wishes he could remember her voice, at least relive the times Lily labelled him an arrogant toerag, including the time he accidently proposed to her, a few times during their honeymoon and when she was in labour. The skin on James Potter´s cheeks crinkled as he grinned down at her.
"Alright, Evans?" He chokes out a mixture of a laugh and a sob, his hand combing through the greying mop atop his head. Thumb and index finger drag beneath his glasses and smear the tears.
The fresh sprouted leaves rustle behind him, shadows jiggling over the engraved letters of her name. Potter – Lily Potter, if his life had been a Quidditch match, she would be the golden snitch he borrowed, never returned and then misplaced. It probably is still somewhere near, in the second drawer of his desk, in a jewellery box in the attic – here, underneath this dirt. But she not once left, even if he doesn´t remember the vibrations of her laugh when his head laid on her tummy or if he can´t map out each freckle on her face anymore. Lily remains as long as he does, as long as someone says her name, as long as their son looks through her eyes with his unfortunate dioptre.
"Lily," James whispers and strokes the layer of grass, "It´s our Harry´s wedding today. He´s found himself a girl, a Weasley… a redhead. What can I say? Boy´s got taste, like his old man." He smirks, his wife would´ve whacked him by now. "Anyway – go out with me?"
It is silent, but in his mind she hurls dictionary-wise insults at him, so he chuckles to himself and wipes at his wet face. Plucks a peony from Lily´s bouquet and slides it into the pocket of his checkered tuxedo.
"Dad?" His son´s out-of-breath voice calls out, "Dad, hurry! Ginny will hand my arse over to me if we get there late!"
"Alright, alright." James gets up, his joints cracking. "You would´ve liked her." He winks at Lily and canters towards the groom.
Harry paces by the glitzy white car and recites his vows to himself.
Hand on the handle, James once-overs the cottage, the home he is leaving behind now, for the newlyweds.
The engine roared and he occupies the front seat. "When I´m gone, don´t forget to water the flowers."
His son´s fingers nervously tap on the steering wheel and his head bobs.
"And never, under any circumstances, plant lilies there." Lily loathes them.
Harry just smiles, like a child that doesn´t understand adult jokes, but still reacts as if he does - just to be part of something he never got the chance to be.