The churchyard is quiet and still, shrouded with fog in the grey half-light of the early morning. Frank prefers it this way; he can't bring himself to think of this place with sunshine and warmth. That belongs to other places - places where at least a memory of happiness can linger.
His feet follow the familiar old path, crunching on the new-fallen snow, but there's nobody to guide him this time to the corner of the graveyard where generations of his family have been put to rest. Tugging his cloak a little closer around himself, the young man finally stumbles to a halt at the foot of the freshest grave, only a few weeks old. The raw turf is at least covered with the same cold white blanket, hiding the scar it left on the earth.
The flowers and tributes left around it have been kept free of snow, however, with the use of a little magic. They create a splash of colour, which almost makes him smile for a moment.
Then his eyes rise from them to the headstone, and all good humour vanishes.
Alice Longbottom
Beloved daughter, wife, and mother
30th January 1954 - 31st October 1981
Neville Longbottom
Dearly loved son
30th July 1980 - 31st October 1981
May they shine like stars above as they did below.
A lump rises into his throat. This is the summary of their lives - a few words carved onto a slab of stone. It's wholly inadequate; how can this ever convey what they were like - the way Alice's smile lit up a room, or Neville's happy giggles made the whole world soft? How can it describe how loved, how loving, they were?
Everything that mattered lies in the frozen ground here, taken from him by a maniac who feared what might happen if he allowed Neville to grow up.
With hot tears burning his eyes, Frank takes a little stuffed Hippogriff and a small bottle of perfume from the bag he's tucked under his cloak, and settles them both at the base of the headstone.
"Merry Christmas, sunshine," he whispers, and then sinks to his knees, leaning against the gravestone and sobbing hopelessly.