contains major DH spoilers.
read at your own risk.

Autumn Leaves.

'Autumn leaves under frozen soles,
hungry hands turning soft and old.
My hero cried as we stood out there in the cold,
like these autumn leaves,
I don't have nothing to hold.'

It was late afternoon, about half-past four.

The golden autumn sun had begun to set, casting a fiery glow over all that basked in its fading warmth, and as the gentle breeze swept through the limbs of the shedding trees, the steady, rhythmic creak of a cane chair could be heard softly punctuating the rush of tri-coloured leaves as they were strewn lovingly across the drying grass.

The creaking came from an age-old spindly cane rocking-chair that sat in its traditional place on the right-hand side of the verandah, an unknowingly treasured family heirloom that had once been a part of the furniture that made up The Burrow.

Sitting silently in the rocker was a silver-haired man of about seventy years, whose taciturn demeanour seemed oddly fitting with the beautiful quiet of the afternoon. He was straight-backed in the chair, but not in a proud or uncomfortable fashion – it was just the proud posture of an old man – and his startlingly green eyes watched, with keen interest, a young man of about twenty as he and his dark-haired, but slightly greying, father stood in quiet conversation some distance away at the back of the yard.

Every now and then, one of them would pause mid-sentence and glance quickly at him as if to make sure he was still there, and though he could tell that they were talking about him, he found he didn't much care. Life, though seemingly long and bittersweet, was actually too short to worry about such trivial things.

Frowning slightly, the old man sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh that seemed to breathe a veiled sort of sorrow into the gentle afternoon. Absentmindedly, he brushed one hand, careworn but still strong, across a fading scar on his forehead. As his fingers casually swept past the marred skin he seemed to wince, not out of pain but out of memory, as though the scar contained something, some sort of grief that he had yet to let go.

He jerked his hand away and then wriggled uncomfortably, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out with trembling fingers, two crumpled photographs, one almost ancient-looking and the other less aged but still old. Turning them over, he smiled a small, wry smile at the two scrawled sentences on the back:

The Original Order of the Phoenix

and

The Survivors of the Last Battle

Flipping the second photograph back over so that he could see its contents: a crowd of half-smiling, half-grieving people, all familiar and important to him in some way; he gave a horrible, rasping dry sob as two faces in particular caught his eye: the chubby one of an infant Teddy Lupin and the marred, oddly blank face of George Weasley.

He stared, agonised, for a moment before letting both photographs fall from his shivering grip and drift lazily to the dusty floor. Bringing his hands to his face he began to cry, sobs wrenching from his aging body as if he were being repeatedly hit by the Cruciatus curse. Clawing at his thinning hair he continued to cry, even as the sound of footsteps thundered across the verandah and two pairs of strong, warm hands found his shoulders, bringing him back from his miserable hunch to a more dignified sitting position.

Gasping great, heaving sobs, he looked up into the emerald green eyes of his youngest son Albus, and then let his vision drift across to the similarly beautiful ones of Albus' own son Arthur, where he held the young man's gaze for a moment and then slumped back into the chair and slipped into his silence once more.

Albus, with the quiet creak of middle-aged bones, bent down and gently picked up the two old photographs, and bringing them up to eye level, surveyed them with the grim seriousness of adulthood. He bit his lip and, with an air of empathy, handed them back to his father, who hesitated for a moment and then jumped, startled, when Arthur nimbly intercepted the gentle passing and looked down at them, quickly looking back at his grandfather.

'Grandad, that's you, isn't it?' he asked quietly, holding out the older photograph and pointing to a raven-haired, bespectacled man who stood embracing a smiling woman with flowing auburn waves.

'No,' replied Harry hoarsely through his tears, 'that's my father, James.'

Arthur surveyed the photograph again before averting his attention to the second, younger one, his eyes widening. 'This is you, and Grandma, too!'

Harry leant over and with a nod, smiled gently as he seventeen year-old self clasped a sixteen year-old Ginny's hand in his own and brought it to his lips lovingly.

'Yes, Artie, it is.'

'Is that man with the ear missing Grandma's brother, George?'

Albus coughed awkwardly.
'C'mon Artie, why don't you go and help your grandmother with dinner?'

Handing his grandfather back his photographs, Arthur flashed Harry a brief, affectionate smile before walking back around the verandah and back inside the small cottage.

Albus hesitated.
'Dad?'

Harry looked up at him with a small smile.
'Go and help your mother Al, I'll be in soon.'

Albus leant down and kissed his father's cheek and then followed his son inside, leaving Harry in his spindly chair, the last dregs of sunlight illuminating the drying tears on his weathered cheeks.

Glancing down at the photographs again, Harry sighed and tucked them back into the pocket of his jacket next to his wand, leaning back in the rocker. It might have been an unusual rustle of dying leaves, but one could swear the faintest of words slipped from his slightly puckered-with-age mouth.

'I'm sorry…'

Oh, these autumn leaves are yours tonight.

A/N: lyrics used - "Autumn Leaves" by Paolo Nutini.

okay, so before you start.. i know it was sad - and that that's the last thing we need after DH - but as soon as i heard this song i HAD to write this.. and i don't for a minute believe that Harry would be able to go on pretending like it all never happened, he's not that kind of character.. he feels too much. not that i don't believe he would have enjoyed life and lived it to the fullest knowing he nearly didnt get the chance.. but its my guess that old age might help his grief catch up with him..

anyway, feel free to hate it, i don't mind.

x