There was a soft patter as miniscule pieces of ice slid off the towering trees and landed on the damp floor. The chilling air acted as a sort of cloak from the rest of the world, clinging to the warm bodies of those walking through it. The houses that lined the streets of the tiny road were bright with light and chatter, but the street itself was empty except for a stray dog here and a few people sitting out on their porches. If it had been even fifteen minutes earlier the street would have been filled with shrieking children in costumes clutching to pillow cases filled with sweets. Now it was empty with just a few wrappers dancing on the road with the wind. That and a man walking by, his bright eyes set on the church ahead.
He didn't know this place well, but if one were to blind him, he'd still be able to find his way to the little building at the end of the lane. He didn't have to pass through this street, he knew that, but he wanted to know- to feel -the presence of those still living around him. His destination could not offer him the same warmth, though it did offer him warmth, a different type of course, one that could not be replicated.
When he reached the front of the church he took a deep breath, the light from inside was shining and casting a bright glow across the stones that were scattered behind it. The air around him puffed up in a cloud and then disappeared as his hand reached out to touch the little wooden gate that his fingers were so familiar with. He closed his eyes for a second, the feeling of wood reminding him of so many things, his broomstick, the wooden handle of the knife he'd used those many years ago to skin potatoes at the Burrow, the Headmaster's desk at Hogwarts, the railing of the staircase at Number Four, and the most prominent one, the feel of the wand in his pocket.
He pushed the gate forward and opened it until he heard the creak that had been there since his very first visit. Easily, he could have fixed the now lopsided gate but this man had a thing for familiarity and he'd grown fond of the sound, it was as if it were announcing his arrival. He let go and didn't turn around to hear it swing back and click shut, instead he continued forward, his green eyes set on a gleaming stone jutting from the ground only paces away. He floated towards it and watched as it became closer and closer.
Standing before him were three tombstones, and to most the idea of seeing them would make one sad, the man standing in front of them grinned. It was a sad, pained grin, but a grin the least. He knew that the one to the right was just a formality, that if someone were to dig six feet under they would find dirt and more dirt. It was just there as a reminder of a man who'd been loyal to his friends since the day he passed on, so that even in death he'd be as close to them as possible. To the left of the grand tombstone in the middle was another, like the one beside it, it read the names of two rather than one. A tomb for the two who'd died fighting side by side for what was right at that last unfortunate battle. His eyes, already filled with searing tears turned to the one in the middle.
The white marble made it seem as if it were shining, welcoming people even after death. The man reached out and traced the letters of the names, his hand falling at the top of the stone, a tear sliding down his nose and hitting the green grass below. Green like his mother's eyes, green like his father loved, green like his own two tearful orbs.
"I didn't want you to die," he whispered into the dark, the same line he'd chant every visit.
He found his wand in his robes and silently he conjured three bouquets and placed each on a grave before taking one last look for that year and turning on his heel and walking away. He didn't look back and even if he did he would be too blinded by his own tears.
He made his way through the little village square, past the statue of two people who were now buried deep below the ground at the grave he'd just visited, along with himself. He looked at it fleetingly and continued on his way, down the ice dusted lane to where the row of cottages ended.
It was funny, he always thought, that so much had changed yet this one cottage, at the end of the road, stood standing as it was since he was just a baby. As he reached the entrance his hand met wood again, another gate, another familiar object. The little plaque rose out of the ground as it always had, with the little scribbles next to it gleaming in the light with words of encouragement. He beamed at it and pushed through the gate to stand where he might have stood at the age of one. A place where no one without a knowledge for magic would see him.
He shut his bright eyes, a few loose tears falling through his black lashes as he searched his brain for some sort of memory.
Nothing came to him except for a bright, deadly green. So similar to his eyes yet so different all the same.
If only he could remember all that took place here.
The mornings where his mother would stand with her hands on her hips to stare at her little garden sprouting lilies and petunias alike. His father would stand beside her and say, "Don't quite know why you insist on growing petunias, I fancy lilies much more. Petunias remind me of walruses." The redhead beside him would snort and pick her son up from the floor where he'd be picking and grabbing clumps of grass.
The days when his mother would disappear to visit a friend or a relative and he'd be left at home with his father and his rowdy friends. When trying to feed him the kitchen would end up in a mess of food and splatters of this and that - barely any caused by the baby. The tall man with the long, black hair would bark with laughter, the lanky, sickly looking one with the kind eyes would howl and the fat, plump man would squeak and his father would bellow loud chuckles, the four of them creating a priceless song. And he- the little baby with unkempt hair like his father's- would gurgle his own little laugh and they'd lift him up and twirl him about, grinning.
Even now he'd have to remind himself that they were not men, they were boys, younger than he was at his current age, yet thrown into a war that was not theirs to fight. A war that would only be resolved when he was of age, long after the majority of them had passed on.
He sighed, wanting to remember those afternoons where the little family of three would plop down on the couch watching old Muggle television, his father groaning in boredom and his mother slapping her hand over his mouth at the especially interesting parts, her head on her husband's shoulder. When she wasn't looking he'd smile lopsidedly in satisfaction and kiss the top of her head. Their son would be sitting in between them, tugging on his mother's red hair earning chuckles from his father.
If only he could remember the day where he'd belt out an "Evans!" and his mother would turn around and stare at her son in a mixture of excitement and annoyance that his third word had to be that. Though she'd pick her son up and hold him protectively and kiss his mop of black hair. After she regained composure she'd move on to ignoring her husband for the next hour.
If someone had looked in on the little family of three they would not suspect that they were on the front lines of a war, their smiles and laughter masking the truth of their destiny.
What about those days when his father would glue his face to the windows? Staring out at a world he was not allowed to explore. Never moving from his position on his wooden chair while his wife would entertain her son by erupting a silver doe from the tip of her wand. The doe would prance about the room and the baby would chase after it on his chubby, baby legs, hands outstretched, wanting to pet it. The child's father would look up and grin making a comment or two about how convenient it was that his wife's patronus was a doe. She'd send the doe charging in his direction and they'd laugh. Him saying something along the lines of, "you'll be the death of me Evans, you and this little tyke." His strong, loud chortles echoing through the cottage while her quiet, melodic laughter would join in. After the laughter would die down she'd give him a stern glare, "you'd think after pursuing a woman for years in hopes of her marrying you, you'd stop calling her by her surname."
He wanted to remember their little dinners where they'd sit around and eat. His parents would watch him with adoration etched across their young faces and his mother would sigh and say how unfair it was that her son did not resemble her the least bit. She'd muse about how when she was gone there wouldn't be a trace of her left. Then she'd turn to her husband with playful eyes and tell him that their son would be plagued with the misfortune of people telling him that he looked like his father. Her husband's hazel eyes would gleam in return and he'd face her and say, "he has your eyes."
He wanted to remember their skinny cat that had been his playmate for that whole first year of his life. The tail he'd tug on and how when his father's best friend would come over it would get chased around by a big black dog that would lick his face. What about the fat little rat that would curl up in his lap while his parents entertained him with their wands? The stories that his father's other friend would read to him, using different voices for each character while tickling his baby belly? Or those visits from his mother's friend, her son born only two days prior to him and her husband? When the two women would watch their sons and drink coffee, talking about their days at the castle while their fathers would talk in hushed voices in the other room about how many had lost their lives that week.
The man stood on the lawn and shook his head, nothing, he couldn't remember any of it. He felt more tears prick at his irises, the ones that matched the pair that had once been on his mother's kind face. Staring at the darkened home he looked to the overgrown garden, a patch of dead flowers rotting in the grass he used to pick. His eyes wandered to the window that was once covered in splattered baby food or cake batter from the time his mother had insisted on cooking the muggle way but ended up being a complete disaster. Decades ago the living room window might have been flickering with light from the television and might have had his dad's face stuck to it, his eyes looming over the outside world. The silver light from the doe his mother loved conjuring and he loved chasing might have danced across the very lawn he was standing on or might have been reflected on those round glasses that sat askew on his father's long nose, the ones perched on his son's nose at this very minute. A cat, a dog, and a rat had once roamed about inside, a stag might have even grazed the grass surrounding the cottage. A little baby boy was born into this very world, a world within a world where no war existed and a little family of three thrived.
Once upon a time that had been his family, a conceited boy with messy hair and a strong, bellowing chuckle, a pretty girl with a kind face, protective hugs and almond shaped eyes, a handsome fellow with a barking laugh, a sickly and witty man who lived through friendship and a fat thundering childlike rat of a person who'd squeak along with his friends (who he'd one day destroy through word of mouth) and then himself a little baby with his mother's eyes and father's hair. It was a family of six, a boy, a girl, a baby, a dog, a wolf and a rat.
A boy in a cupboard would never have imagined it.
Wiping his eyes he stayed glued to the spot until he felt two hands grab his arms and he didn't need to turn around to know who was standing beside him. He lifted his wand hand up and dozens of lilies erupted from the ground, taking the shape of antlers. The yellow of the buds practically gleamed in the moonlight and danced on the once dead, but now living grass.
"Harry," someone would whisper softly and he'd smile before turning around, their hands leaving his arms as he walked through the little, wooden gate, their feet scuffling behind him. From the corner of his eye he'd look at the little cottage, to the place that had been his home and was his home every October 31st and any day he felt particularly longing.
Then he remembered his oldest son, with his mischievous, hazel eyes, lopsided grin, bellowing chuckle, and untidy black hair; his youngest child, his daughter with thick, dark, red hair and a kind face; and of course, his middle son, with a thin face, sharing his brother's, father's and grandfather's messy black hair and his large, green eyes covered by circular lenses. With a smile he thought of his wife waiting at home with dinner and his little flower of a daughter and his godson. He'd be damned if he were to forget the two standing beside him, holding him to the ground, his family of six had expanded to a family who's number continued to grow as the months went on. His nieces, nephews, godchildren, his Professor friend who had once played with him as a child, his naturalist buddy who'd never fail to intrigue him, his in-laws that had served as his parents for so long, even his uncle, aunt and cousin.
The two arms found him again, each belonging to two separate people and together they disappeared into the night, a head on his shoulder and a hand patting his back, a lasting smile on his thin face.
The cottage sat perfectly still, the garden emanating light and life where a family of six might have enjoyed a meal on a summer afternoon. There was a soft patter as miniscule pieces of ice slid off the towering trees and landed on the damp floor.
my first hp fic. i've kind of had this in my head for ages and i just had to publish it. sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes, i'll fix it when i re-read it tomorrow. not sure how much this makes sense, it seems kind of jumbled up to me...but oh well! brownies and pumpkin juice to those who review ;)
-arielle
ps, if you didn't get it, the whole thing was about harry visiting his parents', remus's, sirius's and tonk's graves on lily's and james's anniversary of death. he also visits their cottage. yup z:D i find this to be closure for me because i've been so wound up about the franchise being over, even though i'm not really a fan of the movies. lily's and the marauder's deaths have been especially saddening the last few days as i've read through some fanfics centered about them...well this is getting to be a very long ps.
goodbye lovely readers! ;P