It was a cold night—colder than usual; the wind brisk. I tightened my coat around me and kept walking toward my destination—home. I've been gone for way too long; but now that I've seen the world a little better, more harshly, the fact that I'd be in my warm bed soon thrilled me. The same lightpost was lit as if nothing has changed over the past five years, a flood of memories came pouring into my mind.
It was an autumn afternoon, Ginny and I were on the front porch, watching our children play in the leaves; a perfect day—the sun was out, cinnammon aroma filled the air (Ginny's baking), the kids laughing and playing. Nothing could go wrong. But, something did go wrong—very wrong. An unexpected chill filled the air, clouds rolled in heavily; thunder clapped (James and Lily ran in the house screaming while Albus still played in the leaves, paying no mind to the upcoming storm).
"Al, time to come in. Now!" Ginny'd called. Albus stopped abruptly and ran inside, too. "What's going on, Gin'?" I had asked, watching the sky. "Dementors?" I'd wondered aloud. "Must be," Ginny had murmured. "but I don't understand. Voldemort's dead."
Yes, he's dead, I'd thought. . .
For unknown reasons, I was sentenced to Azkaban for murder. I was innocent, truly, but somehow, someway, someone, had evidence that I had killed Cedric Diggory. False evidence it was, indeed, but it was evidence.
I was in Azkaban for five years—five long years. I was finally proven innocent, thankfully. Now I'm on my way home; I can finally see my wonderful kids and my lovely wife. I have missed them terribly. I hurried toward the house—small, white, with blue shutters; a fence around the yard, and a tireswing. But, something was odd. Something's not right. I rushed inside the open gate, toward my once, happy home.
The lights were out, front door severed from its hinges; splinters of wood were scattered on the front porch. I carefully walked inside, my heart in my throat, an icecicle plummetted in my stomach—I felt sick; I could now hear my heartbeat in my head, pounding. "Ginny?" I yelled, my voice weak from lack of speaking; dementors aren't that friendly to chat with. No one—my voice echoed into the emptiness. "James? Al? Lily?" I cried helplessly. "Gin'?"
Nothing. Empty. Gone.
I could tell from the moonlight that skimmed through the windows that the house was a wreck, furniture shredded, toys scattered. James' broomstick was in pieces next to the staircase. A tear shed from my weary eye, stinging it. I collapsed, my knees weak. "I'll kill you…again." I promised to myself.