The house was a ruin, smoking and cratered. The tidy gardens were destroyed, plants burnt and flung across the barren yard like skeletons. He stepped over them. Pushed aside the door, hanging from one hinge. He walked briskly through the once-quaint home, littered with broken trinkets, unknown memories. He saw the body on the stairs, wandless. He could almost believe his childhood tormentor was sleeping but for the horror-struck expression fixed in his glassy eyes. He walked on.
The rooms at the top of the stairs were worse off than the rest of the house, their walls shredded and furniture mangled like a scene from a Muggle horror film. He stepped over the debris, muscles clenched in horrible anticipation. Then he saw her. He stumbled to her side, picking her up from where she had been thrown, doll-like, awkwardly hurled onto the floor by some giant child. He held her limp body in his arms protectively, like he imagined a father would, or a lover. His hand shook as he brushed her red hair, reminiscent of strawberries and summer campfires, out of her face. Her beautiful face, high cheekbones and sun-kissed, freckled skin, cherry-red lips always pulled back in a smile, emerald eyes sparkling, the depths of an enchanted forest contained within and swift, expressive eyebrows dancing like birds above. But no, she wouldn't smile again. Her body was growing cold, eyes like frosted glass. There was no warmth there, no life. Not even a glare snuck across her features for her once-best-friend. He closed her eyes with fingers trembling like an old man's. A sob shook him, unexpectedly, then another, like the coughing illness she had caught as a child. His chest contracted as if to squeeze out some remaining life within him, passing it to her. It hurt, oh Merlin it hurt. Someone had stabbed him in the heart, digging his flesh open as they worked their way up his chest, his throat. His eyes shed tears for the first time he could remember, cascading like quicksilver droplets down his face and wetting her frilly white shirt.
"Lily..." he whispered, half hidden by a sob.
He remembered the times they had sat by the little river, across the field that divided her neighborhood from his. One day it had started raining and they huddled up against the old pine. She squealed deliciously every time a drop hit her skin, and he couldn't help but laugh. He remembered the first time he ventured into her house. Her parents were so kind, so gentle, the house a warm blanket of color and texture and sound in his cold, dark world. He remembered the time he had gotten so angry at her stupid sister that he had made a branch fall on her. She was alright, of course, but Lily wouldn't speak to him for weeks. He remembered the keen sense of loss, of hope, of despair that had transpired until he had finally pushed past his pride and apologized, and the soft smile on her face as she forgave him. He remembered the sorting, the pain he felt when she went to Gryffindor and he to Slytherin. He remembered their secret meetings in the small copse of trees on the far side of the lake, the whispered conversations and the joy of seeing her grinning face. He remembered the times they studied together; he would help with Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts and she would help with Transfiguration and Charms. Together they would be the top of the class, though he always took his studies a little more seriously than she. He remembered that fatal day when he ripped their friendship to shreds, all with a single word. He remembered her face when she knew he was a Death Eater, full of repulsion and anger. He remembered all these things and a thousand more as if he were dying too, his life with her played out before his eyes like some sick tragedy in a timeless opera.
It was pain, too much of it. Too much that his reason for living, his hope, his light had been stolen away from him. Too much to live with.
Footsteps sounded down below; awkward, desperate cries echoing up the hallway like a rooster's crow. He couldn't be seen here. He stood, brushing the tears from his eyes and taking his last look at his love, lying cold and dead. He left, turning on the spot, breaking the connection, fading into nothingness only to reappear, a little less.
He was speaking to an old man with eyes like polished blue stones: hard but beautiful. Tonight they were also sad, rims of tears reflecting like miniature galaxies. A tired look was on his face. Tired like a man who had seen too many battles lost, like a man who knew the horrors of the world and had stood against them too long, now feeling their crushing weight.
He was yelling now. Accusations, promises broken. His voice was loud. Too loud, like the roar of a Muggle machine or the blast of a spell. It was cracked, dry, broken. Disbelieving. Pleading. Angry. He wasn't himself.
The old man closed his eyes, a frail hand lifting to massage his temple. The war general spoke words, excuses, empty things that blistered what was left of his chafed, ruined heart. The headmaster spoke of the child, the boy who lived. He turned to leave.
"He has her eyes," the old man whispered, imploring.
It was enough. He turned around, broken beyond recognition, a shattered shell of the man he once was, if he was ever a man to begin with. He was drawn in by the promise of her eyes, needing to protect the last vestige of her presence in the world. He had a new reason to live. A new reason to fight.
He left. The old man had nothing more to say. He wouldn't think. He wouldn't feel. He would only wait, protect, revenge. Play the silly games the world required and stand at a distance. The Dark Lord would return and he would be ready. He would be there to send him to the deepest depths of hell, knowing that it would take him there too. He would take them all with him, all the ones who ever dared to harm his Lily. And then, only then, he would finally know peace.