A/N: This is really short and really sad. I cried the entire time I wrote it but it was just something I had to do. Also its 3.28 a.m. and I'm so sleepy. So, any mistakes are courtesy of my sleep-deprived mind. I'm going to start this off the only way I know how… I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.
He ran a hand through his graying hair, pushing the wrought-iron gate open, wincing as it creaked. It had been a while since he had last visited, almost an entire month. Since thei—his birthday. He turned sixty-two that day, sitting next to a weather-beaten stone, alone.
He pulled the jacket tighter around his neck and stumbled down the path, leaning heavily on his cane. The wind howled, shaking the barren branches. He squinted, the sun becoming too bright as it came over the hillside, morning birds chirping above him. He wondered, almost out loud, how a beautiful morning like this could bring him no joy, only sadness and a deep feeling of loss.
He passed many names on his way, some he didn't recognize, others he only recognized by last name, until he got to other side of the hill. The ground hadn't been freshly turned here in many years, leaving this spot as something sacred, for the fallen.
He passed many others, people here to remember the day loved ones were taken from them, some just came to cry. They sat together, under the shelter of a gazebo, one witch holding a long roll of parchment. She seemed to be reading from it, her glasses teetering on the end of her nose, everyone sat around her, hanging on to her every syllable. He thought of going over, just for a moment, to see if they had missed anyone. To see whose names were being said, but he didn't.
He passed Dennis Creevey, holding a very old looking camera, talking to an young boy with sandy hair and Collin's enthusiastic eyes. He nodded at them. He didn't think Dennis would recognize him, but when he see someone once a year every year for the past forty-two years, he supposed it was only natural. The young boy he had seen before as well, but he could never stop to ask for his name, or even how old he was. It was too painful.
He passed Snape's grave, nodding at Harry and Draco. That had been a shocker to everyone but the man he came to see. It was sad how the man who called it was the only member of the family to never get to see it. Harry raised the hand that wasn't intertwined with Draco's and looked at him with sad eyes. Harry had it worst out of everyone here. He spent the entire day walking from family to family, spending time with each one, and for the poor souls who didn't get visitors Harry would magic up a wreath and would sit with them a while. He didn't know how the significance and he wasn't sure he wanted to.
He made it at last to the person he had come to visit.
The tears were leaking out of his eyes before he had even sat down. He got comfortable in the grass, still damp with dew, and dabbed at his eyes. He gave a touch to the hole in the side of his head, a nervous habit he had picked up after the war. "Holey Fred…geddit?"
Every year he would sit there and not say a word. He would watch the families disperse one by one, most of them crying holding onto each other. Every year the crowd seemed to diminish. Less people came, and he hoped he never had to see the day when May 2nd brought him to an empty hillside.
He thinks about the short time they got together, twenty years isn't a lot to someone over three times that age. He smiles when he thinks of the Triwizard tournament, the first and only time he got to see his partner in crime old. He suspects he would look just like him now anyway, so he spends every morning staring in the mirror, telling himself jokes. Sometimes he pauses in the middle of his sentences, expecting his reflection to finish them, and when silence falls he turns away from the mirror and cries.
Eventually it was just him, Harry, and Draco. They always visited him last and he's the only one Harry never says anything to. He hasn't ever said it, but I think this losing him hurt Harry almost as much as it hurt me. Eventually they leave, Harry always holding onto Draco just a little tighter.
After they're gone, he turns to the marble slab and smiles. Every year he says the same thing, always ending the day at sunset with their favorite words.
"Mischief Managed."