A/N: Play Lily's Theme from DH Part 2 soundtrack on repeat, if you can, as you read it. Alexandre Desplat and Alan Rickman make for powerful muses.
P.S. I don't own Harry Potter. I wouldn't be writing this if I did. Well, maybe I would, but that's not the point. I don't own Harry Potter. Don't sue me.
She was gone.
She of the bright red hair and the emerald eyes.
She was gone.
He apparates in haste to the broken down cottage that she called home. He doesn't even concentrate properly. He might have splinched himself for all he knew. He doesn't care.
He stands outside the house and surveys the wreck that is the top floor. He does not care that he might be seen by somebody. He does not care that Black might be here any minute with that howling monster of a motorbike to see for himself the damage he has caused. Pure hatred swells up inside him for a second at the thought of that traitor. But he pulls himself together the next second, afraid of what lay ahead for him in that house.
She was gone.
He remembers the first day they met.
He remembers the sunlight and he remembers asking himself whether she was the sunlight. She glowed so brightly that it was like looking into the face of the sun.
The beautiful pale face that always held a smile for him, no matter what the circumstance. Until that incident in fifth year.
Those eyes, those expressive, expressive eyes. Emerald green and glittering with a depth that fascinated and scared him all at once. Those lips that were quick to quirk into a smile or purse in annoyance. Those lips that called him Sev; she was the only person ever to call him that. That pert nose that wrinkled with disgust at dragon dung and those freckles that were spattered all over it.
It was gone. All of it. She would never smile again. Not for him, not for anyone else.
He remembers the anger and helplessness he felt when she grew closer to Potter and his gang. The absolute terror he felt when she denounced him once and for all. The defiance he felt when he ran to the Dark Lord to take the Dark Mark.
How stupid and foolish he had been.
And now, she was gone.
His feet don't seem to want to move from their place. With great difficulty he starts walking, pushing aside the creaking gate. He sees debris that was the front door littered all over the house. He sees tables overturned and the sofa in pieces as he walks along. He also sees James Potter lying on the floor. He was already cold. His lifelong nemesis was dead. He feels a faint amount of childish joy at that, but he immediately smothers it with the terror that he knows is sure to come, at whatever lay upstairs.
He does not hear the boy. Maybe the Dark Lord did manage to kill him? He feels a sudden ache in his heart at that thought. The boy has her eyes, he was told. Those very same emerald green eyes. He wants the boy to live.
He cautiously inches his way upstairs, stepping on the dust and the filth that is spattered about. He reaches the stairs but he can't stand any more. He puts his hand on the wall for support and gropes his way up like a blind man. He does not want to see what he is going to find. He wants to turn back and run away, like a coward.
Because that's what he was, wasn't he? A coward who could not tell her how he felt. A coward who ran to the Dark Lord, because there alone he was appreciated. He was valued for his talents.
He was a coward who did not deserve her.
But he puts one foot in front of the other and goes on.
He sees the first floor landing. Powdery dust has settled on it in a thick layer. The door is ajar. He does not want to move. He does not want to want to see Lily's dead, cold, prone body. He does not want to see her eyes, blank and unseeing.
He takes a deep breath trying to swallow past the lump in his throat that he did not know was there. He climbs up the last two steps and pushes the door open.
His legs don't quite hold him up as he surveys the scene in front of him. There she was.
She was slumped on the floor, next to the cot. Her hair, her beautiful, brilliant, fiery red hair is splayed out around her. But the colour doesn't seem quite right. It is as if the light had gone out of her hair too.
She is facedown, with her wand lying next to her, in pieces. He picks himself up slowly and crawls to her. He reaches out a hand to her only to find it shaking.
When did his hands start to shake?
He feels wetness. He raises a hand to his face only to realise that the wetness is coming from him. They were tears. His tears.
He is crying.
A long broken howl escapes him at this discovery and he suddenly finds the strength to gather her up to him. He looks at her face. It is serene; calm even. He can still see the glittering tear tracks etched on her face.
Her tears were still wet.
He is a broken man. He wants her to open her eyes; he wants to see her eyes sparkle at him for one more time, just once more. He will give anything to see that happen. But he knows that it will not. He is still howling in pain. But those howls have now turned into sobs, sobs he cannot control.
Her body is cold.
He hears gurgles from behind and he is brought back to reality.
With tears still streaming down his face, he turns to look at the Potter boy.
He has her eyes.
And he knows what he will do for him. He knows what will be expected of him, he knows what Dumbledore will ask of him eventually. And he knows, too, that he will do it unconditionally.
Because he will do anything to see her eyes smile at him again.