A Depiction of You
He stood there and waited, his arms hugging his body in a useless attempt to ward off the nip of late autumn. Though the day was clear, the very air carried a chilled weight. He had told them he'd be home by lunch, but two had come and past and four was creeping up upon and he still hadn't left. It did not matter, if they wished to find him they knew where to look. He was always here, they all knew that. But this time…it was different.
He shivered, pulling his heavy wool cloak just that little bit closer to him, and turned bright eyes to the church. It was an old stone monastery, the roof made of wood shingles and pictures from the Bible were rendered in fragile stained glass at every window. He pushed hair back from his face and walked steadily, albeit slowly, towards the mournful building. He watched his feet as he walked up the paving stone path. Moss was steadily usurping the stones' places and dead leaves shrouded the ground in a wet mantle. When he stepped on them they released the faint smell of decay that mixed with the water soaked air.
He halted at the entrance, a hand on the door knob and his forehead resting wearily against the weathered oak door, trembling. Finally he turned the knob, pushed on the squeaky door and stepped into the timeworn monastery. His boots dully clunked on the rough stone floor and left wet footprints in the dust. He paused at the first pew and bowed his head, his right hand touching his forehead before completing the cross. He carried on up the aisle till he stood in front of the altar, the large crucifix behind looming above him. He knelt, clutching his hands in front of him, his eyes sealed shut, unable to leak forth tears. Compassionate eyes stared down at him even as crimson life wept from His hands and feet. He shook his head in contempt of such foolish sacrifice, such blatant disregard of the ones whom loved him and had been abandoned.
He wanted to scream, he wanted to rage out loud till the silence was banished forever from the air. He wanted to swear and yell and throw things and fight with fate so it would give his love back to him.
But this was a holy place and he could do no such things on such hallowed grounds. No, all he could do was sink to the ground and weep piteously. And so he did it. He sat there on the dusty stone floor and wept as if life itself was leaving him. His tears poured forth and he rocked himself back and forward. He wept silently. When all his feelings had finally been spilt and he was left hiccupping and brushing snotty tears from his cheeks, he raised his face to the portrayal of the crucified Jesus, raised above the altar.
"Why?"
The whispered plea escaped his lips and rose like a prayer.
"Why did you have to be a," he hiccupped, "a hero?"
He stared accusingly at the likeness and let out a harsh breath. He straightened, his spine becoming iron and strength flooding back to him. He lifted his chin and met the glass eyes unwaveringly and proudly, "You are only a hero if you die." And with those final parting words he strode from the church, his strides even and confident. He reached the rusted iron gate and turned back, "Good-bye Harry. I love you till the end of time." His eyes scanned the merciless autumn sky, touching briefly upon the chapel steeple, before exiting the graveyard and apparating with a crack. The gate swung shut with a screeching clang, the words 'Godric's Hollow' inscribed in simple letters upon it.