On a chilly night in a strangely cold August, an elderly man stood in a clearing, watching a large and smoothly cut stone that was positioned in the center of said clearing. It was a thing of beauty, maybe three feet tall and made of pink marble, with streaks of gray and white running through it. It was intricately carved with flowers, birds, and trees, and if you squinted hard enough, the carvings almost appeared alive and moving, as if they had been taken right from the sky, or the forest, and turned to carvings on the stone. The man himself appeared ancient, with stark white hair and a bowed back that, when combined with his piercing green eyes, would make you think he carried the weight of the world on his back. His eyes, though covered by thick, round, glasses, were full of sorrow, and hinted at knowledge unknown by any other and a life of difficulty and adventure. In his arms, he carried a bouquet of flowers, made of lilies, pink carnations, tea roses, and yellow zinnias. He stooped down, with some difficulty, and placed the bouquet at the base of the stone. There, carved on the stone, was the likeness of a woman in her thirties, with long hair and bright eyes. The man sighed and stood up, a tear running down his cheek as he recalled memories, with the same woman laughing and smiling beside him.
Then, the same woman screaming on a bed as people hustled around her, crying in alarm. A doctor holding a newborn and rushing out of the room after shouting a hurried explanation to the other nurses and doctors in the room, the woman laying on the bed, her chest ominously still. The man standing above her, begging for her not to go. The light leaving her eyes, as one of the nurses came up to him and told him she was gone. Receiving the news several minutes later that the child was dead as well. Standing at a funeral, staring at the same woman, her face peaceful in death, with a small child in her arms. The sorrow never left. It haunted him for his whole life, for though he had friends, they had started drifting off soon after the woman, who was his wife, had died.
They had partially blamed him for her death, and so had he. Surely there was something he could have done? And underneath the carving of the woman, the name Ginevra Molly Potter was embossed on the stone, inlaid with gold. The old man turned around and hobbled out of the clearing, for time had not been kind to him. He had hidden himself in the woods, building a small house and only leaving when necessary. No one knew he was there, and that was how he wanted it to be. After his wife had died, he could not face anyone, the stares or the whispering, and had fled to this refuge of solitude.
As he settled in for the night, for the first time in years, he smiled, and thought of how he would soon be reunited with his beloved. It had been so many long years since he had seen her face, 126 to be precise, and he was ready for death. He knew this was the night he would breathe his last, and he was at peace with that, having long ago lost what was most important to him. And as his breathing faded, his spirit drifted out of the house and came to wait in the clearing where his wife was buried. And as he waited, someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he spun around, absentmindedly noticing that should have been impossible at his age. And behind him stood a young woman, with breathtakingly familiar red hair, and sparkling brown eyes. A sob was caught in his throat as he noticed a young boy, around five or six, with red hair and vivid green eyes standing next to her. She held out her hand, and as he grasped it, years sloughed off him like water, until he once again looked to be around thirty years old.
As the three walked down the path leading deeper into the forest, a cloaked figure appeared in the clearing behind them, and with a wave of its hand, a new stone appeared next to the first one, and as the bases drew nearer, the black marble of the new one, streaked with pink and white, melded into the base of the first, until the two looked to be taken from the same piece of stone, with the colors melding in the middle. The new stone was carved with a forest filled with animals, and the man's face was engraved beneath it, inlaid with silver. And back in the cabin, his breathing stopped, and Harry James Potter, along with his family, entered the Next Great Adventure.
Hi! This is Setsuna Eien, and thank you for reading my first story. It is loosely based off of a young authors story I wrote this year. (I'm in 8th grade) I'm probably mostly going to write oneshots, but if you have any ideas for a oneshot, (HP, HTTYD, Naruto, or Bleach) feel free to PM me! If it's for a different fandom, just ask that first so I can tell you if I've read/watched that series before.
Once again, thank you for reading, and please review!