He watches the world go by from behind a frosted glass window. Silhouettes rush back and forth, fleeting, like the first gentle autumn breeze that caresses the first falling leaf. Cars flash past in muted colours, racing against an invisible adversary that would always win. He glances at the menu that swings overhead.
Chocolate ice cream, he thinks. Dudley's favourite.
He gets up deliberately, running his hand on the polished wooden tabletop. He makes his way towards the counter, his mouth curling into a small smile that never reaches his eyes.
"Hello," he says. The muggle girl behind the counter smiles pleasantly at him.
"What can I do for you?" she asks, plasticky and fake. He hesitates. He glances at the menu again. Chocolate ice cream, he thinks. Did the Creevey brothers like it too?
"One chocolate ice cream, please," he says quietly. The girl gives him an odd look. He smiles again, this time genuine. She stares at him. He shakes his head. He was used to being thought a head case. He manoeuvres his way through the clutter of tables, sighing as he does so. Hermione and Ron were probably searching desperately for him. He does not want to see them. Not yet. Not so close to the funeral.
He slips back into his chair and looks at the menu again. Chocolate ice cream, he thinks. I bet Fred loved it too. He pulls out a photo album from a leather bag. Inside were obituaries, macabre souvenirs from a war just past. He sees brothers, wives, husbands, sons, daughters, sisters, friends, family. Did they like chocolate ice cream too?
He tries to calm his erratic breathing and stifle the burn in his eyes. The muggle girl rings his order. He gets up quickly this time, knocking over the chair. It clatters to the floor.
"Get up, Potter!" he hears someone snarl but there is no longer loathing in it. Chocolate ice cream, he thinks. Did Professor Snape like it?
He feels himself going red in mortification. He rights the chair and retrieves his ice cream. He returns to his seat; face still red, ears still burning, tears still falling inwardly. He skims the top of the cone with his tongue. It tingles with cold. For that moment, he is blissfully lost in a childhood deprivation.
Then it returns to haunt him. He hears the anguished wails of parents and the echoes of their children's last screams. He misses the times that would never come with the people he loved and the people he was yet to love. He smells the odour of flesh that would rot in time to come. He sees those eyes. The eyes that now haunt his memories, dark, frigid tunnels that were cold and closed. He remembers the light that went out. He remembers all the lights that went out. He wants to light a candle for each of them and let them burn for eternity.
He exhales and sucks in a breath. Tears fall thick onto the photo album, splashing onto the embossed gold plate on the cover. The cone slips from his trembling hands and falls onto the table.
He wonders when he would be ever happy again.
He wonders if he would ever be forgiven.
He wonders if he could ever go home.