A/N: I'm feeling deplorable.
Dedication: No one, who would want a sad story dedicated to them?
Disclaimer: Not mine, I don't own Harry Potter. If I did I would keep him as a very cute pet in the second bedroom.
The Man with the Rose Petals
Heather Taylor was an average middle aged woman, a local primary school teacher by day, a mother and wife by night and weekends and possessed a large weakness for children – especially her own. She had had a relatively average upbringing, with warm and caring parents who earned average wages and sent her to an average school where she received average grades and reports.
She made it into Teachers College, which, although wasn't her first preference of tertiary education turned out to be a wonderful experience that she continued on with after she had received her degree.
Heather Taylor applied to teach at a number of schools, eventually receiving a place teaching year twos at the local primary. This was where she met Thomas, her soon-to-be husband.
She and Thomas moved from the area to a more remote region in the country, to coincide with Thomas' work as a landscape engineer. Heather Taylor found employment, yet again, at the local primary school. The children were nice and the staff were friendly so Heather Taylor found it easy to mingle and make new friends.
Six months later Thomas proposed and then two months after that they were happily married.
In the next six years Heather Taylor had had three children, two boys and a girl. She and Thomas gave them average names; so that they would not be teased (she'd seen enough of that during the years). Scott and Liam were energetic and had both acquired places in the local junior cricket team by the age of eleven. Hannah, although younger, housed a fiery spirit and when she was fifteen she'd won most of the debates she'd ever entered. Her life ambition was to become a lawyer.
All in all Heather Taylor was happy, content and average. Not a nobody but not a somebody. She stood comfortably in the middle.
She, as everyone, did wish for more. Thought that maybe a few more pounds a week would help cut the cost of the bills – or perhaps if she could send the children off to friends houses while Thomas was at work she could get some quality time alone – time she was lacking immensely.
It was, therefore, after being surrounded by everything average her entire life, a surprise to actually meet and talk to someone who had lived a completely opposite life to hers. This person intrigued her, as he had intrigued the whole community for many years.
He was dubbed The Man with the Rose Petals, because every week he would travel the two kilometre walk from his cottage to the small graveyard, where he would sprinkle white, red and blue rose petals over seven graves. Seven graves which nobody else ever visited.
The Man with the Rose Petals had an air of sadness lingering around him and an even stronger sense of loneliness, though he never attempted to socialise. He was friendly in a way of smiling at your jokes, giving advice and picking up your dropped pencil, but he never did any more than that.
Heather Taylor wanted to know more about this mysterious man, wanted to discover his past and her opportunity arrived on a sunny Tuesday on her way back from work. She had gone to the graveyard to visit her deceased parents and pay her respects, something she had not been able to do in a long time.
Today, however, she wasn't alone.
There he was, The Man with the Rose Petals, standing before the seven graves, head bowed and hands clutching a straw basket containing blue, red and white rose petals. He stood there for a long time as Heather watched while he reminisced for his lost ones.
Never having taken much notice to the man Heather realised that he was rather young, late thirties at most. His black hair ruffled in the breeze and Heather spied shocking green eyes beneath his messy fringe and thin wired glasses, a peculiar scar adored his forehead. However, the presence Heather felt emanating from him reminded her more of an experienced and weathered old man than a young thirty – something year old.
Yes, even on sight the man was anything but average.
Plucking up her courage Heather walked over to stand quietly beside him. He did not protest but nor did he acknowledge her presence. Heather read the names etched into the stone before her, the first a Ginerva Molly Potter – thirty two years old at death. Heather felt a stabbing pang in the region of her stomach, she was so young.
Her eyes moved to the next grey stone - a James Arthur Potter – horror gripped her even stronger, he died the mere age of twelve. Almost afraid of the next inscription Heather proceeded to read the next stone – an eleven year old named Lily Molly Potter. The next – a nine year old boy named Sirius Remus Potter, Heather continued on in a trance, Sirius' twin – an Albus Severus Potter lay beside him.
Heather read the last two stones numbly, another set of twins aged seven – a Hermione Nymphadora Potter and a Ronald Frederick Potter.
Heather stood there trying to process the fact that there were six children – all under the age of thirteen and one young woman barely thirty buried before her. What kind of plague or animal or person would snatch the life away from such people? Gathering her thoughts she looked balefully up to the man standing next to her as tears prickled in her eyes.
"Why?" she asked.
He remained expressionless but his voice held so much tenderness it startled Heather for a moment, "We got married young, Ginny and I. She was sixteen, I was seventeen. We were in love…" he seemed to zone out for a moment, as though remembering something a hundred years ago.
"I was in danger…a lot of danger; there was a man who wanted to kill me for something that happened a long time before. I had been trained, however, by the government from an early age on how to fight and defend myself. When he finally attacked me for the last time I was eighteen. Ginny and I had lost many friends and family to this man. I managed to kill him – in self defence of course. The threat was over, I could live my life."
Heather listened with wrapped attention as he continued.
"Ginny and I settled down and we had James when Ginny was twenty – we'd never been happier – we had a family, a house and felt, for once, that we were safe. We desperately wanted children so not long after James arrived Lily – she was as beautiful as James was feisty. Two years later, to our great surprise – and happiness of course, along came the twins. Sirius and Albus were the clowns of the house; it was so difficult to stay angry with them for long. Another set of twins arrived – Hermione and Ron, the study duo – they were the smarties, at seven they were as advanced as James."
The Man with the Rose Petals stood there, his shoulders in a defeated hunch and his eyes fixed on an insect perched on Sirius' headstone. Heather had never, in her whole fifty three years of life, witnessed such a lamentable sight.
"They – they sounded like really beautiful children…"
He chuckled weakly, a wistful glean in his eye, "they were…definitely."
They remained in silence for another five minutes, the only sound were of passing cars in the background and a soft twittering of birds. Heather was just about the leave him alone when he suddenly spoke:
"Are you a mother, Mrs Taylor?"
Heather didn't know how he knew her name but answered his question nevertheless, "yes, I've got three kids, two boys and a girl."
"Then I suppose you know, to a small extent, the fear and – and anger you'd feel if they were taken from you. Every decent parent has that fear bubbling beneath them."
Heather remembered the panic she'd experienced when Liam had gone missing in the shopping centre, the daunting feeling when Hannah had broken her arm and the bolt of fear when Scott was knocked unconscious from a cricket bat.
She looked to her companion, questioningly.
"We were all at home, that – that night. It was a Friday, during the summer holidays. It was pasta night, or the night 'daddy cooks', because pasta is the only thing I can actually make and not poison everybody," he laughed hollowly, "I was cooking Hermione's favourite – fettuccini, Ginny was relaxing, she was playing with James and Sirius….everything was perfect."
His expression suddenly turned bitter and hateful, his muscles tensed and he spoke next through clenched teeth with such venom it startled Heather.
"Then they came. The old supporters of the man I killed, fifty of them, came for revenge. I thought our house was secure…I had put anything and everything around it to protect Ginny and the children…but it wasn't enough…" and then for the first time during their conversation his voice broke.
He drew a deep shuddering breathe, "They worked through our defences…smashed down the door…we had heard them coming, but it didn't give us enough time to escape…soon they were upon us…oh god…then they took – they killed…Lily…little Lily…" he looked to the reddening sky above him, his eyes glistening, and Heather was swamped in a wave of pity, "I was so furious…I was ready to murder that man then and there, but they held me back…as they took them from me, took them from me as he had taken my parents," he turned away.
Heather barely noticed the tears running down her own face as she watched the shaking shoulders of the young man in front of her; he seemed to have entered his own reverie. As he spoke his voice held such rancour it was frightening.
"And they made me watch, forced me to look as they murdered my family…"
He turned to her, the straw basket still clutched in his hands as he stared her strait in the eye, "then they did the worst possible thing to me."
Heather couldn't stop the morbidly curious gaze cross her face as she looked into the miserable one before her. What could possibly be worse than watching your family die?
"They let me live," he answered, "they left me there, next to them, broken but alive…overpowered not by their weapons but by my own grief; at that time, after they'd done what they did I possessed no power to fight them anymore…I'm telling you, Mrs Taylor, never underestimate the importance of family, and never downplay the strength of grief."
After that comment there was silence for a long time while Heather merely stared, suddenly struck with the urge to race home and check on her family, to make sure they hadn't disappeared and she'd be left standing alone like the man before her.
But she didn't. An invisible force seemed to hold her in place next to him. Instead, after some time, she asked a very simple question – "What's your name?"
His lips seemed to curve upwards slightly; perhaps relieved to be moving onto something else, "I haven't been very polite have I? Spilling my tragic life story without even introducing myself."
Heather Taylor matched his small grin, "you could say the same for me, I suppose."
He stuck out his hand, "My name is Harry Potter. I live in the little cottage with the overgrown hedge down Evanesce Ave."
"Heather Taylor. The little house with the chipped picket fence on Botany Hill."
"Pleasure to meet you Mrs Taylor," he answered quietly, shaking her hand.
"Pleasure's all mine Mr Potter."
It seemed the pursuit of a lighter subject was the right thing to do and soon they were chatting about everyday things, Harry obviously trying desperately to push the previous conversation to the back of his mind. Night was honing in on them, but they both didn't seem to care about the impending darkness.
"…I teach at the local Primary School, year twos," Said Heather, "It's quite entertaining, they all know you as The Man with the Rose Petals. In the year seven classrooms there's quite a common debate about whether you're mentally unstable or something…"
"Really?" Harry barked out in a laugh, "Mentally unstable! Oh trust me, I've been there before! But The Man with the Rose Petals? Never have heard that, but I suppose it makes sense…"
"Well you seem perfectly stable to me, where do you work anyway?"
"Thanks, I'm a police officer down at the local station, it pays the bills and keeps me busy so I'm not complaining or anything."
Heather suddenly had an idea, "you could come and visit my class, we're having 'Job Day' on Friday, I'm sure they would love to see a real life police officer."
Harry looked thoughtful for a moment, "I'll see what I can do, it shouldn't be a problem."
"That would be great," Heather replied happily.
Harry looked around at his dark surroundings, "well we best be off, you must be late home. I'll walk you back."
Heather didn't protest as she waited for her companion to throw the last of his petals onto the seven graves in a flurry of colour, stood in silence for a minute and then proceed to offer his arm.
"Lead me to you domain Mrs Taylor, and I will be your watching guard."
Heather giggled; it had been a while since she'd joked around like this, "Why thankyou Mr Potter, such a gentleman you are."
They weaved their way through the yellow lit streets and up to Botany Hill, eventually coming to a chipped picket fence, glowing light from the house windows and the silhouettes of her husband and children behind the curtains. They stopped at the gates.
"Thanks, I get kind of unnerved walking back at night, would you like a lift?"
"Oh no, I'll be fine…I'm often walking at this time actually."
"Well, if you're sure," said Heather, shaking his hand again, "hopefully we'll see each other on Friday."
He grinned, though slightly woefully, "Yes, I look forward to seeing the children."
"I'm sure they'll love you."
"They shouldn't, remember, I'm mentally unstable," he joked.
"Oh stop pulling my leg."
With that last comment Harry smiled and started walking down the path, saying again: "See you on Friday."
With that he'd gone, disappeared from the flooding street lamps, undoubtedly retracing the beaten track back to his house.
Heather surveyed her surroundings and suddenly felt very alone. The crickets chirped in the background and moths fluttered around street lights. It was cold.
Her desire to be with her family returned ten-fold and she power walked to the front door, hastily unlocking it and stepping inside. Her family greeted her warmly, asking her why she was late because they were worried. Thomas kissed her, earning them both a loud chorus of 'eww's' and 'gross's' from the children, who had, to Heather's delight, prepared dinner (with the help of their father of course) and were showing her proudly. She praised more than she'd ever done before, somehow finding this act of kindness so much more impacting than anything else they'd done previously.
The little family continued on until late, Thomas deciding to go to bed before her after the kids. Heather smiled, saying she'd be there soon and then turning to the messy kitchen, somehow not at all annoyed at her kids for making it that way.
She leant against the bench top, reflecting on her conversation with Harry, perhaps he was sitting in his cottage, solitarily sipping some tea and looking out a black window. Alone.
Heather felt a sudden rush of relief that it wasn't her sitting unaccompanied in an empty house, reminiscing on the lost.
And then for the first time in her life Heather Taylor felt completely grateful that she was average.
A/N: So…did you like it? I found this story floating around on my computer, finished it and then pondered for AGES on whether I should post it.