Beautiful Day


It's a lovely autumn afternoon in early October. There's a gentle breeze rustling through the falling leaves in the trees overhead, and Harry can smell a faint trace of roses in the air from where they sit in arrangements around Lily Finnigan's coffin. His seat in the front row is uncomfortable, a wooden chair with a hard back, and he can't help but feel guilty for thinking of his own discomfort. It's something to focus on, though, and he needs that if he's going to make it through today.

He hasn't reached the age of sixty-one without experiencing a variety of days – good days, bad days, horrible days, wonderful days – but he can't remember any day worse than this one. It's taking more strength than he has, but he's doing his best to be a solid rock for Ginny and the others because if he breaks, they all will, and he can't let that happen. So, he thinks about the roses and the feel of the warm sunshine on his face while he shifts in his chair and holds Ginny against his chest.

Her tears soak through his shirt, and she's sobbing in between short gasps of breath despite telling him before they left the house that she couldn't let their boys see her cry. Teddy is holding Victoire like he's afraid he's going to lose her too, James is trying to wipe tears from his face as discreetly as he can, and Faolan and Al are staring ahead with a mixture of expressions that range from sorrow to resentment. Louis sits beside Faolan, his arm around his shoulders and tears streaming down his face, and Hugo is on his other side, staring at his shoes with such misery etched into his face that it breaks Harry's heart all over again.

As Lily's friends and family stand at a podium and talk about how wonderful she was (was, was, was…will that ever sound right?), memories randomly flash through his mind – a round face grinning up at him, a laugh that seems to haunt the quiet halls of Grimmauld Place, a tired, beaming smile as she holds her daughter for the first time, a determined face that tells him she'll be a writer, no matter what other people say – and they easily replace the words that sound nothing like his lively, darling daughter.

He rubs Ginny's back as she cries, offering as much comfort as possible. He knows that there is nothing he can say to make this better, no words that will bring a smile to her pretty face or distract her from this loss; made worse by the fact that they will both live longer than their only daughter ever will. He feels helpless in so many ways, but he's got to be strong. He is Harry-bloody-PotterSavior, Auror, Father – and he refuses to let this tragedy break him, not when he's been through so much, fought so hard, lost so many.

But no matter what he tells himself, the worst thing in the world for a parent, after all, is to have to bury their child.