Disclaimer: Not mine, never mine, J.K. Rowling. Blah blah....
A young man walks into the graveyard alone. His face is somber and his arms hang limply at his side.
He is sad, you whisper to me. I nod in response, but do not say anything. I want to watch him.
The man slowly walks down the leaf covered dirt path. His feet make the dry leaves crunch.
He was crying, you murmur softly at my side.
It is true. I can make out the flushed cheeks painted on his ashen face. His green eyes, which are knitted with hazel, are sunken in. They seem drained of energy.
You look at me finally for some kind of response. I have been watching him too intensely.
An anxious breath escapes my lips. I can see it in the air. But I do not turn to look at you. He has just turned off the path and is walking through the rows of gray, cracked headstones. His eyes are darting at the inscriptions to find the ones he is looking for.
I know he is searching for two.
He doesn't see us, say you again.
"I know," I respond, watching him.
The black tufts of hairs that have matted themselves to his forehead in the brisk cold. White flares of breath drift out of his nostrils and mouth. They are ragged and uneven. He is worried. He cannot find what he searches for so vehemently.
I can feel you inch close to me. The body heat that sinks off you comforts me. I suddenly feel very cold watching him. I can feel this man's loneliness.
Your arm brushes against my bare one. You are wearing the maroon sweater I gave you. The dried bloodstains are still on it, but they have faded some it seems. For the first time I look over at your face.
It is pale and your cheeks rosy from the cold. Your russet hair has wilted somewhat, but it still gleams in the sharp sunlight that cuts through the gray clouds. It brings out your delicate toffee eyes. They look over at me. My heart leaps when they connect with my bluish-gray ones. A small, sad smile tugs at the side of your pink lips. I brush the side of your bristly cheek. Soft, smooth skin is underneath. I know that you are worried about the young man before us. I turn back to him.
He had now ended his search. He stood in front of two gravestones, staring glumly down at them.
Should we say something to him? you ask hesitantly.
"No, Remus, we can't. He wouldn't see us."
Oh, you respond, downhearted.
I put my arm around your shoulders. You shudder. I know it's from the cold. You lay your head gently on my shoulder and I can feel your warm, moist breath on my neck. You sigh sadly.
The man kneels down before one tombstone and brushes his fingers across the inscription. Sirius Black is what it reads.
You move in closer to me as we watch him burrow his eyes into the words. It is like he thinks he can magic this away. I know he cannot.
A tear rolls down the young man cheek. Oh Harry, you moan.
I pull you in closer to my side. "It's okay, Remus," I whisper into your ear.
Sirius, you sigh in deeply and wrap your arm around my waist. Can we do nothing for him?
"It is better this way," I remind you gently, stroking your silky hair with my hand. You glance up at me questioningly, and I just can't help to ask myself if I truly believe that.
Harry moves to stare at the tombstone next to mine. Remus Lupin it reads. My hand makes a fist over some of your loose hairs. Another single tear runs down Harry's face as he traces over the words with his finger.
You breathe in sharply and I pull you into me. I know that your heart is barely strong enough to endure his sadness. I know you loved him so.
"To have lost three fathers…" Harry whispers quietly to himself, when he thinks no one is around, "what a lucky boy am I."