I couldn't sleep thinking about this last night. It seems like Harry Potter always prevents me from sleep!
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Declaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters. They belong to the wonderful J.K Rowling!
October 31.
Halloween.
It is a normal date to everyone in Godric's Hallow. A date that means children dressed like witches, werewolves, vampires, or many other creatures or characters the kids worship, as they wonder through the streets of the neighborhood asking for candy and followed by their parents, just to later get home and enjoy their booty. People have fun this date; they don't need to know that October 31 means much more to him, and that he can't just let it slip like an ordinary day.
To everyone, October 31 means trick or treat. To him, it means remembering.
He usually takes the same jacket from the closet and puts it on before he leaves; it's cold outside, he already knows. As he reaches the door of his old house, the one he has called home for a long time, he hears the sound of quick footsteps in the upper floor, and he knows it's his children ―he has grown accustomed to their playtime. From the kitchen, he gets the echo of his wife's humming to that old, muggle song, the one that made them once share a harmless dance inside a tent, while the outside world kept functioning; she can't never get it out of her head and hums it whenever she's distracted, like now ―she's cooking dinner, and even from the door he's able to sense the delicious smell of the food she preparing. He doesn't worry about informing anyone where he's going, he doesn't even yell he's leaving; they already know, as they know that he likes to make this little trip by himself.
He smiles before he opens the door.
Like he predicted, it's cold outside; not too cold, but still not warmth enough, and he knows he's done right in putting on the jacket before leaving the warmness of his home. Big, orange pumpkins decorate the entrance of the large house, with lighten candles inside of them, the shaped faces glowing in the darkening hours of dusk. There are cobwebs he appeared with his wand that same morning, still entangled on the gate, which makes him remember that certain redhead will come visit them in just a couple of days ―he's really happy about this, because he hasn't seen said friend and his family in weeks. A skeleton hangs from one of the sides of the gate and a gravestone is stuck in the yard.
The family still celebrates Halloween every year, even though it's a day of mixed feelings.
He begins slowly walking along the path of fallen leaves. He's memorized the route he needs to take to his destination ―he's walked through it for many years― and he can't stop the thought that everything looks as it should. And like every October 31, his feet are still quite reluctant. The wind carries the smell of homemade food, candy, and the noises of delighted children getting ready to go out and into a night hunted by creatures most of them only think exist in tales. While the air gets colder, he doesn't need to look up to know that the sky is getting darker, stained with the colors of twilight.
After a few more minutes of walking silently, as he watches the kids knocking on the doors of the main street's houses, he finally arrives. When he pushes it open, the graveyard's small gate makes the exact noise he anticipated it would do. He thinks, like every year, that someone should take care of this place, and oiling the gate's hinges in particular, but he already knows that people don't come often; he even assumes that he must be the only person who frequently gets in. He thinks about fixing the gate, but changes his mind; he believes that if the gate doesn't squeaks like it usually does, it won't feel the same.
Because the graveyard never changes, time stands still in here; it looks like the year before and the one before that, and he likes it that way. It holds many memories and he wants them unharmed ―the thought of that night, in which he and the girl he loved stood before those two gravestones, the ones he hadn't gotten the chance to see before, and how their hands intertwined as he silently cried his parents for the first time.
He stands before them once again; he has done so every Halloween for almost seventeen years. Their stones are the same, transmitting a sense of inalterable continuity.
James Potter. March 27, 1960 ― October 31, 1981
Lily Potter. January 30, 1960 ― October 31, 1981
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
It's been thirty five years since they died. A whole life without them.
He misses both. Even though he never got the chance to grow and meet them, he misses them with all his heart. It still hurts to know that he doesn't have memories of them; it hurts to know that he was just an infant when they were quickly snatched away from his side, and how his life was marked after it ―he absently runs a hand through the lightening shaped scar on his forehead. It hurts to know that he can't tell them many things he wished he could, and that they were not with him while his life turned for better ―how he found love in his wife and later in his children.
He knows their sacrifice was necessary, and now that he has his own kids ―he loves both with all he is― he understands why they did it and perfectly knows that he would do the same for his family too. He already has. As he stares at the words carved in the stone, he nodes to himself. James and Lily had accepted death that night; his father accepted it when he chose to fight Voldemort to his death, and his mother when she died willingly to protect her son. He was once able to accept death and embrace it for the good of those he loved, and in doing that, death was no longer an enemy.
You conquer death when you are not afraid to die.
So, yes, he understands.
That still doesn't stop him from thinking how a lifetime would've been with his parents alive; they would've watched him grow and later their grandchildren, loving him and them all the way. But as much as he wishes he could have grown with his parents, there is nothing that can tempt him to change his life.
Harry smiles. All is well.
"Thank you, mum. Thank you, dad," he whispers. He doesn't realize he thanks them every year when he comes to the graveyard on October 31. He does realize, though, that he is grateful for what they did, for giving up all to give him everything.
Quick footsteps warn him that someone is near.
"Daddy!"
Harry turns and finds his daughter running towards him. She, her dark hair tied in a braid at the back of her head, is dressed in his wife's old Hogwarts clothes ―a black cloak with the Gryffindor emblem on the left side of her chest, a pointy hat that she needs to adjust over her head from time to time, and the little broom he once gave her when she was a few years old is trapped in her right hand, while her other hand holds an old cauldron already filled with candy.
Only eight years old, Lily Potter looks like a witch.
Harry's smile only grows wider.
"You look beautiful, sweetheart," he says and she grins, jumping into her father's arms. Just feet away, his wife ―he can't help but stare as she flips her long, chestnut hair out of her eyes' way, now falling like waves over her back and to her waist height― stands with their son of almost three in her arms. He's wearing a hat too, but it's too big for his small head, so he has to hold it because if he doesn't,' his face may disappear beneath. "You know 'Mione, you shouldn't carry James while you're pregnant," he states, which only makes her shake her head along with a laugh at the sound of that nickname. He only calls her like that because he remembers that she is and always will be his best friend before his lover.
She feels the same way, so she understands perfectly.
Like she understands that every October 31, after her husband leaves their home, she does not need to go after him but go get him once he's done in the graveyard; she knows that Harry could stay for a while longer if she didn't call him, which is the only thing that brings him back to the real world when his mind is lost in the memories. She is willing to do it every year for him.
"Don't worry, Harry. I've been pregnant before, haven't I?" she says after she lays a peck on his lips.
Once Harry has taken James from her arms, Hermione extends a hand to his husband and he takes it, while Lily is at her other side. They leave then, holding and loving each other more every day.
And somewhere not near but not too far neither, hidden on the shadows of the sunset, James and Lily Potter smile at the sight of their son and the life he has built. They both smile, thinking ―not for the first time― that the sacrifice was worth it.
That Harry's happiness is worth not being able to stand by his side.