Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
This is somewhat vague, I know. :) So I eventually added names so that it would make sense.
Her footsteps are the only literal sound. They brush dust into the air, making her cough. She doesn't actually know if it's the dust or the ghosts that make her choke on the air. They surround her everywhere. They are not as potent as the phantoms of her school, but they are far more terrifying. Their eyes are hollow, and they pay no attention to her, far more consumed by one another. There is destruction and need in their transparent faces as they move with each other, mirroring equal desperation on both sides. She turns from them, knowing they aren't real. They are memories, of a different time, a dark, haunting, beautiful time.
The house is dark. There are no lights. But it's always been like that. The darkness was what they stole and claimed as their own. They had no place in the sunshine, no place in the stars. They commanded the darkest silence.
It does not seem silent to her, however. The memories shimmer around her, halfway literal. She sees and feels and remembers and hates. Because it's her own face that haunts her, and another, and the screams etch their way into her memory again.
The stairs creak. This is not new. She remembers. The second one was the loudest, she always knew that. They always knew that. They were careful on that step, as though someone in the not-so-far-away village would hear them. They were cautious and guarded. They didn't think of how people would think it was just the ghosts. Shrieking again.
She is not startled to see him sitting on an old chest in the last bedroom. Maybe she is, for her heartbeat quickens, but she knows that is for another reason. The dust is not disturbed anywhere but where he sits. She should have seen his dusty footprints on the steps, but the ghosts preoccupied her. They were screaming and wailing and sounding tortured. It stings her to remember that those were once screams of passion and pleasure.
She is not afraid of him, and he is not afraid of her. She knows he is stronger, more powerful, even though he is sitting nonchalantly there. He knows it too. He is careful in his façade, they both are.
The time to speak is there, but it passes. The silence is simple, and they are both better off without words. She understands language, knows its preciousness. She won't waste her breath on small talk, on useless words. They both know better. There is no need to greet one another, no need to speak each other's name. They know who they are, and they know everything is simpler in silence. They wait, and neither speaks.
She also knows of time and its preciousness. The minutes drag and she doesn't want to waste it. But she knows she was forever wasting time in his presence, in this very house. She wants him to speak first, to explain. She knows he won't. He does not apologise, and she did not expect him to. He never does.
It seems silent. The memories have stopped their cries. She feels little relief.
She won't wait for him to waste her time further. She doesn't need to stand there and have him evaluate her, as he always does. So she begins.
"It's today."
He looks at her simply, understanding perfectly. She is wearing black, just black. Except. Except for a ring. A small ring on her pinkie finger that is plain. Plain except for a tiny emerald. He looks at it a moment, considering. He looks back into her eyes. She notices how he looks at it. She wishes for a moment that she could know what he was thinking. She doesn't.
She wonders why he called her here if he won't speak. She has nothing to say anymore, and she wonders if that is what he wants. She wonders if he sees the ghosts. She wonders if they haunt him too.
Perhaps he knows what she is thinking, for he speaks as well, just as plainly as she.
"Five years. Today."
She looks at him. The words feel like a knife. They slice through her tough skin impossibly easily. She wonders how he says them so easily. There is pain behind them, she knows that. There is a knife, equal or greater in power cutting him as it cuts her.
She fights the tears. They don't help.
"Five years. It feels like yesterday though, doesn't it?" He looks at her and she sees it, the knife behind those words. She doesn't answer him.
And then she does.
"Why today? Five years, and why today?" She spits it at him. She hates him for this, for what he's done. She hates to care to know what he's done.
He looks at her. She sees all the answers in his eyes. They're the answers he'll never say aloud. But that is how they are. They both know better than to waste their breath on the words.
She looks at his hands. She breaks a little more upon seeing it. Silver and plain. Why did she come?
"Five years since goodbye. Five years since promises." He looks at her. She sees desperation there and ignores it.
"Five years of silence," she whispers.
He looks at her. She sees everything.
She turns to leave.
"It never ends," he says quietly from behind her.
She turns. "What doesn't?"
He shrugs. "A war. Silence. Pain. Broken promises. Us."
She stares at him. She knows he's right. She turns though and lets herself run down the creaky stairs. She skips the loud second step. She escapes once more, unharmed. But more broken than before.
The air is still. The house is silent.
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The graveyard is quiet, except for the minister's speech. It has little to do with the dead man before them, little to do with anything. She tunes it out.
People keep looking at her, and touching her, and speaking to her, imagining that she needs constant comfort. She wishes they would all leave. More than that, she wishes she could leave.
She touches her wedding ring. It gleams gold, with an enormous diamond. He was proud of them. He wanted to show her off.
The ceremony is over. People line up and give her their consolations. She wishes they would stop.
"He was so wonderful, and he did so much for our world…"
"I know you must miss him so much, you were his wife, after all…"
"We're so sorry…"
"No one will ever forget him though…."
"And Mrs. Potter, our thoughts are with you…"
"And they'll catch the bastard! Draco Malfoy… who could've guessed…"
She nods along to all of it, hearing none of it. That isn't her fault though, her husband had died. She shouldn't need to think clearly.
She wants to scream at them though. His death isn't the only loss here. She knows better than anyone. She'd spoken to his murderer this afternoon.
She sorts through the flowers. The sorrow in the words makes her feel sick.
There's a bouquet of white roses sitting with the flowers. She opens the note with them hesitantly.
Hermione,
My consolations and apologies. It's a bad day all around – my wedding anniversary too. I'm kidding. Someone has to cheer you up. He was a great man, and will be sorely missed.
My heart's with you.
There was no signature. But then, it wasn't needed.
For silence is simple, and they are both better off without words. They understand language, knows its preciousness. They won't waste their ink on small talk, on useless words. They both know better. There is no need to leave parting words, as this is not goodbye. There is no need to sign their names. They know who they are, and they know everything is simpler in silence.