Warnings and Disclaimers: Yes, it's an update. Take a big, deep breath, expel the shock, and move on.


All he could smell were the flowers. He'd been smelling them for what felt like his entire life, even though in his head he knew the memorial and the funeral had only lasted a bare handful of hours. He had a bundle of them in his hand now, violets, the flower she'd so utterly adored that she'd wanted to name their child after them had she been a girl.

They'd never found out for sure… before… but Simon knew that their baby would forever be Violet to him.

At least the cemetery was a nice, old one, if not one he'd particularly have chosen. It wasn't terribly close to where they'd bought their house, a new home to go along with their new life together; that distance was something he preferred, a guilty little feeling that wormed away in his gut like the smell of the flowers did.

It was partially that guilt that had brought him back here so quickly, even though the funeral had been just yesterday. He hadn't been able to say good-bye properly there, sleepwalking through most of the service and then surrounded by well-wishers afterwards. Now… now he still wasn't ready to say good-bye, but it was time.

The July sun beat down on the back of his neck as he trudged along the grassy path; headstones and monuments passed by to either side, a melancholic gauntlet of pale limestone and dark granite. If Simon's steps occasionally slowed, though never quite stopping, no one who could have seen would have blamed him.

How could any man be eager to face the truth of his wife's death?

Eventually Simon crested the gentle hill, bringing the bare dirt plot of Jessie's grave into view. To his surprise there was already someone kneeling in front of it, their hands busy with the flowers yesterday's well-wishers had set at the foot of her headstone.

The numbness in Simon's gut stirred a bit, then descended once again to cloud his thoughts, but some stray, leftover shred of emotion had him drifting forward as quietly as he could. It was a boy, he saw as he got closer, maybe ten or eleven years old. He was rearranging the flowers into groups of color, stopping once to wipe sweat from his forehead with the hem of his grey, overly-large t-shirt.

Even as Simon watched the boy finished his task, the flowers laid around the headstone in a short arc, red roses to purple violets like the ones the widower held. The boy began brushing off his hands, only to pause to look up, in the opposite direction of the man watching him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, seemingly of someone standing to the left of the grave. Though he looked hard, Simon didn't see anything there but empty air. "They're in a rainbow. See? Red, orange, yellow, blue and purple. They taught it to us in school."

The boy said nothing else for a minute, listening to absolutely nothing. "All right," he finally said, though he didn't sound very convinced. "If you say so." He leaned forward again to re-sort the flowers, swapping everything red with everything yellow. "I still don't think it's a proper rainbow."

As though he'd taken a sledgehammer to the gut, Simon suddenly couldn't breathe. No, oh no… he knew that conversation. Had argued it, over and over again with the woman who had been his girlfriend, his fiancée, his wife… It wasn't logical, but she always insisted that a rainbow should go lightest to darkest, instead of having all the colors mixed up in the middle. It was one of those things that had made him grit his teeth and sent him into laughter in the same moment.

A part of him was wondering how the boy could possibly have known Jessie, to know one of her favorite arguments. They hadn't lived in Surrey all that long, and as far as he knew Jessie hadn't counted any young children among her new acquaintances. Neither did the boy ring any bells of recognition within his own mind.

The rest of Simon was consumed with a single thought: how dare he?

He stalked towards the boy, not bothering to be quiet, and grabbed him by the arm. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded through clenched teeth, his voice nearly a hiss.

The boy cried out in surprise, staring up at him with wide green eyes behind thick glasses. "Well?" he challenged again. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

His grip tightened until the boy whimpered in pain. "Please… sir…"

Through the unreasoning haze of his anger, Simon didn't heed the boy's pleas until a wave of cold so intense he thought it might burn him wrapped around his arm. It was as though the limb was being grasped by a frozen vise, and the penetrating iciness forced his hand to spasm open. The cold immediately disappeared, and the boy was up and running the moment he was released, dashing between two enormous oaks.

Shocked by his own behavior, it was a moment before Simon gathered himself and stepped forward. "Hey, wait!" he called out, worried and wanting to reassure himself that he hadn't truly hurt the boy.

The burning cold descended on him again, this time not just over his arm, but throughout his entire body. His cry of shock was cut short as the air froze in his lungs, and he dropped to his knees, curling over himself in pain. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think… oh, God, he was going to die…

But as quickly as the cold had come over him, it vanished. Simon gasped in deep breaths of air, air that felt scorching to his frozen lungs but was still oh so welcome. Hesitantly, he uncurled one of the fists clenched to his chest. Nothing shattered, despite his near certainty that he'd been frozen as surely as ice was, and next came prying an arm from around his middle. A minute later he was able to straighten his spine, even if he didn't feel ready to attempt getting to his feet yet, and he was able to look around him.

The boy, of course, was long gone.

It was an hour before the pins and needles sensation faded from his limbs, and he was able to walk without his legs trembling in a disquieting fashion. He knelt and laid the violets he'd dropped earlier in his haste and anger before Jessie's tombstone, careful to make sure they were on the end, and wouldn't mess up her perfect rainbow. "I'm sorry," he told her, inexplicably ashamed that he'd acted so poorly within sight of her grave; it felt almost as though she had been watching.

I'm not the one you should be apologizing to, he knew she would have said, her hands on her hips and her eyebrow cocked in the sardonic way that was completely her. The thought ran through his mind as clearly as if she really had said it. "I know," he said out loud. "I'll find him, make sure…" Make sure he was all right, that Simon hadn't hurt him. Simon would probably have to apologize to his parents, too…

He frowned. "What was he doing out here alone?" he murmured to himself. A child that age shouldn't be out unsupervised, unless he was with friends. There was no sign of any other children around, and even so, what would they have been doing in a graveyard? Beyond getting into mischief, that was, and now that the anger was gone Simon was forced to admit that the boy hadn't been causing any harm. His actions had simply felt too… personal, and come too soon amidst the stress and the grief.

Nodding to himself, Simon rose and wiped his hands on his jeans. He'd find the boy- though he had no idea how he'd manage that feat- and he'd apologize. It was something concrete to focus on, and for the first time since the funeral, it felt like there might be a hint of solid ground beneath his feet. A task to keep him moving.

There was neither hide nor hair of the boy to be seen on his way to the exit; seeing movement inside of the guardhouse by the cemetery's entrance, Simon paused to speak with the elderly man inside. The cemetery was hardly closed off from the world- the guardhouse was there more for show than to keep anyone out- but if the boy was a frequent visitor to the cemetery, then the guard might know something about him.

And, indeed, he did. "The Potter boy," the man said with a knowing nod of his white-topped head. "Comes around once a week or so, and I never have the heart to turn him out. Even with the way he is, he's never caused trouble that I know of, even chased out a couple of vandals last year."

"The way he is?" Simon inquired, careful to keep only polite curiosity and concern on his face. He meant the boy no harm, but if the old man became suspicious and clammed up, Simon didn't know how else he might find him.

There was another sage nod. "Aye, lad's touched in his head. Entire neighborhood knows it. Summat happened when his parents died in that car crash; maybe he hit his head, maybe he was just always that way and he was too young for it to be noticed just yet. He's always seeing and hearing things, talking to people that aren't there. Heard someone say he thinks he can see ghosts."

Simon hid a wince. If he'd felt guilty before about the way he'd treated the boy, it was nothing to how he felt now that he knew about his… difficulties. "Do you know where I might find him?" he asked. Seeing the look on the other man's face, he quickly explained. "He was taking care of my wife's grave, and I wanted to thank him for the thoughtfulness."

The guard nodded for a third time. "Aye, he's thoughtful. If he weren't mental, I dare say he'd be the darling of the town. He lives with his aunt and uncle, the Dursleys, over on Privet Drive. They send him out sometimes for groceries and such, and he'll stop by here on the way to the shops. You might find him there."

The other man didn't seem to find anything strange about sending such a young boy, let alone one with mental problems, to go shopping alone, so Simon held in his concerns. Instead he thanked the man for his time, and walked out to his car. Leaning against the driver's side door, he pondered his options. The most certain way to find Potter was to wait at his family's home, but there would no doubt be awkward questions, and something in his gut told him that wasn't the way to go.

Simon had never been one for listening to hunches, but… when he stepped into the car and turned on the engine, it was toward the shops he drove, craning his neck from side to side as he searched for a glimpse of the boy.


A/N: I'm not sure who's more shocked, you or me. William Goldman once said that the easiest thing on earth to do is not write, and in many ways he was right. My only excuse is that this semester at uni was a killer- it's certainly going to kill my gpa, and my head might yet explode. The joys of a professor who grades an introductory-level science course on a graduate level. I think she might be one of the most despised professors on campus- not personally, but everyone I spoke to who had taken one of her classes was thrilled to hear rumors of her retirement. Anyway, it's not quite over yet. Still two days of class left (and a problem set and two essays I should have been working on instead of this) and then finals. I just… needed to write something tonight.

On that note, I'd like to hear opinions on Simon. If things go as planned (which they sometimes, rarely, actually do) then he'll be a major character. And if anyone can guess what existing character (non-HP) he's patterned on, you'll get a cyber cookie from me.

Power has been removed from the poll, and Strains of Melody reinstated. Power wasn't actually the next story up to be updated, but it was the one the muse focused on. I do have some work done on the current winner, Know Thyself, so hopefully that one will be next. After finals.

Hugs to all continuing, tenacious readers.


27 April 2008