I looked at the sky. Anyone else would have called its dense clouds gray, but my trained artist's eyes knew:
It was blue.
Blue. Blue like his lips, so often red with kisses, had become.
It was strange to see him cold. His looks had always been freezing to me—pale skin, gray eyes, nearly white hair—but, somehow, warmth had hidden behind it all. It was stolen that day, ripped away from him.
I loved him and he loved me. I wanted to save him, like I had done before.
I'd been his angel, protection him from the dark that had almost consumed him. We'd been through so much together, but now…
I was powerless. I could not warm him with magic or without it . He didn't want me too.
"Hermione," he called my name one last time as ice crystals formed around his eyes. "I love you. Just stay we me. I don't want to live anymore."
"You're delusional," I'd muttered, pulling him closer so I could wrap my cloak around him.
"No! I'm not!" The life that was about to leave him shone one last time in his eyes. He relaxed, a shuddering breath escaping his throat. "What world is this, where we cannot love each other? What can we gain? No, for me it's too late, but…
"You're not done. Live."
Live. The last word of a dying man.
Quietly, I tiptoed to the crib. I picked up the newborn baby, so precious in it's tragedy. I cradled him in my arms, walking him to the window. My hand gently turned the gray-eyed face to the sky.
"Look," I whispered, "blue."