None - nix
There was no body.
I think that's what upset him the most you know? The cursed life of his
godfather thrown behind the veil like a pile of dust that a procrastinating
child would sweep under the rug; perhaps it was the disregard of his life
that upset him.
Perhaps it was the fact that he did not quench his thirst for vengeance?
But the tiny voice in my head is saying that he is most upset that he ever
left that room.
So he stands in front of the small group of us. His scholar pallor creating
a drastic contrast with his scruffy raven hair and black funeral attire as
he shifts uneasily from foot to foot.
Sway.
I notice idly that his glasses are different. They are now frameless,
rectangular in shape. He looks like Prongs did at that age. I wonder if he
is doing this for the sake of Him. And then I know he does after a hand
passes through his hair. Resembling a soft crown of spikes, not unlike the
Muggle Messiah. The spitting image of James looks upon the small crowd, and
I cannot help but wonder why.
Scratch.
James is dead, my brains tell my eyes. The message is passed from my eyes
to my heart. And my heart relays it to my slowly dying soul.
Gone.
He blinks repeatedly. The sign of a man trying to feign denial of his
vision. He takes an uneasy step forward and takes his wand out of a pocket
hidden deep within the folds of his robes. And with a small wave, sparks
fly out of it marking the place of an empty grave.
Wave.
No one cries. No one moves. The last wish of a forgotten innocent has been
granted.
Last.
He stands to join the small crowd. And with nods to the grave's general
direction, respect has been paid.
One.
And like the grave we all leave with something missing.
For in the end, everyone is empty.
Fin.
Disclaimer- Nothing's mine.
There was no body.
I think that's what upset him the most you know? The cursed life of his
godfather thrown behind the veil like a pile of dust that a procrastinating
child would sweep under the rug; perhaps it was the disregard of his life
that upset him.
Perhaps it was the fact that he did not quench his thirst for vengeance?
But the tiny voice in my head is saying that he is most upset that he ever
left that room.
So he stands in front of the small group of us. His scholar pallor creating
a drastic contrast with his scruffy raven hair and black funeral attire as
he shifts uneasily from foot to foot.
Sway.
I notice idly that his glasses are different. They are now frameless,
rectangular in shape. He looks like Prongs did at that age. I wonder if he
is doing this for the sake of Him. And then I know he does after a hand
passes through his hair. Resembling a soft crown of spikes, not unlike the
Muggle Messiah. The spitting image of James looks upon the small crowd, and
I cannot help but wonder why.
Scratch.
James is dead, my brains tell my eyes. The message is passed from my eyes
to my heart. And my heart relays it to my slowly dying soul.
Gone.
He blinks repeatedly. The sign of a man trying to feign denial of his
vision. He takes an uneasy step forward and takes his wand out of a pocket
hidden deep within the folds of his robes. And with a small wave, sparks
fly out of it marking the place of an empty grave.
Wave.
No one cries. No one moves. The last wish of a forgotten innocent has been
granted.
Last.
He stands to join the small crowd. And with nods to the grave's general
direction, respect has been paid.
One.
And like the grave we all leave with something missing.
For in the end, everyone is empty.
Fin.
Disclaimer- Nothing's mine.