Chapter 4. Omen
Friday, December 20th, 1929
Harry Potter woke up at the croak of dawn. Absentmindedly, he reached for the other side of the bed, and found it cold. He turned to face the emptiness and silently sobbed, desperately trying to find the warm curves of his wife amid the crinkled bedsheets as he hugged them close.
He pressed his nose against her pillow and inhaled—it was still lightly scented, her apple shampoo lingering between the threads, the bite of her cinnamon conditioner itching at the corners of his nose. He breathed in harder, taking all of her in—this was all that remained of his wife.
He had asked the coronoid how quickly she died. The coroner had shot him a very pained look, the corners of his mouth twitching and mumbling, like the words couldn't caw out.
"She bled a lot, Sir." He had tried to remain gentle. "She… convulsed, for a bit. Maybe a few minutes. She was certainly in a lot of pain." He paused, scratching the rook of his neck. "Then she died."
Harry rose from his bed, stretched his arms and peered out the window. Six shadows stood still, staring right at him. The crows of his eyes still bled red; the tangy water of his tears blurred his vision. He blinked, trying to discern their silhouettes; but they were gone.
If you had asked him what he thought he saw that morning, he would have answered: "Six crows."
Six crows.
An omen of death.