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She stands like autumn touched with winter frost upon the beach. Bright hair blown and shoulders hunched, she watches the sea. Watches the pull and the hiss as the waves drag the sand to it's dark depths, the crash and the snarl as they break themselves against the rocks.
The sea holds her love, the sea keeps him safe and waiting for her in cold darkness where even the mer-people retreat out of respect for such unwavering faith. He waits for her, she knows this. It was she who tossed his ashes into the tide that foamed around her feet, it was she who watched the water green as his eyes, carry him away.
She was not always so cold, she thinks dimly. There was a time when her world was a tumult of love and friendship, stolen kisses made sweeter by their haste. He had told her to leave him, had tried to force her away. Always trying to be the hero - she could almost laugh, were it not for the fact that he had been. Voldemort and Potter, night and day, angels and demons. For each bright spark of hope a shadow must fall, for every act of malice there must be atonement. He had known that he would fall with his nemesis: perhaps even the scruffy child who had taken his first tentative steps into Hogwarts had known this somewhere inside.
They had fought bravely - sometimes this gives her comfort when she cannot sleep, and the world is a cold dead thing made of nothing but empty despair. Ron and Hermione fled to Ireland as soon as they could after the last battle; she does not blame them. Their postcards are charmed onto a wall on the kitchen, the photograph of their new baby scrunching it's nose up and yawning when she looks at it. She and Ron are the last of the Weasleys, but she does not dare think of the dark days before too often. Somewhere deep inside her: a place where emotion can still kindle and love still burns, holds the memory of her brothers and parents close. A gallery of the dead, gone but not entirely lost.
And then there is Harry. The papers had called him The Boy Who Lived; after his death they had scrambled to find a more appropriate title. The same publications that had vilified and accused him previously had fallen over themselves to paint him as the hero he was - to pretend that they themselves had not slandered the name of the young man who gave his life to save the wizarding world.
They had not known him, not like she did. He was always too thin - a legacy borne of his godparents. She had teased him about it - wriggled against the sharpness of his hip and collarbones when he snuggled against her. His hair resisted even her attempts to charm it into some semblance of order, and even in the darkness, when there was nothing but his hands and his lips and the flood of heat that sang like phoenix song between them, he never really lost the shadow behind his eyes.
They had not had much time together: looking back she wishes she had made her feelings known sooner. What they had, what is now lost, was enough for the both of them. It kept him strong when he faced the final battle, and kept her from splintering into nothing when one by one her family fell to the Death-eaters.
She had remembered the conversation they once had late at night, when the possibility of death seemed as far way as the moonlight that shone silver upon them. No sad little cemetery, no tombstone. She had brought his body home and cremated it herself, letting the ashes float into the tide below. Slipping off her cloak, she takes a hesitant step into the water. The sea tugs and caresses her ankles, come with us, come home, it whispers softly, and taking another step and then another, she follows it's call. Down to the cool green darkness, back to her love.