Disclaimer: none of the familiar characters belong to me. I do lay claim to Leila, Jayla, Dylan and Erik. If you wish to use them, please ask first! Also this poem belongs to WH Auden, not me. It's called funeral blues, and I've only used the first 3 stanza's.

A.N. this does contain some strong language, slash references and other things. More may appear in later chapters, please don't get offended.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

'Get out'

'But…please'

'Just… I loved you, I still love you, but damnit Harry! I can't cope with this, not right now.'

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone

I point to the door. 'Out!' and he leaves. I go to check the children.

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum,

I slide down the doorframe. Shit but this has been difficult on us. But drunken Harry is not what I need.

Obsessively I go around the house. Straightening, cleaning. It doesn't need it, but on some strange level, I do.

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

I have a shower. 2 am and I'm showering. Oh well, I'm no longer grimy. And I don't smell like Harry vomit and beer anymore. You'd have thought with all the shit in my life right now, I'd be a wreck. 3 kids, 6, 5 and 3 to raise (none my own) along with the fourth 'child' Boy Wonder that is Harry.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

It's often like this. I rarely sleep, but tonight (this morning?) is different. For some reason, tonight I feel I shouldn't sleep, rather than I can't.

Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead

And then he staggers back in.

'Potter I told you … oh God! Harry!'

Red. Red everywhere. Red on the walls and on the carpet. Red covering my arms as I move away to the phone.

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves

They pronounced him dead at 3:14.

Harry. Dead. To survive the war only to die from a mugging. Too drunk to save his sorry ass.

I go home, check on the children. All asleep. I clean, scrubbing the red from the carpets and walls. Desperately removing all the traces of him from our bedroom. Boxes. A life described in labelled boxes: clothes, magazines, toys, books. All boxed away, hidden from view.

And the funeral. Oh god I hate funerals. Shouldn't think about that, but I'll always remember.

Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

I'll have to talk to his friends. Granger, Weasley, Wod, Spinnet, Bell. His lovers, Ginny, Luna, Cho and Dean. And all the others. Names, faces blur in my mind. Address book…yes.

I shouldn't have let him go. I should've shoved him in the shower, forced water down him and carried him to the couch like I usually do.

I don't know why I couldn't do that tonight.

6 o'clock. Children waking – thank gods they have school. Where did the hours go? Could I have spent this long boxing his things? Remembering the story behind each and every item? Perhaps.

He was my North, my South, my East and West

I move to the kitchen, prepare breakfast. Every smell reminds me of him. The kitchen where he spent so much time, when he used to be sober. He was the better cook.

If I can't cook, they'll just have to cope with cheerios.

I notice the blood on my clothes. I run to our room, pull on the first things I lay my hands on. Black trousers, black shirt, black shoes.

7 o'clock. Wake children. I watch them clamber onto kitchen chairs.

Leila, six years old, was Pansy's girl. Pansy doted on her, the sun would rise I the west before Pansy would hurt her baby girl.

Pansy died 3 years ago, no one knows how.

Jayla, five last month, was Blaise's child. She got 2 years of his company before he died in a raid.

Dylan is 3, and never got to know his mother. Millie died in childbirth and his father was never identified.

Pansy's man, Thomas, died in the muggle killings.

Blaise's wife, Sasha, left straight after the birth, and Neville (Blaise's boyfriend) couldn't raise a child and do his job. He was the best Healer around, and died saving Harry's life.

So these children were passed onto me, responsible parent that I am.

They've learnt Harry is never at breakfast anymore, so for now I'm spared giving an explanation. Tonight, however, I will not be so lucky.

I take them to school, lost in memories. Daydreaming of the times before he changed.

My working week and my Sunday rest

Ginny is at the gates. Her son Erik attends this school.

'Where's the new man?' I ask. She sighs, half mocking sadness.

'Manless. And yourself? Where's yours?'

Silence. The kids enter the building.

'Walk with me.'

She follows me, listens as I unload last night. I can see the tears she's trying so hard to hide. She breaks down. I hold her close ssh-ing and soothing. But I don't tell her it'll be alright. It won't. We both know that.

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

Erik was his child. Harry's. aside from the boxes, that's all that's left of him.

'You can come round, if you'd like. Take some of his things.'

'You wouldn't mind?'

'Of course not. It's not like I can look at them.'

She smiles sadly, gives an 'I know the feeling' look. We walk.

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.