So, Milo was no longer dead; he was a human with legs and arms and fingers and toes and everything else a human has because Death decided he wasn't ready to pass. He felt cheated out of heaven, of peace and serenity, of rest after a long while fight...
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PREFACE a black hole
THE LIVING ROOM WAS DIM, the Evans’ fireplace only emitting a hazy glow. It was pleasant, maybe even a little romantic as Milo Mckinnon wrapped his arm around Lily. She snuggled closer, leaning her head against his shoulder as the day settled in. He pulled the blanket off the top of the sofa with his free hand and wrapped it around them. Lily sighed, her hand finding Milo's and she fiddled with his fingers before joining their hands. Milo watched as she did this, ebony dread digging a hole in his chest.
"We need to talk," Lily murmured, squeezing his hands.
"I don't want to talk," Milo whispered back, tightening his arm on her shoulder. If Lily was there, everything would be fine. "Maybe if we avoid it, it will go away. I don't want to think about dying, Lils. Not tonight."
Lily glanced up and he looked away, maybe to hide the glisten in his eyes or maybe because he couldn't look his girlfriend in the eye without the hole in his chest enlarging.
She pressed a gentle kiss on his neck, silently saying that she was there when he was ready. Then she led her head back down and succumbed to a peaceful quiet.
The fire crackled. An owl hooted. There were footsteps upstairs. At that moment, everything was normal. They were merely two people in love, enjoying an evening together. There was no war hanging over their heads, no death or sickness, no rowdy friends jabbering in the background.
It was just Milo and Lily. And they were just being.
Just being, however enjoyable it was, wasn’t on the table for Milo. As the war worsened, so did Order Missions and so did his sickness. Within two weeks of receiving the news that he was terminally ill, the symptoms had intensified so dramatically that he had no choice but to face it.
It was a Wednesday morning that Milo woke up unable to get out of bed. His head pounded and his chest ached. There was this tight feeling, like a rope tangling around his lungs; it prickled and stung, strangling him.
Lily was there, next to him, as always. Unlike Milo, she was dressed, Her flared jeans were dark blue and her top merchandise of a Muggle band he hadn’t heard of. She led on the bed, head propped up with one hand, the other faintly touching Milo’s forehead.
“You’re burning, m’love,” she said gently, not pulling her fingers away, but stroking them down the side of his face.
Milo grunted, the pounding in his head blurring his thoughts. Lily reached across to the bedside table and grabbed a potion. “Open up, darling,” she coerced gently.
Slowly, Milo took small sips of the inky potion until he was coherent enough to talk. She pushed the stopper into the potion, before returning beside him. Lily placed her head on her pillow, red hair sprawled across the soft cotton. She took his hand, tangling their fingers; an act that was so commonly practiced yet still held as much intimacy and affinity as the very first time.
“We need to talk about this,” Lily stated, her voice honey but Milo could tell she was bordering on frustration.
He had been avoiding the subject every time she brought it up.
“I know,” he whispered, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. They led in silence. She was waiting, he was stalling. “It terrifies me,” Milo eventually admitted. “Dying, being sick, all of it. There’s so much I want to do. So much I won’t ever get to do. There’s so much I’ll be leaving behind.”
Lily’s eyes watered and she tried desperately to blink away the tears. There was a lump in her throat.
“I want to marry you,” Milo said so sure. She sobbed, pushing her head into his shoulder. “I had it all planned out, one day, I would marry you.”
Lily took a deep, shaky breath. “You still can,” she forced out, her voice cracking. “We can still get married.”
Milo struggled to sit up, but he did and Lily followed him. He reached over and opened his bedside drawer, pulling out a little black box. She was crying freely, tears flowing down her pale face, but she held out her hand and, tremulously, Milo slid the silver ring onto her finger.
Time was too short. This was a torturous lesson Milo had to learn over the next few months. He was forced to give up the Order, unable to meet the expectations required of him. There were days when he could do nothing but lay in bed and eat the chicken soup his loving fiance cooked.
Time was too short, Milo learned. His clock was ticking, every minute looming over his head.
There was no time for a proper wedding. No time for churches or delicate flowers. Their wedding was a small affair with a few close friends. Alice Longbottom put some funny powder on Milo’s face to make him seem less sickly. Lily walked down the aisle in a gorgeous white dress, it was long and flowy, her red hair in a braid that wrapped around her head.
Their vows were soft, sentimental words and promises. They kissed below a red tree and the world fell into place. It seemed as if the stars had aligned and there was hope for the future.
Lily took his hand as the audience watched and she pressed it against her stomach. Her smile grew impossibly bigger but Milo’s smile was wiped from his face. He gulped. She was still smiling. The crowd was clapping.
“A baby?” he whispered in amazement.
“Our baby,” Lily corrected. “We’ll be okay.”
And her assurance was enough to make Milo grin. He laughed, putting his hands back to her stomach, a giddy, overwhelming feeling surrounding them.
Together they walked back down the aisle.
By December (they married in August), Milo was hospitalised. The white, bleached rooms of St Mungo’s had become his home and the green-clad witches his friends. Lily was there everyday, she brought blankets and cards and flowers. Their friends visited too, Remus, looking haggard and worn, came as often as he could, bringing a selection of books with him every time. Marlene was there as often as Lily. Her worry was clear and she threw herself into fighting Voldemort. Sirius and James were brilliant entertainment and unlike the others, they were frank and realised he was dying. They could see the tiredness in Milo’s eyes, how he was hanging on by a thread.
One day, Milo looked James in the eye, taking a deep breath. Sirius watched cautiously.
“When I’m gone,” he started. “Look after Lily and the baby. I don’t know if I’ll be here to meet her.”
James gulped, eyes watering, but he nodded and Milo accepted that. The door slammed as Sirius left the room.
In January, Milo Mckinnon died. It would be wrong to say he died peacefully because he didn’t, he died suffering immense pain and sickness. But he died in the arms of his wife, he died feeling his daughter kick and his wife’s heart beat. He let go knowing they would be fine.
