A Timely Dose of Jily

After Hogwarts - the one which is different pt. 1

Written 5th July 2015

My friend Molly made the fanart I've just put up. Thank you so much, Molly, it truly is splendid. :)

The air was crisp as the boy who became a man too soon walked along, head down, hands in pockets. For some obscene reason, it had decided to snow that evening, which meant the pavements were slick with icy snow and the air was frozen, and the sun disappeared into the abyss of wintry autumn.

The battle was over. Everything was getting sorted out. He wasn't needed for much of the consequential paperwork.

The boy-made-man turned at an iron gate, his glasses fogging up as he released a long breath, trying to steel himself for the next few minutes. The boy-made-man crossed the threshold of the land, and used that momentum to move himself forward, nearly unable to lift his feet off the ground. He was so tired. Tired with pain; tired with loss; tired with relief.

His hands were physically shaking, and he couldn't think straight, but he had to keep moving: he had to do this. He wasn't sure what he was trying to prove, if anything at all. Maybe he needed this. Maybe it was the exact opposite of what he needed. He didn't know. Everything had gone blurry, and he didn't want to think about it.

Did I come too soon? He couldn't help thinking. Or should I have come sooner?

The graveyard was empty. It wasn't unusual, according to a few people who lived around the area. After all, it had been filled up with the last couple who laid there.

Who laid there, in the middle of a row, too young to have experienced the world fully, too young to know the beauty beyond the pain.

They died too young to know that their son would become the most well-known wizard across the world.

He stopped in front of a wide gravestone. Two names etched upon its surface forevermore.

In loving memory of

James Potter • Lily Potter

Born 27th March 1960 • Born 30th January 1960

Died 31st October 1981 • Died 31st October 1981

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death

Harry James Potter sighed as he knelt at the front of the grave. His hand retreated from his pockets, exposing a small bundle of white lilies, which he laid at the foot of the grave.

For a while, he didn't say anything. He knelt there, his jeans getting soaked from the snow around the grave. He had so much to tell them; he wanted to talk with them, so that he could hear what they thought about it all.

He couldn't explain how much he'd give just to see them once, just to be with them one last time.

If Harry could make a deal with the devil, he would. In a heartbeat.

"Hi, mum, dad." Harry whispered, but he cleared his throat loudly, hoping that would help him create more noise. "It's me," He said, louder, and then berated himself because how could they not know who he was? He was only their son.

"I don't know if you're listening, you might be with Remus and Tonks and Sirius, or maybe it's just mum and dad's off rekindling his friendship with Remus and Sirius, or maybe I'm just talking to myself." But Harry couldn't help but feel that that statement was wrong: there was the brush of the breeze on his shoulder, like a hand was there, and there was another across his cheek. He wanted to imagine that they were right there with him, that they were here, listening to him, holding him, just there.