Heart of the Guardian

1. The Shrieking Shack

THE SHRIEKING SHACK

The tall, thin, dark-haired man clad in solid black flowing robes pushed open the wrought iron gate. His hand barely trembled, though his heart beat a desperate tempo, as though it would escape this confrontation. He stopped a moment, fighting the urge to turn away, or at least to retreat into the cool intellectual façade he had cultivated these past eighteen years or more.

A hand touched his elbow and he turned his glittering black eyes to look down into the boy's startlingly green ones, searching the boy's face.

"It'll be okay," the boy said softly.

Black eyes held on green, so much calmer and more at peace than his own. He drew courage from the unflagging acceptance and understanding he saw there. He took a breath, still keeping eye contact, straightened his hunched shoulders, tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat, and gave a sharp nod.

The boy turned to accompany him, but he drew away, shaking his head.

"I have to do this myself," he said, his voice trembling as lightly as the hand he drew across his brow. He shook his head, admonishing himself. Pull yourself together! he ordered.

You're Slytherin, not Gryffindor, came an internal, snide rejoinder. He kicked that part of himself into silence. Not anymore.

Sometimes I think we sort too soon, another voice echoed. That had been said sadly, at one time, but it rang in his memory supportively now. The man looked down at the boy and raised a hand to cup the boy's head, pulling the boy to him in a brief embrace.

"I can do this," he murmured into the dark hair. "Give me a few minutes, will you?" The boy nodded wordlessly against him.

Pulling away from the boy, he straightened his thin shoulders again, and turned back to the small graveyard, searching with his eyes.

"That way," the boy pointed. The man nodded and resolutely set off in the direction indicated, feeling the boy's gaze following him. He must do this.

His steps took him unerringly to the marker he sought, directed as much by the boy's nearly tangible support as by logic, following the state of care or decay to gauge the age of the gravestones, unconsciously processing dates, flinching every now and then at a familiar surname, not allowing himself to fend off that awareness. This, too, was his penance. This, too, he must bear.

He forbade himself distance, despite the dread pulling at his feet as he neared the marker. But he would do this. He demanded it of himself. He owed it to them... and to the boy. And... he could not move forward without it. He stopped in front of the white stone, two names, two dates of birth, a single, shared last day.

His throat constricted, his breath caught, and his heart beat madly, painfully, in his chest, threatening to escape all on its own. And then hot tears burned their way down his face, and his legs threatened to give way.

But the boy would be watching, and he did not want to worry him. Tears would be tolerated, but if he allowed himself to collapse, the boy would come to him, and he was not ready for that yet. He had to see this through on his own. He placed a hand on the marker to steady himself and looked down at the inscription, blurred by his tears.

The Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed Is Death

"Lily," he said, his light baritone trembling, cracking, and he nearly gave way. But once begun, he could go on –would go on. For the boy. For himself. For their future.

He tried again.

"Lily," he whispered, his voice stronger. He shifted his gaze to the other name. "James." A black brow lifted ruefully, and one corner of his mouth quirked upward.