Requiem

The flat was deserted. An open Daily Prophet from two weeks earlier lay on the sofa. A half empty Firewhiskey bottle sat on the coffee table, next to a plate with the remains of a sandwich emitting a moldy smell into the room. Ashes scattered the rug on the hearth. A black overcoat and a deep green cloak hung on hooks behind the door. Beneath them sat a pair of worn trainers and a pair of dragon skin boots. She collapsed into an armchair and began to sob. Under the moldy smell, she could still catch a whiff of his scent. Smoke, sweat and sugar quills.

~

The office seemed colder than usual. On the desk, a file folder lay open. It's contents spilling over the desk and onto the chair. The door of the wardrobe in the corner was open and inside there was an extra set of Auror's robes, a Gryffindor striped muffler, a pink umbrella and an old owl cage. Maps covered one wall of the small room, pins marking locations across the world. A framed photo sat on top of a low bookshelf, it's occupants waving excitedly at the camera. The man leaned heavily against the doorframe and tried to banish the memories this room provoked.

~

The car had been left in the garage for weeks now. A map of London lay open on the front passengers seat and a butterbeer bottle sat in the cup holder. The backseat was a mess. A pile of books teetered precariously on top of a box from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Six empty chocolate frog boxes littered the floor and a battered Quaffle had rolled to a stop against a pile of blankets. A thick smell of petrol, chocolate and Polyjuice Potion assaulted her senses as she slid into the driver's seat. The tears came all at once, pouring down her cheeks.

~

The graveyard was almost empty, now. The crowds had left hours ago. The man gripped the two women tightly by the elbows, as if either they would have fallen if they had stood alone, or as if he drew strength from the touch. They walked through the rows of marble markers. Wishing they did not recognize so many names. Some had died only weeks before. Some almost twenty years ago. A crisp autumn wind blew through the trees, knocking the colorful leaves down to join the others already carpeting the ground. As they reached the most recent grave, one of the women leaned over to place a bunch of brilliantly colored leaves in front of the marker. The other drew something out of one pocket and opened her hand, letting the Golden Snitch go.

~

The papers called it the most tragic event since Dumbledore's death. The headlines were splashed with quotes about the horror. The Minister called it a cruel joke. The Boy Who Lived was dead. It had been over two years since Voldemort had been defeated.

~

The Golden Snitch flitted away. Dancing above their heads. If some lucky Seeker had caught it they would have found the initials HJP carved in the gold. But no one would catch this Snitch. It flew high and wild. Soaring diving and flitting until it reached Heaven, where a boy with startling emerald eyes and messy black caught it one handed, whispering, "Thank you, Ginny" as he did so.