But they were not living, thought Harry: They were gone.The empty words could not disguise the fact that his parents moldering remains lay beneath snow and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And tears came before he could stop them, boiling hot then instantly freezing on his face, and what was the point of wiping them off or pretending? He let them fall, his lips pressed together, looking down at the thick snow hiding from his eyes the place where the last of Lily and James lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not knowing or caring that their living son stood so near, his heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice and close to wishing, at this moment, that he was sleeping under the snow with them. Hermione had taken his hand again, and was gripping it tightly. He could not look at her, but returned the pressure, now taking deep, sharp gulps of the night air, trying to steady himself, trying to regain control. He should have brought something to give them, and he had not thought of it it, and every plant in the graveyard was leafless and frozen. But Hermione raised her wand, moving it in a circle through the air, and a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before them. Harry caught it and laid it on his parents grave. -Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Posted on: Fri, 26 Dec 2014 00:40:06 +0000
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