Ghosts

Funerals were never easy. They were a cruel, inescapable reminder of how fragile life was, how quickly it could slip through one's fingers, leaving behind nothing but grief and unanswered questions. As he stood amidst the sea of mourners, surrounded by a crowd cloaked in black and weighed down by sorrow, he found himself swallowed by the familiar heaviness of loss. It pressed against his chest like an iron weight, suffocating in its quiet insistence. He had been here before, standing in the same suffocating silence, drowning in the same grief that clung to the air like an unrelenting fog.

His mind drifted back to the last time he had stood in this place of mourning, when he had laid his grandmother to rest. Even now, years later, the wound still ached, a dull throb that had never truly faded. She had been more than just a guardian—she had been his anchor, his guiding star, the unwavering force that had shaped him into the man he had become. She had been strict, unyielding at times, but there had been love in every sharp word, every lesson designed to make him stronger, to prepare him for the harsh world that awaited. She had believed in him before he had learned to believe in himself. And when she was gone, it had felt as though he had lost a part of himself, as though the foundation beneath him had crumbled away, leaving only an aching void in its place.

He could still hear her voice, crisp and firm yet laced with affection, weaving tales of bravery and magic, of heroes who had faced the impossible and won. She had nurtured his dreams before he even understood what they were, pushing him toward greatness when he had been too afraid to see it in himself. Her words had been his armor, her stories the fire that had kept him warm through the coldest nights. Losing her had been a wound that time had never quite healed. The sharpness of it had dulled, buried beneath the demands of daily life, but the sorrow lingered in the quiet moments, in the spaces between heartbeats.

Now, as he stood in the presence of death once more, that old ache stirred in his chest, reminding him of how fragile love and friendship truly were. It was never enough to simply exist beside someone, to assume they would always be there. Life had a cruel way of tearing people apart when they least expected it, of stealing moments before they had the chance to be cherished. His grandmother had told him once, in the twilight of her years, that regret was the heaviest burden a person could carry. "Tell them you love them, my boy," she had urged, her frail fingers pressing over his own with surprising strength. "Before it's too late."

The weight of her words settled over him now, cold and undeniable. He had taken those he loved for granted before, had assumed there would always be another day, another chance. But the truth was, there were no guarantees. And as he looked across the crowd, his eyes landing on her, he felt an overwhelming surge of protectiveness grip him, so fierce it stole the breath from his lungs.

She was standing at a distance, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if she were trying to hold herself together. He could see it—the way she fought to remain composed, to suppress the storm of emotions churning beneath the surface. She had always been good at that, at wearing her armor like second skin, at keeping her pain locked away where no one could see it. But he saw it. He always had.

Her words echoed in his mind now, a lifeline in the middle of his storm. He would not let fear paralyze him. He would not stand idly by while the people he loved were caught in the crossfire of whatever war was brewing beneath the surface. He had a responsibility—to her, to their future, to the life they were fighting to build together. It wouldn't be easy. He knew that. He had seen firsthand what happened to those who stood in the way of power, of vengeance. But he had never been one to cower from the fight.

His chest tightened as he turned his gaze back to her, to the woman who had somehow become his whole world, and in that moment, he made a silent vow. He would be her anchor, her shield, her light in the darkness. He would guide her through the storm, even if he had to walk through hell to do it. Whatever dangers lurked in the shadows, whatever forces sought to tear them apart—he would stand in their way.

Taking a deep breath, he let the memories of his grandmother fill him, let them steady his trembling hands, let them remind him of who he was. She would want him to carry on, to be strong, to hold fast to the love he had found. And he would.

For her. For their future.

For the life they had yet to live. A life that, despite its delicate beauty, felt as if it was hanging in the balance, fragile as a thread caught between two opposing forces—love and chaos, hope and destruction. His gut twisted at the sight of her standing apart from the others, wrapped in her grief, in her fear, a fortress unto herself. She had always been strong, always worn her armor well, but he could see the fractures now, the way her hands curled into fists as though she could physically hold herself together, the way her shoulders tensed, bracing against an impact that had already come.

He wanted to go to her, to close the space between them, to wrap his arms around her and shield her from all of it—the sorrow, the uncertainty, the weight of what had been lost and what was yet to come. He wanted to whisper reassurances against her temple, to tell her that nothing would touch her, that he would stand between her and whatever darkness threatened to pull her under. But how could he promise that? How could he look her in the eyes and vow to keep her safe when the world had already shown them its cruelty, when fate had already proven itself merciless and indiscriminate?

His stomach churned as his thoughts spiraled, as the reality of what had happened pressed against his ribs like a vice. Ron and Lavender were dead. Burned. The violence of it, the sheer brutality, made his skin crawl. He had seen death before, had faced it, fought against it, lost people to it, but this—this was different. It wasn't war. It wasn't battle. It was something else entirely, something insidious, calculated. This wasn't just another tragic accident, another senseless loss in an endless cycle of grief. No, this was something darker. Something deliberate.

And that thought unsettled him more than anything.

He had spent so many years fighting for peace, carving out something real, something solid in the aftermath of a war that had nearly swallowed them all. He had wanted stability, had wanted a life where they could simply exist, without fear, without the ghosts of the past clawing at their heels. And yet, even after everything, even after all the work they had done to build something better, the chaos had found them again. It had slithered through the cracks of their carefully constructed reality, coiling around them, threatening to squeeze the life from everything they had fought so hard to protect.

This wasn't just another tragedy. It was a warning. A message written in blood and fire.

And he didn't know how to stop what was coming.

His fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as if the pain could ground him, could steady the unease rolling through him like a storm-tossed sea. He felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the weight of responsibility, of choices yet to be made, of dangers lurking just beyond the horizon. And as he struggled to find his footing in the shifting sands of uncertainty, a memory surfaced—clear, unshakable, a voice from the past cutting through the haze of doubt.

"You must be brave, my boy."

His grandmother's voice, firm and unwavering, echoed in his mind, grounding him in the truth he had always known. He could almost feel her hands on his shoulders, the warmth of her presence, the steady force of her belief in him. "Courage isn't the absence of fear," she had told him, looking him in the eye with that quiet, unyielding strength. "It's facing it anyway."

And he knew, as he stood there, watching her from across the sea of mourners, that he would have to be brave now. He would have to be the man his grandmother had raised him to be, the man she had always believed he could become. Because fear was knocking at their door, and whatever came next, whatever shadows lurked in the corners of their world, he would face them.

~~~~~~

The air at Ron and Lavender's funeral was thick with a suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional sniffle or cough from the mourners. Hermione sat rigidly in a hard wooden chair, her posture straight and unyielding, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her shoulders. Her eyes, red and swollen from days of grief, were fixed on a point somewhere beyond the modest ceremony—a focal point that seemed to blur with the haze of her own detachment.

She felt oddly removed, as if encased in a thick layer of emotional ice that insulated her from the pain and the somber atmosphere around her. The loss of Ron and Lavender had hit her with a force she wasn't prepared for, but the depth of her sorrow was paradoxically matched by an unsettling numbness. 

The ceremony continued with its solemn rituals, but her mind was elsewhere, lost in a fog of fragmented memories and unspoken words. She could barely process the words of comfort or the shared condolences; her own thoughts felt too heavy, too tangled, to allow for much beyond the automatic nods and polite smiles. As she sat there, she wondered if this numbness was a shield or simply another form of suffering—an emotional defense mechanism that kept her from truly experiencing the full weight of the loss.

Now, a chilling numbness had settled in its place. Amidst the tear-streaked faces and whispered condolences, Hermione felt an overwhelming sense of isolation. She was a lone island in a sea of grief, adrift in a storm of her own making. Each tear that fell around her seemed to accentuate her solitude rather than bridge the gap. The shared sorrow of others felt distant and foreign, as though she were encased in an impenetrable bubble of her own sadness. In that sea of mourning, she drifted alone, battling a storm that no one else could truly see or understand.

The past few days had been a whirlwind of forced composure and relentless busywork. Now, surrounded by a handful of mourners in a setting so quiet it felt almost surreal, the weight of reality finally threatened to crush the dam she'd so desperately tried to hold back. The strain of holding it together gave way as a single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. It was the first in what felt like hours, a fragile release from the suffocating pressure of her emotions. The tear was but a tiny crack in her facade, yet it hinted at the promise of a deeper, more cathartic sob that lay just beneath the surface, waiting to be released in a moment of vulnerability.

Looking around the somber gathering, Hermione felt an overwhelming wave of despair wash over her. The air was thick with grief, and every face in the crowd seemed to reflect the same shell-shocked expression she wore. Harry's green eyes, usually so vibrant and filled with life, were now dull and clouded, burdened by a sorrow that felt almost palpable, binding them all together in their collective heartache. He offered a small, sad smile—a gesture of comfort that was too fragile to bridge the chasm of loss that stretched between them. It was a reminder of their shared history, but it also served as a painful acknowledgment of what they had lost.

Beside him, Ginny clutched his hand tightly, her fingers interlaced with his in a silent pact of support. The fiery spirit that had always defined her was noticeably dimmed, her usual warmth now overshadowed by the weight of their grief. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and though she attempted a watery smile, it fell short of reaching her eyes, which reflected the deep ache in her heart. She squeezed Harry's arm, as if drawing strength from him, but the gesture only highlighted the fragility of their situation. Together, they were a picture of shared sorrow, each seeking solace in the other while struggling to navigate the tumult of emotions surrounding them.

Nearby, Neville stood with his shoulders slightly hunched, his face etched with sorrow that seemed to have aged him beyond his years. The usually steady demeanor he carried like armor was wavering under the strain of the day's events. His brow was furrowed, and he looked lost in thought, as if grappling with memories and feelings he couldn't quite articulate. The weight of the moment pressed heavily upon him, making every breath feel laborious. He was accompanied by Luna, whose ethereal presence typically brought a sense of calm and wonder to the room. Yet now, even she seemed touched by the pervasive sadness that enveloped them.

Luna's large, blue eyes, which often sparkled with a strange and perceptive light, were now clouded with a deep well of empathy, reflecting the pain of loss that they all felt so acutely. She stood close to Neville, her hand resting gently on his arm as if anchoring him in the storm of emotions swirling around them. When her gaze met Hermione's, it was filled with an understanding that was both comforting and heartbreaking. In that moment, Hermione felt as though Luna could see directly into her soul, sharing in the anguish that pressed upon them all. Luna's gaze held a mixture of sorrow and compassion, as if she was bearing the weight of the world's sadness on her delicate shoulders, ready to share the burden with those she loved.

The world around them blurred into a haze of muted colors and indistinct voices as they all stood united in their grief. The air was heavy with whispered condolences and the quiet sobs of those who were struggling to accept the reality of what had happened. Hermione could feel the collective heartbeat of their small group—a rhythm of shared memories and unspoken fears—as they all tried to process the magnitude of their loss. Each heartbeat echoed a promise to remember Ron and Lavender, to honor their lives even as they mourned their untimely deaths. In that moment, they were bound together not just by their past, but by a future that suddenly felt uncertain and fraught with danger.

As the service continued, Hermione found herself searching the faces around her, seeking out the comfort of familiarity amidst the sorrow. She knew they would need to lean on one another in the days to come, to navigate the murky waters of grief together. The shared understanding among them was a silent vow; they would carry each other through the darkness, as they had done so many times before. And even in their pain, there was a flicker of hope—a belief that love, friendship, and resilience would light the way forward.

As the brief ceremony ended, a smattering of condolences were exchanged, hollow words offering little comfort in the face of such a profound loss. One by one, the mourners drifted away, their hushed whispers fading into the rustling leaves of the surrounding trees. Hermione remained rooted to the spot, a statue carved from grief, alone with the ghosts of her memories.

 Now, as he stood amongst the gathered mourners, the weight of the present moment pressed heavily upon him. He glanced around at the faces of those who had come to pay their respects to Ron and Lavender, their expressions a blend of shock, sadness, and disbelief. The air was thick with unspoken words, a cacophony of emotions that swirled around him like a storm. It was a testament to the fact that life could change in an instant, that happiness could be snatched away without warning, leaving only echoes of laughter and memories in its wake.

As he looked back at the casket before him, he felt a mixture of sorrow and resolve. Ron and Lavender's lives had ended far too soon, their potential extinguished in an instant. It was a stark reminder of why he had to fight for those he loved. He would honor their memory by living fully and courageously, by holding tight to Pansy and making sure she knew she was cherished.

And so, as the service unfolded, Neville stood tall, his heart a mix of grief and hope. He would not shy away from the pain; he would embrace it, using it as fuel to protect the love he had fought so hard to cultivate. Life would continue, and he would be ready to face whatever came next, determined to honor those lost while cherishing the moments he had left with those still by his side.

~~~~~~

He stepped through the door of their home, the weight of the day pressing down on him like an immovable force, suffocating in its persistence. The funeral had been an exhausting affair, filled with the kind of grief that settled in bones, lingering long after the last word had been spoken, after the last tear had fallen. The echoes of hushed murmurs, of the stifled sobs of those left behind, still rang in his ears, a haunting reminder of the finality of death. As he closed the door behind him, the quiet of their home did not bring the comfort it usually did. Instead, it felt oppressive, the stillness a cruel contrast to the emotions raging inside of him.

He had imagined this day would come years from now, when they were all old and gray, gathered together to reminisce about their youth, to relive the adventures and laughter that had defined their lives. But death had been merciless. It had come too soon, robbing them of time, of possibilities, of a future that now would never be. The harsh reality of it settled like a stone in his stomach, making each breath feel heavier than the last. He had always known life was fragile, that war had stripped them all of any illusions of invincibility, but somehow, he had let himself believe they had made it through to the other side, that they would have the chance to truly live.

But fate had a way of reminding them otherwise.

His mood was dark, edged with a bitterness he wasn't accustomed to. He had never thought he would feel this way, not today, not after everything. He had spent so long believing that the worst was behind them, that they had fought their battles and come out victorious, that peace had finally settled over their lives. But standing at that graveside, hearing the eulogies spoken over the bodies of two people who should have had decades ahead of them, he realized how naive that had been. He thought of Ron, with his easy smile, the way he always seemed to throw himself into life without hesitation. He thought of Lavender, radiant and full of warmth, a light that had burned so brightly. And now they were gone. Just… gone.

It seemed impossible. Unfair.

As he stepped into the living room, his eyes immediately found her. She was waiting for him, standing in the soft glow of the firelight, dressed in black—a solemn reflection of his own attire. The sight of her was both grounding and heartbreaking. She had been there with him, had stood at his side through it all, and yet, as he looked at her now, he could see how much she was carrying. The weight of loss, of unspoken fears, of a storm brewing just beneath the surface. She had never been one to let her emotions show so easily, had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of masking pain behind sharp wit and indifference, but he knew her too well to be fooled.

Her eyes, dark and searching, met his, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

"My love…" he finally managed, his voice rough with emotion. He wanted to say more, wanted to tell her everything that was clawing at his insides, but the words stuck in his throat, thick and unyielding. He didn't know how to articulate the sheer enormity of what he was feeling, how to give shape to the grief that had hollowed him out from the inside.

"I know," she whispered, her voice impossibly soft, carrying an understanding that only she could offer. "I… I just couldn't find the right words."

That simple admission undid something in him. The crack in the armor he had so carefully constructed widened, and before he could stop himself, he reached for her. "Come here," he murmured, the need to hold her, to feel something solid amidst the chaos, overriding everything else.

She stepped into his embrace without hesitation, wrapping her arms tightly around him as he buried his face in her shoulder. The warmth of her, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his chest, was an anchor in the storm. He held her like she was the only thing keeping him from unraveling, his fingers tangling in the fabric of her dress as he finally let himself break.

Time became meaningless as they stood there, wrapped in each other, the only sound between them the soft, steady cadence of their breathing. She smelled of vanilla and something uniquely her, a scent that had long since become synonymous with home. He let himself get lost in it, in the feel of her, in the unspoken promise that, no matter how cruel the world was, they would always have this.

His shoulders trembled as the tears he had held at bay finally spilled over, silent and unrelenting. She tightened her grip around him, one hand threading into his hair, the other resting at the base of his spine, as if she could hold all of his pain for him. "It's okay, love," she whispered, her lips brushing against his temple. "Let it out. I'm here. I'm right here."

And he believed her.

She had always been there, through war and heartbreak, through every battle, both seen and unseen. And she was here now, holding him together when he felt like he might shatter. He didn't know how long they stood there, lost in grief, in comfort, in the quiet understanding that sometimes, there were no words.

Eventually, when the storm inside him had calmed, when the tears had dried but the ache still lingered, they pulled back just enough to look at each other. Her hands remained on his arms, grounding him, offering silent reassurance.

"What do you need, Nevie?" she asked, her voice steady despite the emotions he knew she was swallowing down for his sake.

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice hoarse. "I just… I keep thinking about how young they were. How we thought we had all the time in the world."

Her gaze softened, a flicker of pain crossing her features. "Life can be so cruel, so unpredictable," she murmured. "It's hard to accept that we can lose the people we love so suddenly."

There was a pause, a heavy silence stretching between them before she continued, her voice quieter now, more resolute. "But we owe it to them to carry on. To live. To find joy, even when it feels impossible." She reached up, brushing her fingers against his cheek, her touch feather-light but grounding all the same. "They wouldn't want us to be swallowed by grief, my love."

Her words settled deep inside of him, something solid to hold onto in the chaos. He knew she was right. Knew that Ron, for all his stubbornness, would never have wanted this—never would have wanted them to drown in sorrow. Knew that Lavender, with all her light, would have wanted them to find their way back to something good.

"You're right," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She gave him a small, sad smile, one that held a quiet kind of strength. "We'll carry them with us. Always. But we have to allow ourselves to heal, too."

He let out a slow breath, nodding as her words wrapped around him like a protective spell. They would carry this loss with them, just as they had carried so many before. But they would move forward, together.

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together, the warmth of her skin reassuring against his own. "We'll be okay," he said, as much to himself as to her.

She squeezed his hand in response, her grip firm, unwavering. "Yes," she murmured, resting her forehead against his. "We will."

And as they stood there, finding solace in each other, he knew that no matter what came next, no matter what shadows lurked beyond the horizon, they would face it together.

~~~~~~

He stepped through the doorway, the weight of the day pressing heavily on him, clinging to his skin like a second layer. The funeral had drained every ounce of energy from his body, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion that he had no idea how to shake. Grief had settled deep in his bones, an unwelcome presence that refused to be ignored, suffocating in its persistence. Every hushed whisper, every tear-streaked face, every muted sob still echoed in his mind, a relentless reminder of the lives lost and the cruel, unrelenting passage of time. As he closed the door behind him, the silence that greeted him was almost deafening, a stark contrast to the crowded service that had been filled with the overwhelming presence of shared sorrow.

He had imagined this day would come, but not like this. Not so soon. Not with the sudden, brutal finality that had left everyone reeling. He had thought, perhaps naively, that they would all have time—that the people he had grown up with, fought alongside, survived with, would be here for years to come. That they would grow older, laugh about the past, meet up for drinks, complain about work, about kids, about getting older. But time had stolen that possibility away, leaving nothing but grief in its place.

And yet, despite the ache in his chest, despite the deep-rooted sadness that threatened to consume him, he couldn't shake the lingering question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind. Why was he feeling this so deeply? Ron had never been a close friend, never someone he had truly confided in. They had been comrades, maybe even allies at times, but never more than that. And yet, here he was, feeling as though the world had tilted on its axis, as though he had lost a part of himself he hadn't even realized he was holding onto.

Across the room, she was waiting for him. She had been watching him carefully, her dark eyes searching for something—perhaps an answer, perhaps a way in. She had seen the grief in him long before he had admitted it to himself, and now, as he stood there, frozen in the threshold of their home, she could feel the weight of it pressing down on him.

She had never been the sentimental type, had never allowed herself to be swept up in the emotional fragility of loss. It wasn't that she was cold—far from it. She simply understood that death was inevitable, a certainty that had loomed over them since the day they were born into a world that had demanded their survival. She had accepted it long ago, learned to live with it, to expect it. And yet, despite everything, watching him unravel like this, watching the sadness cling to him so desperately, made her feel helpless in a way she hadn't anticipated.

Slowly, she reached out, her fingers finding his, offering the silent comfort she knew words would fail to provide. "My love," she murmured, her voice softer than usual, careful in a way she rarely was. "You know that I'm here for you whenever you need me, right?"

He nodded, though his gaze remained unfocused, lost somewhere in the distance. "I know, Parky. I know," he said, his voice heavy, weighted with exhaustion. "But I'm just... sad."

She hesitated, something in her gut twisting with unease. "This might sound strange," she admitted, carefully choosing her next words, "but... why, Nevie? Why are you so sad? I mean, Ron wasn't exactly your best mate."

The question made him pause, his brow furrowing slightly as if he hadn't even considered it himself. When he finally turned to look at her, there was something unreadable in his expression, something that made her throat go dry. "Princess," he sighed, the old pet name slipping past his lips with a faint, tired smile, "this is a weird question, yeah. But it's hard to lose someone when you're young. When you're close in age, it makes you face the idea of your own mortality in a way you don't expect."

He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he had never quite shaken, his fingers tangling in the strands before dropping to his lap. "When my grandmother passed away," he continued, his voice quieter now, as if the memory itself was something fragile, "I had to grow up. I had to mature overnight. There was no time to dwell on my own feelings. I had to be strong, and now… I don't know, I guess Ron's death just brings all of that back."

His voice cracked on the last words, and something inside of her shifted. And suddenly, she understood.

His grandmother. The woman who had been both his protector and his compass, the woman who had raised him when his parents couldn't. It hit her then—how little he had spoken about her, how there had been no stories, no passing mentions of childhood memories, no glimpses into the years he had spent beneath her watchful eye. He had carried that loss silently, tucked it away in the hidden corners of his heart, and now, it had come rushing back to the surface, raw and unrelenting.

Her heart ached for him.

She had always known there was a quiet kind of grief in him, a sorrow he never spoke about, but she had never realized just how deep it ran. And now, as she looked at him—really looked at him—she saw the weight of all the losses he had endured, the burdens he had carried alone.

She wanted to say something, anything, to ease the pain she saw etched into his features. But as her mind raced for the right words, another question surfaced, one she had never dared ask. His parents.

Were they still alive, tucked away in a hospital room in St. Mungo's, lost to the ghosts of their past? Or had they slipped away quietly, leaving him entirely alone?

It had always been a question she had been too afraid to voice, a truth she wasn't sure she was ready to hear. But now, as she watched him struggle beneath the weight of grief, she realized just how little she knew about the depths of his pain.

"Your grandmother," she said carefully, her voice hesitant. "You never talk about her, love. Not once. Why?"

He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers playing with the hem of his sleeve, a telltale sign of his unease. "I don't know," he admitted after a long pause. "I guess it's just… hard to talk about her. She was everything to me, you know? The only family I really had growing up. And when she died... I had to keep it together because there was no one else left to do it. I don't even know if I really processed it. I just moved on, because that's what you do."

His voice wavered, and she felt something inside of her crack.

"You don't have to carry it all alone, Nevie," she whispered, reaching up to cup his face in her hands, tilting his chin so he had no choice but to look at her. "You can talk to me. You don't have to be strong all the time, especially not with me."

His eyes softened, something vulnerable flickering there, something raw and unguarded. "I know, Parky," he murmured. "But I've been strong for so long, it's hard to let go."

She nodded, understanding in a way she hadn't before. "You don't have to let go all at once," she assured him. "Just… when you're ready. I'll be here."

And in that moment, as the silence stretched between them, she made a quiet promise to herself—to ask, when the time was right, about his parents. To understand his loss in its entirety, to carry the weight of his grief with him. Because if there was one thing she knew for certain, it was that she would do anything to protect him.

Even from his own ghosts.

~~~~~~

He never forgot about them. How could he? The image of them—once strong, once full of life and purpose—had been seared into his memory, a permanent fixture of the past that refused to fade. Alice and Frank Longbottom had once been formidable, warriors who had fought for what was right with unwavering determination, their bravery spoken about in hushed, reverent tones. But war had a way of taking the best of people and hollowing them out, leaving nothing behind but echoes of who they used to be. That was what had happened to them—trapped in an existence that was neither life nor death, prisoners in their own minds, stripped of everything that had once made them who they were.

Even so, despite the blank stares, despite the absence of recognition, he clung to the hope that somewhere, deep down, they were still there. That they could hear him. That maybe—just maybe—they still knew him. And so, he went to see them. Over and over, never missing a visit, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how much it tore him apart to walk through those sterile hallways, past the sympathetic healers who had long since stopped offering words of comfort because there was nothing left to say.

It was always the same. He would step into the room, the scent of antiseptic thick in the air, the hum of distant voices from the ward beyond the door barely registering. His mother would be sitting by the window, her eyes fixed on something invisible to everyone but her. His father would be in his chair, hands resting limply in his lap, staring straight ahead as though waiting for something that would never come. They never acknowledged him, never turned toward him when he entered. But he didn't need them to.

"Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad," he would say, his voice gentle, quiet, almost reverent, as though speaking any louder might shatter the fragile illusion he had built in his mind—that they could still hear him, that they were still listening.

He would sit beside them, his fingers tracing idle patterns along the armrest of his mother's chair, and he would talk. He had done it for years—filling the silence with stories, with memories, with the little mundane details of his life. He talked about his work, about Hogwarts, about the students he mentored and the way they reminded him of himself when he had been their age—clumsy, uncertain, always feeling like he was falling just short of what was expected. But lately, his words had shifted, taking on a different weight. Lately, he talked about her.

About the woman he had fallen in love with. About the wife he had chosen. About the life they were building, piece by piece, despite all the ghosts that still lingered.

"You'd probably be surprised, Mum," he would say with a faint chuckle, leaning back in his chair. "Pansy Parkinson. Can you believe it? She's a bit of a handful, but she keeps me on my toes. You'd like her, I think. Maybe not at first—but eventually."

He tried to picture it, tried to imagine what his mother would have thought. She had been strict, but fair. A woman of fierce intelligence, of quiet strength. He liked to believe she would have understood Pansy's sharp edges, would have respected her fire, the way she had clawed her way out of the expectations that had once chained her.

"And she's dramatic," he would add with a wry smile, thinking about the way she would insist on rearranging their entire house on a whim, or how she would launch into scathing monologues about someone's poor fashion choices at brunch. "You wouldn't believe the things she gets worked up about."

His father never reacted, never moved, but he still spoke to him like he would have before. "She's good to me, Dad," he would say, quieter now. "She loves me. And I love her."

The words felt heavy in his chest, because he knew they would never get to meet her. They would never see the life he had built for himself, never stand in the home he had made, never watch him grow into the man they had once hoped he would become. But still, he spoke as if they could understand. As if, in some distant place, they could hear him.

"I wish you could meet her," he whispered, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I wish you could see me now."

He told them everything—his insecurities, his doubts, the way he still sometimes felt like he was waiting for someone to realize he wasn't as strong as everyone thought he was. He told them about the past catching up to them all, about Ron and Lavender, about the deaths that had sent a ripple through their world, a warning wrapped in tragedy. He even spoke about the things that unsettled him most—the connections Pansy still had to the Sacred 28, the parts of her life he wasn't sure he would ever fully understand.

But no matter what, he always came back to the same thing.

"I love her," he would say, his voice barely above a whisper. "Despite everything, despite how messy the world is… I love her."

And as always, there was no response. Just silence.

Still, he convinced himself that somewhere, in some way, they understood.

But every visit left him feeling emptier than before. Because while he could sit there and talk, could tell them about his life, about his fears, about his love, he would never hear his mother's voice in return. He would never see his father's eyes light up with pride. He would never have what had been stolen from them all.

He often wondered what it would have been like, if things had been different. If his parents had been there to see him grow, to guide him, to be the safety net he had never had. Would he have been more confident? Would he have stood taller, walked with the certainty of a man who had never questioned whether he was good enough?

The bitterness of that thought settled in his chest as he looked at them—at the remnants of who they had been. He reached out, taking his mother's limp hand in his own, his thumb brushing over the paper-thin skin.

"I miss you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I miss you both."

A single tear slipped down his cheek, but he wiped it away quickly, forcing himself to steady his breath. He had learned a long time ago that breaking down in front of them wouldn't change anything.

"I'm doing okay," he said, more for himself than for them. "I'm trying to be okay."

And then he stood, pressing a gentle kiss to his mother's forehead, then his father's, lingering for just a moment longer than usual.

"I'll see you soon," he promised, before turning and walking away, his footsteps echoing down the empty corridor.

The weight of those visits never left him. They settled deep in his chest, a constant, unshakable presence. Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how much he built, how much he loved, how much he changed, he would always be the boy who had lost them. He would always be the son they had never gotten the chance to know.

And every time he returned home, back to Pansy, back to their life together, he felt it—the ache of everything he would never have. His parents would never sit at their table. They would never toast to his marriage. They would never hold his children, if they ever had them.

But he carried their name. He carried their legacy. And despite the sorrow, despite the loss, he would keep going.

For them. For the life they never got to live.