I find it strange that people don’t like gray. It’s always considered a negative color. Gray in life consists of gloomy days, aging hair, and tombstones. I no longer see it as negative. Gloomy days mean there’s rain coming. Rain cleanses the earth and gives life to everything else. As for aging hair, that’s what tells me if you’re wise. That’s how I know whom I can go to for love and advice with a side of milk and cookies. Tombstones, well, those are what tell me someone was loved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Passing through the crumbling, eroded graveyard, James watched the subdued sunlight washing over the engraved stones at his feet. He slowly walked through the aisles, glancing over the names of so many lost faces. Many of the newer headstones were marble, but only a few still white. Others were covered in growing vines and moss, as if the earth were trying to suck them back in. He thought it was odd that he noticed this, especially on such a day.

Everything felt wrong. He looked up, thinking about how the sun seemed to be mocking him. A funeral wasn’t supposed to be on a sunny day. It was supposed to be dark and dreary; it had to reflect the mourners’ grief. A headstone wasn’t supposed to be a bright color, and especially not white. It had to be gray. It had to be stone. It had to be sad. It was made to tell you that someone was lying there, and that someone would never be home again. Something pricked behind James’ eyes and he closed them.

He breathed slowly and softly, reflecting on days that weren’t always sunny, but were certainly always bright. He remembered fistfights and Christmases, long talks and Quidditch games. But most of all he thought about the bandages and reprimands after the fights, of the strategizing and the cheering during Quidditch. Strange, James thought with a slight smile, he only ever got to play Quidditch with us when it was overcast. A single tear slipped out of the corner of his eye.

He paused at the next tombstone. It was one of those made of white marble, but certainly not recent. Kneeling down, James fingered the two roses in his hand. Clearing away some of the ivy that clung to the stone, he gazed at the names of the grandparents he’d never gotten a chance to know. Placing one red flower crossways at the base, he thought back to the Lily Potter who had smiled up at him from the pages of a photo album. She’d seemed a bit like a younger version of his mother, with flaming hair and a bright smile. Looking up, he saw no trace of that smile on her face now. Ginevra Potter stood solemnly by the side of the ancient church, hair now streaked with gray and white, eyes vacant but dry.

James turned his attention back to the other rose. This white one he laid diagonally across the other, musing at how odd it felt to see his own name on a gravestone. It had taken James quite some time to learn why his dad tried so hard to be there for him, for all of them. Harry had never wanted his children to have to grow up the same way he had, without a father. Through all the hardships though, Harry hadn’t fallen through. He’d gotten up and fought with everything he had to keep the world safe. James’ aunt had once told him that his father had always had a “saving people thing.” He’d had his slip-ups though, nearly falling the other way. Thinking about it, James realized that his father was a sort of middle ground. He wasn’t a dark wizard, but he was never simply good and innocent. Harry was a blend of the two worlds, the gray spectrum between black and white.

With a sigh James stood up, pulling out his wand. Pointing it at the grave, he bound the white and red roses together. United, just like James and Lily. The younger James watched the growing crowd of people. They had tried to keep it a private funeral, but somehow others had managed to slip in anyway. Many others. Everyone wanted a last look at the man they thought they knew. He walked over to his mother, leading her towards the group huddled around the coffin. The service was about to begin.
***
James watched as the last of the mourners shuffled out of the cemetery, leaving only himself and the rest of his family. His mother was sitting with his aunt Hermione, who was trying her best to comfort her through her own tears, Lily nearby. Uncles Bill, George, and Charlie were standing together, while his uncle Ron sat alone with his head in his hands. As much as his grandparents had wanted to come, Arthur was ill, and Molly couldn’t leave him. This left only Albus, who had not moved from his place next to the slight mound of fresh earth.

James went over and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Neither of them said a word, hearts heavy, eyes fixed on the carved piece of white marble. Flowers were strewn all around. This gave James an idea. He stood and gathered up two of the roses. He moved away from the group a bit. Murmuring a few words, the young man turned one of the roses black, and the other white. Coming back to his father’s grave, he placed the flowers on the headstone, next to each other. Albus watched as he waved his wand, swirling the roses together. When he was finished, the roses were melded together.

Suddenly there was a bright flash of light. It seemed to catch everyone’s attention and all they gathered around. The flowers James had melded were now set into the stone, but there was something else different. The black and white flowers were there, attached at the stem. But they were now tilted away from each other, making room for a third rose, one that was a vivid gray.
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Gray has always been the steely color of death, but to me it is the color of memories. It is the color of my mother’s not-so-vivid hair. It is the color of my wife’s eyes. It is the color of clouds in perfect Quidditch weather. It is the color of gravestones and the color of cement, but most importantly, it is the color of my father.

He has been called many things: The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, The Heir of Slytherin, and later, The Dark Lord’s Conqueror. He may have been all of these things, and he may have been none. He would neither confirm nor deny them, but there was one thing he made sure to be. To me, Mr. Harry James Potter, has and always will be simply, Dad.