Time To Go Home

A lonely figure stands at the foot of the grave, his shoulders hunched against the early morning chill as the lingering snowflakes litter the ground around him. He gazes down at the name etched in cold stone, and once more his chest constricts even as his heart seems to swell and break.

He takes a deep breath to settle his grief, still so keen even after so many months. He is not there to cry, for he has shed more tears than he ever imagined possible. He is not there to shout either, though he feels the hot anger bubbling inside, demanding an answer to the question he asks every day: why? No, he has simply come to remember, because he does not wish to forget, and he has come alone, to mourn in private, because he wishes to have his solitude. The rest of the family will arrive later, and he knows he will not be able to hold back the sobs then, when so many others are grieving with him. Now, at least, he feels as if he has some semblance of control by defying the tears. He has fooled himself into believing that he has moved on…even though he knows deep down he has not--that none of them have, not yet.

With another deep breath, he stares stone-faced at the tombstone and says his goodbye before turning to leave. His steps falter in the snow, and the fragile façade of control he has so carefully constructed begins to crack. A low cry escapes his lips as he staggers, catching himself on a nearby tree. He turns to look back at the grave, the most heartbreaking symbol of all they have lost, and he feels the storm of grief inside explode. Falling to his knees, he gives in to the tempest and weeps silent sobs as the sun finally rises over the distant hills.

When he has finished, eyes now bare of tears, he feels the familiar emptiness, longing to be filled. Hating himself, he stands, closes his eyes, and Apparates far away from the silent graveyard, a place of only sorrow and pain. The uncomfortable tightness of the Apparation lessens as he opens his eyes to the well-known sight of the Widow’s Peak, a small wizarding pub tucked into a sleepy Muggle village. Though he is not a widower, the name has drawn him in with its suggestion of loss, and the warm feeling of Firewhiskey fills--for a short while--the gaping hole in his heart that he cannot seem to fill any other way.

Though it is early in the morning, the pub is open, awaiting customers like him, and he makes his way to his regular booth in the corner with his head down, desperately trying to bury the shame he knows is burning his face. The booth is ripped and dirty, but the painting on the wall has always comforted him, almost as much as the Firewhiskey: a mother and child, wrapped in the tender glow of candlelight. It is odd painting for a pub, to be sure.

“Bit early for you, isn't it, mate?� calls the barman from across the room. “And Christmas Eve at that.�

“It’s a rough one, Edwin,� the man replies, ashamed as both facts are thrown into obvious detail by his presence at the pub on such a holiday. “Just bring me my usual, please.�

The barman brings over amber glass of Firewhiskey, and four more after that, until the man lays his head down and falls asleep at last, his head on the table, his troubles once more drowned out by the smoky golden liquid. The barman sighs and shakes his head. He feels for the bloke, he really does. He wishes he could help, but it's not his place to get mixed up in helping his customers outside the pub. And yet as he watches the man sleep in the corner booth as a small lunch crowd begins to arrive, he knows he has to do something; it is Christmas, after all.

Pulling out his wand, he casts a quick spell to reveal the man’s identity; knowing the man’s name, he nods to himself with sympathy. No wonder the man is there: it is no secret that he lost much in the war. The barman does not know the man’s family, but he knows they would want to help him, if only they knew how lost the man truly was. He goes to the back of the pub and scribbles a quick note, attaches it to his grey owl, and sends the bird off into the cloudy sky. He has done what he can, and only hopes it is enough.

As he begins to clean up for an early night with his own family, the barman is glad to see one last customer come through the door, stomping her feet and shaking snowflakes from her long, red hair. He nods wordlessly to her as he motions toward the corner, where the man with matching red hair continues to sleep fitfully in his booth under the candlelit painting of mother and child.

The girl looks sad as she walks over to the corner booth, and yet she holds her head high, strong for them both. She sits next to him and wraps her arms around his shoulders, gently shaking him awake. He turns and gazes bleary-eyed at her face, but then closes his eyes once more and shakes his head, refusing to leave. The girl stands up, gently drawing him with her.

“Come on, Dad,� she says softly. “It’s time to go home.�

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