Disclaimer: All characters belong to JK Rowling. No copyright.

A:N: This story takes place after Deathly Hallows Epilogue. A little warning is that at some point of the story, the rating could possibly change to rated M but it isn't certain.

Aside from that, enjoy reading!

I see you on the blue skies

I need a little sunshine

I fill into your brown eyes

Told you I was your light

No, I don't wanna talk about it

I don't wanna listen all that much

Is it falling apart?

I don't wanna talk about it

I just wanna hold your hand

Your Soul; Rhodes

Preface: Hollow Streets

The lenses of his glasses were fogged up, his vision a smudged blur but he did not bother to wipe them clean them. He can see through the grogginess of his eyes a few puffs of air appearing in front of him in faint gray mist before it dissolved into transparent air – it took him a moment to realize those were his breaths. He couldn't tell because his lips were numb, the color of the flesh a faded pink with a few chapped crisps formed by the corners. The air was cold, ridiculously frigid and he couldn't find a sane reason to explain the unfathomable weather. It should not be below in degrees at this time of the year unless the season to seek warmth was around the corner but it wasn't even there either. Perhaps it was his presence that made the area become so brisk, a living reminder of what had bitterly taken place on the grounds he walked on.

His legs trembled to the bone as he stepped, his toes curling within his boots, the hair of his legs standing tall against the fabric of his trousers, and goose bumps rising up on his shivering skin. His hands were unmoving, his fingers stupefied by the icy breezes despite being buried deeply in the pockets of his scrunch brown trench coat. The weather wasn't freezing; it was a chilling atmosphere but it was not enough to make one want to stay in the cozy warmth of their home and snuggle in a heavy blanket while drinking a mug of homemade hot chocolate, basking in the heat of the blazing fireplace. Yet, it made him shudder with every inhale and exhale, his lung shriveling by the coolness of his breaths. He should be suffocating by the lack of summer's glow.

The path was narrow, darkened by the sleeping sky but kept illuminated by the light posts shining brightly in front of the quiet cottages he trudged past, some of the windows lit up while other seem vacant. The street was somewhat empty; some residents walked by him, not bothering to stare at him or never noticing him bump into their shoulder whilst they were engrossed on keeping themselves shielded away from the cold. There were also other buildings that passed his line of vision where he can see were currently being locked up for the night; the post office was turned off into a box of black, the retail shops were chained tightly, and the local pub was shut down. He instantly assumed that perhaps those who had strolled along were the employees.

He mottled a sign named Church Lane and his feet were possessed to continue their journey down the new street. He wasn't truly focused on where he was taking himself to – his mind was no longer with him during this unexplainable trip. His body, his vision, and his senses were physically there but his mentality was gone while he marched through the direction guided by the streetlights, feeling exposed to the lingering eyes he is suspecting to be watching him through the closed windows. He did not need to look down to know he is wearing clothes; he just couldn't help sensing he was bare to his watchers.

Then he halted into a stop once he reached the center of the place and saw a little church towering him, its stained-glass windows giving a faint glow through his misty glasses. There was a sign carved into the stoned roof just above the front doors. Parish Church of St. Clementine. He preceded forward, his fingers reviving as they curled into somewhat tight fists inside his pockets, and his eyes settled forward ahead of him while he moved. He paid no attention to the small board that held the hours of Eucharist. He rounded the corner of the building and was presented with a sight of row of dusted tombstones, lightened with faint colors of faded blue mixed golden red and light green by the gentle reflections of the stained-glass of the church. He ventured on, never stealing a glance to the slightly crumbled stones but from the corner of his eyes, he can easily read the names he ignored.

Abbott. Ariana Dumbledore. Kendra Dumbledore. Ignotus Peverall. Elsbeth McCormick. Dinah Stevenson. John Stevenson. Edwin Booth. Julie Parkes. Peter G.

So many people who lived to the fullest. So many lives that were taken away cruelly. He can only imagine how much their loved ones have suffered in the period of their passing.

Soon, his feet paused once they reached their destination. In front of him was another tombstone except it was not like the many others that were insignificant to him. This one held value, it held meaning, and it was very meaningful to his life. It left a sour taste in his mouth and left a live spark in his heart. It was a cantaloupe piece forever marked on the earth even after his death comes to meet him finally.

A small broken smile cracked through his stoned face as his eyes roamed over the two names that have the ability to stab him with no mercy and to smother him with a distant love altogether.

James Potter Lily Potter

27 March, 1960 31 October, 1981

30 January, 1960 31 October, 1981

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death

A dull sensation ached inside his chest as he read these names and dates with a tender yet broken smile, his eyes seem to appear greener by the glistening sight of a tearful wall forming by his eyelids. The shine of the dominating moon above can be seen reflecting off the emeralds of his eyes, the light of the sky bright enough to have the outline of his silhouette stretch across the grassy fields of the graveyard and to flash the carves of the tombstone he is staring at. He should not be smiling either way because this was evidence that he may have people in his life who love him, cherish him, worship him, idolize him, and some may feel hatred towards him but they will never come close to the filling in the idle hole of true love of a family. There was nothing greater than a parent's love for their child. He knew he was saved by theirs and he will forever be grateful of their sacrifice to have him where he is now still it cannot stop him from wishing they were here with him.

He was just glad that their deaths were not in vain. He made sure of that nineteen years ago.

"Orchideous…" a voice whispered behind him. It was not too far away. In fact it was incredibly close by. It was soothing, gentle. The sound to his ears felt like the fluttering flakes of snow falling on the calm of his hand in Christmas morning. The voice held comfort, understanding, and concern when he incarnated the same spell that had been used years ago for this particular tombstone, the amount of respect he felt for such a sweet gesture increasing yet again as he watched it come to life before him. Slowly, a wreath appeared at the base of the tombstone with various autumn flowers such as mesmerizing purple tibouchinas, breathtaking peach David Auntin Roses, and purely white gordonias flowers embedded into the roots. It was marvelous, the well-decorated wreath brought life to the tombstone and he felt as if his parents were alive with him.

Twigs were crunched and pebbles clashed as a set of feet lightly stomped towards him, calmly approaching him like a mother would their child when they are in quivering in fear. The footsteps stopped beside him, the heat of the new presence radiating into him, warming up the frozen particles of his stiff body, and he nearly jumped when he felt delicate fingers slide into the crook of his elbow, lightly gripping on the fabric of his trench coat there. Another hand rested on his forehead, the thumb softly caressing it through the sleeve, and then a weight of a head was settled on his broad shoulder, small strands of hair tickling the pulsing side of his throat. It was an odd comfort.

"Thank you," he managed to force out in a whisper, his voice thick and rough. His eyes never left the wreath.

The head nodded. "Your welcome."

He closed his eyes as he listened to that voice again. It was so soft, so caring. He felt at peace to know that for the past twenty-six years of his life, he was able to have the privilege to hear such a tremendous voice by his side for various occasions. It had pulled him through the darkest of time by the wisdom of words it produced, motivating him to become stronger, encouraging him to take risks he knew he could take and come back alive, expressing their belief in him when things seemed impossible, voicing their concern over his health, teasing him about his mistakes, and always being firm with him to be kept in place whenever he was out of line. It was always this voice that has him alive to this day.

He tilted his head to the side to rest against the other and sighed, his muscles becoming limp in relaxation under the touches of the hand on his forearm, the caresses unwinding the tendons of his arm. He was certain he would have become a puddle if he loosened up any more. He breathed in deeply, taking in the aroma of honey mixed with cinnamon that came from the hair, the scent enticing his brain into a foggy cloud of nothing, and he turned his head to bury his nose into the tresses to become an addict to the essence. He had smelled it before many times but he never concentrated hard at how his nose tingled in delight like it did now. It never did that before or maybe it did and he never realized it until now.

They stood there in silence for the respect of the dead buried below around them, for the respect of his late parents. The only noise heard is their shuddering breathing and the soft beats of their hearts in their ears. He never heard that voice speak again and he knew nothing need to be said to know what he wanted to hear – I'm here. He never wanted to hear the usual everything is going to be okay when this specific day is far from it or the commonly known they're still here with you when they truly aren't. They have moved on as soon as they saw him living, as soon as they saw him come back home alive. They were gone.

In spite of that, this she did not talk again. The relief of his arm being held gingerly, the feeling of a head lying on his shoulder, and the thudding of a heartbeat against his upper arm is what he needed. It was like this the first time he returned to his home; this woman with him was the same person who accompanied him here. He would always want this her to be the one to come here with him on this dreadful date because he had shown an overly vulnerable side of him that he hid from others whenever it came to his parents – all the pain, the anger, the hurt, and the rage he kept inside was released that day in tears to her. She saw a broken orphan who despises the cruelty of the world for taking away what he never knew he had and was desperate to be in the arms of those who left to the other side, who were forced to leave him behind. He just wants her to see him that one because he trusted her with his soul.

"Happy Halloween, Hermione," he whispered softly, his tone pungent and sour.

The brunette witch shifted her head to press a friendly kiss on his clothed shoulder and then tilted upward to plant another on his cheek, the roughness of his growing facial hair brushing against the gentleness of his light pink lips. She slid her hand from his elbow down on his arm until she reached his hand, her slim fingers slipping through the gaps between his and hooked on his knuckles in a firm grasp as she moved to hide her face in the crook of his neck. She can feel his hand loosely hold hers, the skin smooth in cold yet balmy by touch.

"Happy Halloween, Harry," she murmured, her voice strong in word but weak in sound. She never enjoyed this day not because he would be so sullen by the death of his parents but due to her always wondering how their lives would be like if they were awake. It would be an epic change in history. They probably wouldn't be who they are now or probably wouldn't have even met on the train twenty-six years ago. She just knew for a fact that Harry would have been happy on this day with the memories of trick-or-treating with his father and carving face on pumpkins with his mother.

It did not bother her to accompany him here on his holiday, on the anniversary of their death; she mostly felt touched that he would rather have her to be the only one to witness him mourn over them. She can see that he held such trust in her and he can see that she has the same amount of respect for her no matter what state he is in. He was always a little boy, an orphan who was terrified by the heavy responsibility upon his shoulders beneath the heroic image that the world had conjured him up to be and this day nineteen years ago he had shown her. She can see why he wanted her to be the one here with him.

With a shaky inhale, Hermione closed her eyes as she tightened her grip on Harry's hand and began to silently pray to the deceased James and Lily Potter.

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