Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any related characters and situations. They belong to J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Inc., Warner Bros, and anyone else with copyright. Any original characters which may appear and the plot of this story for which no money has been exchanged and which was written for entertainment purposes only, are mine mine mine!

A/N: We've reached the end! I have to say, as sad as this story made me I actually really enjoyed writing it. Maybe because I was playing with looking at the H/D relationship from a different perspective…who knows…anyway…let me know what you thought...even if it's long after I've posted. Review please!

7.

We stayed at the cottage until the funeral. Dad made his final wishes very clear, and though it was against the Wizarding traditions that called for body burial, no one gainsayed them. He'd asked to be cremated, though some of his ashes were to rest at Godric's Hollow beside his parents and son. We were to release him to the breeze, as he'd never felt more freedom than when he was in the air. He was a flyer, he said, and could imagine no more fitting end than to be cast out to ride the winds.

The funeral was a private affair, attended by only our closest family and friends, though we had a devil of a time keeping the press and the curious away. Father let a barrage of powerful curses and hexes loose on the blighters, who finally left us in peace.

The memorial was a public event, even broadcasted on the WWN, and attended by thousands of people who wished to pay their last respects to The-Boy-Who-Lived and eventually, ultimately paid the highest price for their freedom. It was a spectacle and a farce arranged by the Ministry who used Dad's death as an opportunity to elevate public opinion of the current Minister. Long stuffy eulogies were given by officials we did not know, lauding Dad's achievements as the 'Saviour of the Wizarding world' and holding him up as the quintessence of courage and bravery. Dad would've hated it, but for the sake of appearances we endured. Father especially, tried to accept gushing condolences gracefully, but when Lunestra Warbler approached the podium for her musical tribute it was obvious that he'd reached the end of his patience. He sneered at the shocked vocalist (Dad once said her voice sounded like a cross between nails on a chalkboard and a banshee on a sugar high) and with a resounding CRACK apparated to the Manor where he holed himself up in Dad's studio.

Claire and I dealt with the mourners, with sympathy cards and donations. We made arrangements so the numerous floral tributes would be delivered to the ailing at St. Mungo's, and the lonely at various senior living facilities. We hired guards for the cemetery at Godric's Hollow to force vigil-keepers and memento-hunters away, and grudgingly we made the occasional statement to the press. We didn't need any more headlines like the one run by The Daily Prophet the morning after the memorial: "HERO'S HUSBAND COLLAPSES IN GRIEF," they'd misreported Father's departure from the service for the sake of circulation, as usual. For three weeks we went about the business of living through public mourning and held back our private grief. We had our family to help us, but the one person we needed most was still secluded in Dad's art studio.

Besides the gardens, the studio was Dad's favourite place at the Manor. Aunt Hermione said it started as a joke…sort of. She'd wanted Dad to undergo extensive therapy after the war to come to terms with his experiences and losses. Father asked if she was going to encourage him to 'paint pretty pictures and start basket-weaving' next. Dad picked up on the painting, though clay was his preferred medium. I'm pretty sure he left the basket-weaving alone.

Despite Claire's interest and talent, the studio was really just Dad's space. It was where he made his emotions tangible—both good and bad. Where he captured his best memories on canvas or in clay. Where he worked out his daemons, and where he went when even Father's arms couldn't keep the nightmares away. We were welcome there sometimes. He'd call us in and from the vantage point of a lumpy old futon, we'd examine his latest painting or sculpture, sipping tea or hot chocolate from mugs he'd made himself.

After three weeks Claire had had enough. Ridiculously early one morning, she burst into my bedroom then stormed to the studio, dragging me behind her. When we'd arrived she tested the knob, then beat on the door. When there was no answer she whipped out her wand and put enough power into her "Alohomora," to knock the door from its hinges.

I'm not sure what I expected with that little outburst, but Father didn't react at all, and that brought us up short. He was sitting on the old futon, caressing the hands sculpture Dad had made as his gift for their wedding day, staring out unseeing. His pale face was frightfully gaunt and I made a mental note to ask the house elves if he'd eaten at all these last few weeks.

"Father." Claire said softly, approaching him slowly. She took the sculpture from his clenched hands and sat on the floor beside him.

"Father, can you hear me?"

I went to his other side and took his ice-cold hand in mine, "Father we need you. We need…to grieve and we can't do that if you won't."

Claire nodded, "We need to do this together Father."

"You promised," I said, lightly chaffing his hand. "You promised to live for the living. We need you here."

After long moments he shook his head gently, clearing his mind and his eyes, as recognition slowly crept back in. "I-I can't," he whispered brokenly.

"Bloody hell you can't! More like you won't!" Claire was working herself up to a rage. I understood—anger was better than soul stifling sadness. "What about us huh? We loved him too Father! We-we lost him too." She cried anguished and pulled her hands away from his to cover her face, but they couldn't catch all her tears.

"He-he's gone. He's gone and we-we're falling apart!"

Father slipped down onto the floor and held her as she cried into his shoulder.

"Shh…shh, my girl…it's alright Claire. It'll be okay." Father rocked her tenderly, his instincts to protect and comfort us overriding his own grief for a moment. And then, his own tears, held back for so long broke free and soon sobs wracked his lithe frame. In a flash I was on the floor as well, and together we began to truly mourn our loss.

When the storm calmed, Father swept the moon-coloured stands that clung to my face away. "We need to feel more than pain and sadness," he said, his eyes so full of both I had to look away. "He wouldn't want that." Father took a deep breath, "Help me think of something good. Tell me something you remember."

My eyes still itched with tears, but I held them as I answered. "Hands," I said hoarsely, "so strong… swinging me into the air and catching me…holding me steady on my first broom…" I closed my eyes and remembered the feeling of cutting through the air with Dad's hands on my waist.

"Laughter," Claire said softly, "in his eyes, in the air, everywhere."

"Eyes so green, they put the finest emeralds to shame…fresh like Spring…and so clear--so clear you could see his soul through them," Father added, rasping.

'One shared soul,' I thought.

"Did you see yourself there?" I asked.

"And you," he answered with a nod, looking at us both and smiling a little for the first time in weeks.

He reached around his neck and unclasped the locket. I'd never known him to be without it, so it was odd seeing his neck bare. The golden locket with its etched border of lilies and roses was so feminine looking that I'd always thought it a strange anomaly in my father's well-tailored, masculine appearance.

He held it in his palm so we could see more clearly.

"Harry gave this to me on our first wedding anniversary," he said. "He took the snap your Uncle Sirius gave him of your grandparents' wedding to a jeweller and had it made up from the picture."

As he spoke I brought to mind the muggle-style portrait that hung downstairs and remembered the glinting oval locket that hung from Grandmum Lily's neck. I'd seen the photograph too; it was one of Dad's most cherished belongings, the tattered snap of Granddad James and Grandmum Lily, murdered when Dad was just a baby.

Father opened the locket and inside they were smiling, laughing and kissing each other in miniatures of their wedding portrait, another was of me and Claire 3rd or 4th year smiling and horsing around, the last was of drowsy, cooing babies—the two of us and Little Siri shortly after our birth. Tucked in the back of the locket where snips of our hair. It was truly a beautiful token, and I realised that Father was sharing what he saw in Dad's eyes when Draco looked straight through to Harry's soul.

Lost in my own musings, I didn't notice the inscription in the front cover, but Claire did.

"You are the heart of my heart, my light in the darkness, the breath of my soul," she read aloud and gasped in recognition of Dad's last words. "What does this mean Father and why does it say 'Yes' underneath?"

Father closed his eyes then smiled beautifully. Peace and joy stole over his features as for a moment he relived some special private memory. "It says 'Yes' because that is what he answered," he said finally, simply.

Claire flashed a smile, and catching Dad there, I grinned in response. "It's what you said when you proposed."

Dad nodded gently and closed up the locket. After he'd set it around his neck he touched our faces, as if seeing us for the first time in a long while and not quite believing we were real.

"I've made a promise for my living," he said as he stood up and a last tear fell.

He put his arms over our shoulders and kissed us, swiveling his head from side to side, as we made our way downstairs for a long overdue breakfast.

I didn't know what the future held for us, but we would face it together. It would never be easy, but I knew now that all of us would be alright. My Father, after all, is a man of his word.

End.