f l o w e r s (open)

[dudelsack]

It had been a while since Harry had gone to his wife's grave, although whenever he went his eyes stung, his throat tightened, and anger began gnawing once more at the pit of his stomach. That and it had been so damn hot of late, but here he was that Sunday morning. The sun had barely risen but it was already hot, perhaps he might treat Albus and Alexandria to ice cream, if he could find the motivation to leave the house when everything looked squiggly because of the heat.

Harry laid a bouquet of pink flowers on the grave, although in the back of his mind knew they would look shriveled up in a few hours. He wished it would rain, but then he might be reminded of November. Eight months it had been, eight months to the day. Harry swallowed, attempting to clear the lump that was forming in his throat. "Wish you were here, Gin," Harry whispered, paying no mind to the sound of approaching footsteps.