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Chapter 1 : we will remember
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Sometimes, when the sky is in transit between bubble-gum pink and shocking violet it seems the heavens are concentrating, extra hard, to bring the change about. A single moment of tension before the subtle shift; as if she still had the power to change.
Andromeda Tonks oscillates between mourning and being too tired to mourn. Her life has been drained of colour (like a sunset bleeding into dusk) and the colour that remains seem almost fluorescent. It is all a reminder of someone so truly colourful that the usual laws need not apply.
Teddy’s hair is a breezy sky blue: photo albums are retrieved, baby books are summoned again and Teddy resets history, throwing her into her past, and once again she fulfils the role of mother.
If you look up whilst you are feeding the chickens, momentarily, you might see the emblazing shade of red: that slightly scruffy, familiar hue of redhead. For a split second, if you watch the sun dip behind the clouds and remerge playfully, you might think it seemed mischievous.
As though, somewhere, somehow, he is still winking at you.
Molly Weasley is a mother who has lost a son and they are a family whose loss is so magnified by numbers. They sit in the Burrow and reminisce about better days of twins, and sons, and families, before the war came and took something so precious. And they are happy that the war is over, almost.
There is a moment, just before the sun disappears, when the glint of the sun catches the back of your eye; a camera flash. Just a second. An assault of your retina where, once, he might have taken a photograph.
Dennis Creevey visits the grave weekly. Their father is a milkman and clueless to magical wars, but he comes too; weekly. Dennis develops the film in the camera, sends copies to all who attended the funeral and takes up photography so that the camera does not sit and pick up dust. It is a relief to everyone to hear the soft snap and to be left blinking, startled. Flash.
In that moment where the sun dies and the silvery light once more rules the sky, you might think of a man ruled by moonlight; the ink blue backdrop and memories of all that pain. You might close your eyes and listen; wishing him capable of howling at the moon still.
Harry Potter raises a toast to another fallen father figure and all those who he has lost, who died so he had the possibility to save. He says goodbye individually and then all at once, to the histories and tragedies that marked his childhood.
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by Jane Bruce