Alfred Whitney hobbled down the dirt track, his warm brown eyes crinkled in delight. It was such a beautiful day. His old Labrador, Jip, trotted loyally at the old man’s side, stopping occasionally to sniff at clumps of grass.
The birds sung happily in the trees, the sun beat down on Alfred’s bald head and the sky was a clear blue, a few wispy white clouds on the horizon. His roughly carved walking stick made small thunks against the ground.
Jip gave three small barks. Alfred turned around. The dog was nowhere to be seen.
“Jip! Heel!” Alfred called out, frowning in confusion. It wasn’t like Jip to run off; he was always such a shy, well-behaved dog. He walked into the forest as he had assumed that was where Jip had run off to. Probably after a rabbit, or something.
After walking through the dense forest for ten minutes or so, he saw the familiar black tail of Jip, poking up from the ferns. He could hear the dogs sniffing, and could smell a rancid, rotting odour, like meat gone way past its sell by date. Alfred pulled back the ferns with his walking stick, and stared in horror at the sight before him.
***
I blearily opened my eyes to the sound of sobbing. I groaned. Mum again. Wait; no… it was coming from downstairs. I swung my legs out of the bed trying to place the voice. There were lots of them. As I got dressed (I had been discharged from the hospital a couple of days ago) I managed to make out my Uncle’s voice, my Grandmothers and Sam’s. I went downstairs into the kitchen. Everyone was crying. Even Sam and Josh.
“What? What’s happened? What’s wrong?” I asked, beginning to panic. Aunt Hermione walked over to me, tears rolling down her cheeks. She placed a warm, comforting hand on my shoulder and bent slightly, so she was down at my level.
“Honey… I’m so sorry… I… Oh, Merlin...” She sighed, closed her eyes for a moment then opened them again, looking straight into mine. “Early this morning, a Muggle was walking his dog and… and he found… he found your Father’s body. He’s been dead a long time.” I felt hollow. Even the slightest hope I’d had of my Dad coming back and solving everything was gone. Every dream I’d had since he’d gone missing was just that, a dream. I shook my head slowly, looking vacantly into space, refusing to believe it was true. But it was.
“I want to see him.” Aunt Hermione shook her head.
“I-I don’t think that’s a good idea at the m-moment. Like I said, he’s been there a long t-time… they said that he’ll look better for the f-funeral, though. You can see him then,” Aunt Hermione said, struggling to keep her voice steady.
“Are they… are they sure it’s-?” Uncle Ron nodded.
“It’s him.”
“Oh… excuse me.” I walked upstairs slowly, placing a shaking hand on the banister. I suppose I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it. I sat on my bed and looked at the bare floorboards. I was still shaking. I turned my head and looked at the photograph; my dad’s face seemed to leap out at me, grinning happily. I could hear him, in my head. Laughing. And then, it all came crashing down on me. There was no chance he’d come back. There was no chance I’d hear him laugh again. He was dead, and had been for years. He’d been left to rot by the Death Eaters. I lay down and sobbed into my duvet, crying for every feeling that I’d bottled up since I was six. Every hardship I’d had to endure. Every responsibility I’d been burdened with.
I didn’t hear anyone come into my room. But I felt their hand on my shoulder. I heard their hushing, soothing voice. Smelt their warm, friendly scent.
“You’ll be alright, flower.” I gasped and pushed myself round.
“Dad?” There was no one there.
***
“Daisy?” I sat up and looked at Harriet, who was standing in the door way. Expressionless, as usual.
“What?” I asked grumpily. I’m usually very patient with her, but there’s only so much a thirteen-year-old can take.
“Did you hear about Dad?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is that why you’re crying? Are you sad?”
“No, I’m over the moon. I’m crying with laughter,” I said sarcastically. I knew even as I said it that it was a mistake. Harriet doesn’t get sarcasm.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I’m not really, Harri, it was a joke. I am very sad.” I hesitated. I knew that no one had come up because they thought I needed to be alone, but the truth was, I desperately needed comfort. A hug, a kind word, anything.
“Harri, can I give you a hug? Just this once?”
“I don’t like people touching me.” I nodded sadly, feeling stupid for even asking.
“Okay. Do you want to do some drawing?” Harriet nodded and I began to set up a still life for her, tears still falling fast.
***
“I’m not going.” I couldn’t believe it. We were about to go to Dad’s funeral, and they were still trying to get me to go to Hogwarts.
“Oh, please, Daisy, think about it! We can cope now- oh! Here’s the Healer!” My Aunt rushed to the door to welcome in the Healer that would be looking after my mum and Harri while we were at the funeral. The moment she stepped in I hated her. I hated everything about her “ from her sunny smile to her polished shoes. I hated the way she was so cheerful, even though it was perfectly clear we were off to a funeral, what with the ebony black of our clothes.
“Where are they? I think you better introduce me to them, so they’re not too frightened.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” I called from the other side of the room, giving her a death stare.
“I assure you, I do. I completed a three year training course on mental disorders.” I didn’t think three years was enough. Anyway, you couldn’t just study Autism and assume to know everything. You couldn’t read my mother’s habits out of a book. My Uncle came down with Harri.
“Ginny is asleep upstairs, she shouldn’t wake up, but if she does, just use this mirror to contact me. This is Harriet. Harriet, this is Gemma, she’s going to be looking after you for a couple of hours.” Harriet looked at Gemma with wide eyes, panic evident in her face. She began to blabber nonsense, along with her fear.
“Stranger-danger, mustn’t talk to strangers, not happy, bad thing, not happy, bad day, stranger danger, don’t eat anything, don’t talk to strangers, not happy, not happy, not happy, not happy, NOT HAPPY!” She crouched down on the ground and put her hands over her ears, rocking backwards and forwards, still mumbling.
“I told you this was a bad idea! Can’t we take her with us?” I yelled at my Uncle. He shook his head.
“The new surroundings might upset her. Crap, I don’t know what to do,” he groaned, watching my sister roll around on the floor.
“What, and Harriet is going to cope with that woman? Harriet! It’s okay, the stranger isn’t going to be here!” I tried desperately. She didn’t even seem to hear me. Stupidly, I reached out and touched her arm. She screamed and lashed out, hitting me with such force I stumbled into the wall.
We all left the room to wait for her to calm down. We locked the door and waited for the shouts, screams, crashes and bangs to die down.
“I think we should risk it,” I said to my Uncle.
“Risk what?”
“I think we should take her to the funeral.” Uncle Ron sighed, as if he was going to disagree, but, to my great surprise, he nodded.
“Yes, I think so too, now. This Healer thing obviously isn’t going to work.”
“Then let me stay,” I pleaded, looking into his deep blue eyes. I knew that the entire room was watching me.
“Your dad would have wanted you to go,” he said quietly, his eyes looking very glassy.
“But he’s not here. He’s the reason I can’t go.” Uncle Ron sighed and closed his eyes. He placed a warm hand on my shoulder. I shivered, remembering the fantasy I’d had earlier.
“We’ll figure something out. It sounds like your sister’s calmed down. We’d best get to the funeral,” he turned to Gemma.
“Can you stay just for today? Just to look after Ginny?” She nodded. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. I still didn’t like her though.
We went back into the kitchen to find my sister drawing the chair she’d broken on the wall. I suppose she couldn’t find any paper.
“Harri? D’you want to come with us?”
“Do you mean Dad’s funeral?”
“Yes.” How did she know it was a funeral? Maybe she listened in.
“Can I bring some paper?” I nodded.
“Okay. Are we going now? How are we getting there?”
“The Ministry gave us some cars,” I said and she nodded as she followed us outside, three gleaming Ministry cars waiting for us.
***
“He was always cheerful. Funny, how even in the very midst of the war he could always joke about. Many of you will remember his famous April fool’s in his seventh year,” chuckled my Uncle Ron, tears creeping down his cheeks. “Only he could come up with that… all I can remember was the thousands of posters around everywhere, a picture of Voldemort in a ballerina’s outfit.” Everyone chuckled softly, their eyes distant and far away.
“No, I’m wrong there. I bet loads of people could think of it, but only Harry actually had the guts to do it. He was always so brave… rash most of the time, yes, but amazingly brave. Always willing to put others before himself, always willing to make sacrifices, always willing to be a martyr to his cause.
“But do you know what’s most sad? What’s most sad is that the war was long since over when he was kidnapped. All he ever had was a few years of peace. The rest of his life was just suffering. I think, in our hearts we always hoped that one day, that brilliant skill of surviving even the toughest situations he had would come through, that he’d turn up on our doorstep with a big grin on his face and say, ‘Sorry it’s been so long, guys, Snape really is a git, isn’t he?’. But, he didn’t. I guess his luck finally ran out. Now, he can at last sleep peacefully.” he finished the last speech of the ceremony and stepped down from the podium.
I won't even go into what it was like seeing him in the coffin. He looked so peaceful... and so cold. Emotionless. Lifeless. Not the dad I remembered.
Uncle Ron, Remus Lupin, Uncle George, Uncle Fred, Granddad and Uncle Bill carried the coffin on their shoulders out of the church. A new, fresh grave had been dug with a grand marble gravestone, donated by the public.
Dad was lowered in. Before he was buried, I gently placed a large daisy, one of the big ones Aunt Hermione grew that could be the size of dinner plates, on top.
“Daisy?” I turned, and to my surprise found Josh behind me, with an uncharacteristically caring expression.
“I… I just wanted to say. I’m really sorry. I remember your dad. He always used to tell me off for calling him ‘Uncle’; he said he hated that word. I never found out why. But really, what I remember most was his fantastic stories. And how he would answer every question we had, even when it was past our bedtime. Honestly, if there was anything I could do… I’d do it.” I gave him a watery smile.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice going unusually high. I hugged him fiercely. For all I complained about my cousins, they were kind at heart.
I received many more speeches similar to Josh’s at the reception afterwards, but none really touched me like that one. I sat at one of the small wooden tables that had been set up in the community hall across from the church, gazing out the window towards the graveyard.
“Hello, dear.” I looked up at the young, brunette witch that had just sat opposite me. She smiled kindly at me.
“It was a lovely service, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry, I didn’t introduce myself! I’m Chloe. Chloe Price. I was friends with your dad at Hogwarts.”
“Funny… I’ve never heard of you before…” I said, suspiciously.
“Really? How odd. So tell me, what can you remember about your daddy?” she spoke in such a patronizing voice to me that I took an instant dislike to her.
“Not much…” I lied. I didn’t feel like sharing my precious memories.
“Come on, there must be a lovely little memory tucked in there somewhere!” She tapped her head with a finely manicured nail. “What kind of person was he?”
“Surely you’d know, being an old friend of his?” this stunned her into a silence I think. It was only then that I noticed the Quick-Quotes Quill and notebook on her lap.
“YOU’RE A JOURNALIST!” I roared, bitter rage and fury overwhelming every other emotion. The whole room went deathly silent (How ironic… I thought dryly) as everyone turned to look at us.
“Well… I-um… no, well, that is- not really...”
“HOW COULD YOU! You put him through hell when he was alive and you can’t even leave him alone now he’s dead!” With that, I left; racing frantically to the graveyard, where a slumped down at my fathers grave, the fresh dirt staining my clothes. With a shaky hand and tear filled eyes, I traced the words on the grave stone.
1980-Unknown
Beloved Friend, Devoted Father, Brave Solider.