Word Count: 145
Author's Note: Darnit, Harry's kinda-post-death scene with Dumbledore has me imagining all these heaven-type scenarios for everybody. And, well, there was lots of dying going on. But first thing's first. This one's for you, Sevvie. (Tear.)
The summer breeze is gentle across his face; he opens his eyes to sun and green. His hands are wrapped loosely around the chains of the swing – they’re warm to the touch, but not hot. He is still. Next to him, the chains creak, slow and steady like breathing. He feels ridiculously light.
He turns to look at her. She’s as beautiful as he remembered, swinging lazily, barely, her feet tracing patterns in the dirt. She doesn’t turn to look at him, but a smile curves her mouth. Her hair shines, brilliant, in the sun.
After a gentle, lingering silence that might have been measured in seconds or years – time seems unimportant now – she turns to face him. Her eyes are very green.
“Thank you,” she says, and every doubt and torment he has carried all this time is extinguished.
Perhaps he smiles. “You’re welcome.”