Holly & Yew

C42

Harry sulked.

"Fine," he agreed crankily, knowing Tom was right. He put Maurice on the pile with the rest of the carrots. "Ta ta, Maurice. Tom says we have to disown you now."

Tom gave him a half-exasperated, half-amused look.

Harry turned to a particularly ornery weed. He clawed at the soil near the base to loosen the roots of the stubborn bastard before yanking. It slipped loose from the earth with a satisfying pop, and Harry shook clods of dirt away from its tooth-like root. He skimmed the soil for other unwanted shoots.

"What do we think? Weed or wildflower?" Harry asked, pointing to the scarlet pimpernels that were growing beside the carrot crop.

"What's the difference?" Tom muttered.

Harry scowled, offended.

"Well, I say they're flowers. So we'll leave them alone," he said crossly.

Tom pinched Harry's cheek, amusement curling his mouth.

"You're so easy to provoke, my Harry," Tom teased. "Look at that temper."

Harry stuck his tongue out at Tom.

He carefully rooted through the pimpernels, selecting four perfect flowers to pluck. The old stone they had left in their childhood to mark the graves of the kittens had worn with time, but it was right where he remembered leaving it. Tom had carved letters onto it, the first initial of each kitten.

Kneeling, he laid the flowers down in a row so the petals were just touching.

Harry touched the soil gently before murmuring a prayer over the grave.

It was strangely comforting to think of being reunited with everyone they had ever and would ever lose one day. Like drops of light returning to the same sun.

"Four flowers?" Tom asked, his tone carefully blank.

"One for each of them," Harry said, readjusting the last flower. The pimpernels were so tiny, Harry had to be careful not to break the petals. "Mercury, Eris, Snow White... and Emi."

"You knew," Tom accused, shock glancing through his eyes.

"Not at first," Harry assured. "I only figured it out when I went down to the garden later that day. I could tell by the fresh soil that the grave was recently disturbed."

"But you never said anything," Tom said breathlessly. "Weren't you furious?"

"I wanted to be," Harry admitted. "But every time I worked myself up over it, I thought of you frantic with a poor, dead kitten on your hands, trying your best to spare me another upset. And all my anger would just go away."

Tom reached for Harry's hand.

"Were you very sad?" he asked quietly in parseltongue.

Harry nodded, echoes of the old feelings itching like a scar.

"I thought I was expecting it, so it wouldn't feel so awful, but it hurt just as bad every single time. Each death felt like a new failure."

"But you couldn't have done anything differently," Tom pointed out.

"I know," Harry said. His healing had never been able to help with illness, only injury. "But it didn't help me feel any less guilty."

"You cared for them until the very end," Tom said. "You loved them so hard, I'm sure it must have been the last thing they felt... I— I can't think of a nicer way to go, beloved."