“It’s just a cold,” Neville insisted from the couch. Never mind that he was wrapped in three blankets and wearing fuzzy socks and his slippers.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Harry replied as he laid a hand on his husband’s forehead. “Babe, you’re burning up.”
“I’ll take some NyQuil with my tea and I’ll be good as new tomorrow. I promise.”
“Maybe we should take your temperature just to be safe. You feel very warm.”
Neville pouted in his cocoon. “If I don’t feel better tomorrow morning, I’ll go to the doctor’s. Okay?”
He let out an exasperated sigh. His partner looked miserable enough with the shivers racking his body coupled with his clammy yet flush appearance. “Fine. You really need to stop running yourself ragged, love. Alice’s will survive with you not being there for a day or two. Trent and Luna ran the shop perfectly well while we attended Ron and Hermione’s wedding.”
Neville groaned good-naturedly. “I know you’re right, but can you please lecture me once I’m better?”
“Of course. Let me get you some medicine.”
The next morning, and every day since, Harry wished he’d taken Neville’s temperature that night. His world since then had fractured into slivers of memories where if they were put together, one could easily tell that something, no someone, was missing.
Driving to the urgent care, then the hospital. Usually a careful driver, but Harry sped as Neville struggled to regain his breath between coughing fits.
The blue plastic chair in the waiting room. He sat for what felt like hours, waiting for any sort of news. Until the nurse called him over to explain that his husband was being admitted. That he was very sick. That much was obvious, but to see him deteriorate so quickly came as a shock.
Visiting him the first day, Neville seemed almost normal. He cracked a joke and begged him to bring a bouquet or two of flowers from home so his room wouldn’t have the same astringent scent as the rest of the hospital. Their banter was the same as always, except Neville wore a hospital gown and was on oxygen.
There was still hope on day two. His husband wasn’t getting better, but he hadn’t gotten worse. Luna was the only one of their friends allowed to visit, and she did, telling Neville and Harry in great detail every single thing Trent and her did at the store that day.
Day three and things were getting worse. Neville slept more than he was awake. Harry whispered sweet nothings and inside jokes and well wishes and his deepest, darkest fears to his partner. He prayed to every single deity he knew of for some sort of strength despite not believing in any of them. Maybe that’s why his prayers weren’t answered.
Harry didn’t like to think about day four, or anything that came afterwards. He remembers it in flashes: the food (bland), the music (somber), the casket, the headstone.
The one thing there wasn’t any of were flowers.
He signed so many things, numb to the world around him. Trying to be anywhere but in the moment. After all, paperwork doesn’t cease to exist when you die; it all gets passed on to your next-of-kin.
Now, Harry stared listlessly at the wilting floral arrangement in front of him. The final one in the house. He wanted to throw it out. He had meant to throw it out three days ago, the day of the funeral, but he couldn’t bring himself to. It was, after all, Neville’s final gift to him. The baby’s breath shriveled and brown. The forget-me-nots, one of their wedding flowers, wrinkly blue and purple. Some decorative green thing that his husband told him the name of 500 times yet he still couldn’t remember. Guess he would never learn now.
The drooping arrangement was well past its prime. The once floral scent had the distinct coy sweetness of decay. It practically beckoned to be put to rest in the bin.
Harry still couldn’t do it. In the days since he became a widower, he had methodically thrown out every other bouquet of flowers Neville had brought home from work. But now there was only one left, he found himself suddenly sentimental, wishing to hold onto them forever.
There was a knock on the door, and he startled. The lights were off, but he could still navigate via the weak white light through the windows. There was a blue moon tonight, and it shone unobstructed. If Neville were still here– he chased that thought away as he opened the door.
Luna stood on the stoop, wrapped in a thick blue scarf. “Can I come in? I made soup.” She reached into her canvas tote bag and pulled out a quart sized container of what appeared to be chicken noodle.
Harry wordlessly stepped aside, and Luna made her way into the house as if it were her own, toeing off her shoes before gliding into the kitchen, flicking lights on as she went. He followed silently; her own personal ghost. She opened the cabinet next to the stove and pulled out a saucepan, dumping the contents of the container into it before cranking the burner to high. “Do you have any tea?” she asked, opening and closing the cabinets in turn.
“Uh, yeah. Upper cabinet to the left of the fridge.”
“I’m going to make some chamomile. Would you like some?”
Harry stared at the table, taking in the half drunk cup where he sat only a few minutes before. He didn’t remember making it; only that it was lighter outside. It must be cold by now. “That sounds lovely. Thanks.”
Since Luna had effectively commandeered his kitchen for dinner, Harry decided to make himself useful. He cleared off his abandoned tea, pouring it down the drain and rinsing out the mug before placing it in the dishwasher. He then got out two new mugs and refilled the electric kettle before pressing start. While Luna stirred the soup and made sure it didn’t boil over, he set the table and placed the cream and sugar out for tea.
Within a few minutes, everything was set on the table, and dinner had commenced. In between mouthfuls of soup, Harry listened with practiced indifference as Luna prattled on about the flower shop. He tried to ignore the hot tears that wanted to well up as he was painfully reminded that Neville would never see his beloved store again.
After dinner was cleared off the table, Luna took Harry’s hand and guided him onto the couch in the living room. She sat down next to him and dragged her tote bag onto her lap. “I made something for you. I don’t know if you’ll want to have them yet. If not, that’s okay. Just let me know and I will hold onto them until you’re ready.”
She stared at him expectantly and Harry realised she wanted a verbal agreement. “Okay, Luna.”
“Great!” She reached inside and pulled out a lumpy package loosely wrapped in newsprint. “Here you go.” She placed it onto his lap.
He couldn’t tell what it was, and unravelled it from the edge. A soft something, green and yellows and ivory, a flash of blue, tumbled across his lap. He picked one up and immediately recognized what it was. Part of him was tempted to drop it back with the rest of them and hand them back to Luna. Despite his aversion, he found himself bringing the crocheted flower closer so he could study every chain and stitch the Luna put in. “Did you make these for me?” Harry choked out.
“Daffodils were Neville’s favorite, and I figured you probably have had enough of actual flowers for now. They were part of a pattern set I bought so I could add flowers to my cardigans.”
Harry found himself nodding along to her explanation. “He liked them because they were the first sign of spring and quite resilient. One of his favorite photos was a patch of daffodils thriving despite the snow on the ground.”
Luna nodded in agreement. “I made half a dozen daffodils along with one forget-me-not. He would always slip one into the arrangement before bringing it home for you.”
“Yeah, it started out as an inside joke between us and it kind of grew from there.” He stared down at the mini bouquet in his hands and thought about how much time and effort it took Luna to make this for him. “Thank you for the gift, Luna. They are truly wonderful.”
The tears started pouring down his face; he couldn’t stop even if he tried. He put his face in his hands and sobbed. He felt the flowers being removed from his lap, and suddenly he was enveloped into a bone crushing hug. Luna loosen it just enough for him to wrap his arms around her.
Harry returned the hug and let all his grief pour out. He heard Luna doing the same thing. After an indeterminate amount of time, they pulled apart. Luna’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he knew his were the same. “I miss him so much sometimes,” she whispered.
“Me too, Luna. Me too.”