The warm summer air made London seem impossibly alien to Derek. Summer always meant the exact opposite of Hogwarts; no endless essays, no lectures from professors about completing them, and no waking up before the crack of dawn because thirteen year old boys could not possibly function otherwise. It usually meant lounging in bed until his father complained ceaselessly in his ear until he dragged himself out, complaining about the sweltering heat that the house always seemed to trap in during the day, reading any book he could find, and generally enjoying himself. This year, however, the heat seemed to be mocking him. It was shining relentlessly over London as if nothing had ever happened, while Derek sat, dressed in an uncomfortable black suit that felt two sizes too small, in a stuffy church, staring at a coffin. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, throwing kaleidoscopic shapes of color on the wooden floor which he barely registered. His eyes were locked onto the front of the church, where the coffin with his father's corpse inside was resting under a heap of flowers. It was surreal. Derek had repeated it to himself over and over since the healer had told them, but it didn't seem real. His dad was dead. His dad had died of Dragon Pox. Of all the horrible, heart-wrenching diseases to catch, it had to be Dragon Pox, a silly excuse for one. The man had been as tough as he was annoyingly intelligent, impossibly stubborn, and had somehow lived through every war and magical catastrophe Hogwarts had thrown his way.
The church was filled with strangers and familiar faces, with people who knew his father well, and people who didn't know him at all, whispering amongst themselves. They kept glancing at Derek as if waiting for him to do something, or for his father to sit up and leave them all waiting in ridiculous disarray, only to stop the moment the man's eyes fell on them. It was maddening. They all had this look in their eyes as if they pitied him, and they tiptoed around him as if he was made of glass. He hated it; he hated it when everyone made such a big deal out of his father's death. Derek knew it wasn't their fault, but he hated it nonetheless. He hated that everyone saw him like this, like some kind of fragile little boy who had just lost his father. He hadn't been like this in years, and here, now was everyone reminded of it. His mother squeezed his hand sympathetically but he barely reacted. He was staring at the wall in front of the coffin, an expression of complete emptiness plastered across his face. He had told himself that he wouldn't cry, that he wouldn't let them see him cry, and that he wouldn't let it get to him. He had been through far worse at Hogwarts and battled through far more dangerous foes and he would not fall apart at his father's funeral. But at that moment, he really seriously wished that he had taken that Potions class with Professor Snape after all, and not the more 'suitable' Defense class with Professor Dumbledore. There simply were no enemies in this war, and there certainly was no way to stop this one. His father was gone, lost to a disease, and there was nothing he could do about it.
"...And so we gather here today to honor the life of this wonderful man," said the priest as the minister stood at the podium, talking about his father. He kept saying nice things, kind things, and Derek knew they were all true, but they all sounded so fake coming out of his mouth. His dad hadn't been some kind of saint. He hadn't been perfect, far from it in fact. He had been stubborn and a bit of a martyr, annoyingly smart, and had somehow managed to know when Derek was lying to him, even when he thought he did a pretty good job of it. Derek could remember them arguing for hours, about everything and nothing at all. He could remember his father making terrible jokes, laughing at them before anyone else could react. He could remember being embarassed about him in public, only to realize afterwards that he actually thought it was funny. These were the things he wanted to remember, not the hospital, not the healer's hollow words or his father's final hours wasted in excruciating pain. Most of all, he wanted to forget that last conversation they'd ever had.
Unfortunately, that was the one thing he couldn't forget. It was the one thing he wished he could erase from his memory, from his father's, from everyone's. It was two days ago, in the kitchen. He could see it so clearly, and his fingers tightened around the edge of the pew, white-knuckled. They had been shouting at each other, neither of them listening to what the other was saying. He could remember his father's expression as he spoke, how he said things he knew he wouldn't mean, and how he had walked away from the argument, slamming the kitchen door behind him. He could remember telling himself that he wasn't going to come back downstairs until his father apologized, not caring that it was unreasonable. After all, it was his father, and they had fought before. They would, no doubt, fight again. Every fight had always been easily resolved between them, even if it was annoying to put up with. There would always be another morning, another argument, another chance. That was the thing that he wished he could change. That was the thing that made it so unbareable to stand here now, staring at his father's dead body, wrapped in a black coffin. That was the thing that made it so agonizing to think about that night, that last conversation, that last fight.
"I can't believe this!" He shouted that night as he stormed up the stairs, hearing his father's footsteps behind him. He had thrown himself on his bed and looked around the room, glaring at the wall. He could remember hearing his father's presence downstairs, but he had simply lain there, immobile. He had thought nothing of it. The last thing he had thought about was his fight with his father. If anything, he had been more determined to not come back downstairs. He had wanted his father to apologize first. He had wanted to prove that, despite everything, it was his father's fault. It always was in the end. "I'm going to apologize to you when I feel like it! I'm going to make you regret this!"
Dragon Pox had taken a turn for the worse the next day, and soon enough, the healer had arrived. Derek's grandfather had been taken to the hospital, and he would never come home. That was the thing that broke Derek the most. He hadn't gotten to talk to his dad again, to apologize, to make it better. He hadn't gotten another chance. He hadn't gotten to say goodbye. He hadn't gotten to say so many things to his father, things that he probably never would get to say now. He hadn't gotten the chance to tell him he was sorry, or to tell him he loved him, or a dozen other things he had taken for granted over the years. He had taken his father for granted, assuming he would always be there, forever stubborn and grumpy, forever ready to hex him if he so much as breathed a syllable louder than he was supposed to. But he wouldn't be there anymore. He had never been more aware of it than he was at this moment, standing here at his father's funeral, listening to the priest drone on about the virtues of the dead man. It was hard to remember him as a saint, as so many people did, but it was even harder to remember that he had been his father. It was even harder to remember that he had been here, in this room, two days ago, shouting at him with a look of frustration plastered across his face, telling him to leave and that he would be sorry.
Now, the priest said quietly, "If any of you would like to say a few words about Derek's father, you may do so at the podium."
Derek wanted to refuse. He hated public speaking, hated saying anything remotely important or meaningful in front of an audience, but most of all, he was terrified to say anything in front of the people who had known his father. His mother gently touched his shoulder and told him he didn't have to, but Derek stood, staring at the coffin for a long time, before he finally took a step forward. The walk to the podium seemed unbearably long, and when he got there, Derek looked out at the sea of strangers and familiar faces, unsure of what to say. He hadn't prepared anything, hadn't really wanted to. Everything he wrote down would sound trite, meaningless, and forced. It was something he felt he could never say out loud, in front of everyone, that he could never make sound so important when it really was. He wanted his father back. He wanted the man who had taught him to ride a broomstick, who had been a good friend and terrible example to follow, who had been there for him when no one else had.
"I don't really know what to say," he began quietly, his voice small and frail compared to the rest of the room. It felt foreign leaving his mouth, as if it didn't really sound like his voice at all. It seemed to echo throughout the church, bouncing off the stone walls and reverberating back at him. He hated it; he hated the way he sounded, as if he were some kind of ridiculous little boy who had never grown up. "Everyone seems to think that I should say something about how amazing he was, and they're right, he was. But he was also obnoxious. Incredibly stubborn, and he knew how to give terrible advice." A few murmured chuckles came from the crowd as Derek looked up, offering a small, sad smile before he continued. "But he was there. He was always there. And I thought he always would be.
But the last thing we said to each other was an argument. I told him to apologize to me and we would never talk about it again. And I thought there'd be another fight, another chance to make it up to him. But I didn't know that he was going to get Dragon Pox and die. I didn't know that'd be the last conversation we'd ever have. I keep wishing that I could go back to that day and change it, change everything. I keep wishing that I would've gone back downstairs and apologized to him, or told him I loved him, or anything at all.
But I can't change the past, so I'm saying it here. I'm sorry, dad. Sorry that our last conversation was an argument, and sorry that I never got to tell you how much you meant to me. You were my dad." Derek's voice cracked, and he looked down at his hands, shaking. "You were supposed to be there when I came home, you were supposed to embarrass me, and I was supposed to whine and complain about it. But instead, I lost you." His throat tightened, and he could hardly breathe. "I love you, dad."
Derek stared at his father's coffin once more, before stepping away from the podium. He looked around the room, before making his way back to his seat, where his mother embraced him tightly. For once, he didn't pull away, and for once, he let himself cry. Outside, the city continued on as normal, as if nothing had changed. People walked by streets, cars drove by, and somewhere, children laughed, playing in the sun. But Derek was no longer sure how he was ever going to continue living with this empty hole in his chest.
