Disclaimer: Honesty! Would I be writing this if I owned HP?

Author's Notes: Okay. None of us know much about ghosts, but I’m going to make up shit as I go along. I believe in spirits, but since they are supernatural, much of the truth about them is unknown – you know, Ouija and such.

Anyway, not much else to say other than, read and enjoy! Plus, I love ya forever if ya leave a review at the end of the chapter! : )

The lonely figure dressed in long black robes moved silently through the rows upon rows of grave stones on the field. His gnarly fingers that were wrinkled with age, occasionally reaching out to brush the gravestone of one he once knew – whispering their name into the breeze.

The field was covered with the stones that marked the dead that lay below it. The rows stretching wide and long – seemingly to have no end to them. Though the old man seemed to find the one he knew so well and stood in front of it, clutching the dark hood around his face closer as the wind picked up at little.

The gravestone was tall and beautifully craved and chiselled into an angel that was covered with white roses that twined around the plaque at the pedestal and curling around the small, bare feet of the angel with spread wings of victory, but face smoothed with the sorrow and respect that it held for those who had died and done what they had felt was right. The roses always bloomed –  even in the snow because of the spell that was placed on them since they were first planted. The spell and the roses continued to survive the five years since they were first placed there and growing with such beauty. Almost as if they were growing and using the strength from the magic the young man who was buried there had.

Bowing in shame and hiding in the shadow.

The land and gravestones behind the tall white rose clad angel and beside the dark angel were hidden in shadow were they sat in shame of the sins and deeds they had done till they finally found a resting place on the battlefield where it had all finally ended.

“I wasn’t sure you would come.” A voice said as the young man appeared beside the hooded figure. He voice calm, holding his youth, but also weighted with the maturity and experience life had wrought him from a very early age.

He was much older than he seemed.

“I always come, you should know that by now.” The hooded figure responded, not bothering to turn as his old voice whispered to the young man’s ears.

“I know. But I guess I’ve gotten used to the loneliness so much that I don’t expect you to ever return. No one, but yourself, comes this day on the anniversary – too much sadness. Too many memories.” The young man murmured as the old man reached out to the grave stone and stroked the white rose with the tip of his wrinkled index finger.

“You have kept them well.” He commented lightly.

The young man smiled and reached out to touch the rose, but stopped a few inches away, remembering that he couldn’t.

“How do they feel?” The young man asked, pulling his hand back and holding it with his other transparent hand as the old man straighten and turned to the young man. The old man’s twinkle that was often in his blue eyes was along faint because of the oppression of the field and the sorrow he felt every time he looked at the young man -- ghost -- before him.

It lessened in time.

Yet it would never go away.

“Like smooth silk.” The man finally answered and the young man gave a small smile as the cool wind blew around them. The old man’s clocked flapped and fluttered, but the young man’s didn’t even twitch.

“It’s been five years. Five years since Voldemort was destroyed and we lost so many lives – including my own. The numbers are great, yet I am the only ghost that haunts this field. I don’t like being alone.” The young man whispered in the wind and the old man longed to put his hand on him to comfort him, but knew he could not and settled for looking into his eyes. They were no longer the sparkling green, but the bluish silver tint of being of a ghost. All washed out and no colour as they seemed to float on thin air.

“It is fitting that only The-Boy-Who-Lived be allowed to haunt these fields. He lived, breathed and thought nothing more than the day he lost his life.” Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft of Wizardry, replied.

“Ah yes. Quite true, I suppose.” Harry sighed as he gave a weak smile. He then reached up to remove his glasses and casually whip them with his robe which was rather humourous since nothing was on the glasses to begin with.

“Does anyone else know?” Albus murmured as he watched Harry.

“No.”

No, no one but Albus knew that he was a ghost. Harry at first didn’t know he was a ghost and thought himself just a spirit, or guardian as he floated around the gravestones, watching as loved ones came to grieve for their lost loves – even his own lover came one dark night to pay his respects and thus planting the roses that now grew around his grave.

That was a painful time for Harry.

He was lonely.

He had learned to deal with the loneliness, knowing that it would be easier for them all if he remained gone completely. It hurt him, but it was the only way. However, Albus had come to visit on the fourth anniversary of the battle – a day that no other dared to visit the dark and deary place – and saw Harry as a ghost, stroking the gravestone of a lost friend, murmuring his regret.

Albus had visited at least once a month since he discovered that Harry was a ghost and kept his promise to keep Harry’s new form a secret. Harry was still certain that one day Albus would not return – because of death or other various reasons that he did not like to consider – and Albus found that he had nothing to appease or destroy the boy’s concern, other than to visit often.

“They miss you, Harry. Everyday I know they think of you at least once. Today when I left, I could see their unhappiness, despair and sorrow. They would by joyful to hear that you are as you are. It is better that death and to be completely separated. You can still offer comfort and companionship in this form, Harry.” Albus implored as the ghost sighed longing as he walked – half floated – away.

“That isn’t the point, Albus. I miss them. I love them, but it would make it harder to know I was this way – not easier.” He shook his head and he old professor took a deep breath.

“You cannot haunt these fields forever.” Alnus admonished, knowing that it was partly the guilt and regret that held Harry to the graveyard. Harry feared leaving the place and he feared people getting to close so they would be ripped from them again.

Harry’s death had been as painful for him as it was for others.

Now as a ghost he realized how removed he truly was.

“What would I say if I returned to them, Albus? Oh! Hello! I thought I’d dropped by and say that I was a ghost so you can still talk to me, but don’t touch me – you’ll fall through me, maybe feel a bit of a chill!” Harry mocked, his faced taunt in a scowl.

“There is more to love than what is physical, Harry.” Was the light response that caused the ghost to glare.

“I know that! But I can’t stand to see them the way I’m not. Not to be able to enjoy the things I once did.  Not to be able to play Quidditch. Not to be able to -- ” Albus watched as he sallowed heavily, “ – to touch.” Harry tuned his head away. “How can I – how can I looked at him and not long for the days when I was alive when I could touch him. How I could make him feel passion and feel his loving touch in return.” Harry bite his lip as a tears threatened to crest over his bottom lids as he voice croaked. “What if he is with another? I can’t fault him if he is. It has been five years, but it’ll hurt just the same.” Harry voice was hoarse and Albus couldn’t help, but feel for the boy.

“Harry – ”

“I can’t, Albus. I want to, but I can’t. Maybe – maybe another day. I am getting sick of the place and I do want to go home, but don’t ask me of this till today. Ask me next time.” The ghost croaked and Albus sighed before nodding.

“I understand.” Albus turned to leave, knowing that they had come to the end of their visit. Sometimes there were long and others were short while others they said nothing. “He still loves you and he always will. He hasn’t so much as looked at another.” Albus murmured into the wind and watched as Harry straightened his back, but didn’t turn.

With a sigh, the old Headmaster went to continue his way out of the deary, dead place, but was called back.

“Albus.”

Albus turned slightly to regard his old student as the ghost fiddled slightly with his fingers while watching his old advisor that he loved like a grandfather – also hating him for the same reasons. 

“I will see him again. I love him with all my heart. Just – just not today.” Harry sighed, shaking his head and Albus understood. This day was a day that no one was happy. It was declared a national holiday in the Wizarding World.

Not that anyone did anything anyway.

A day to celebrate the victory, but also a day to mourn the dead.

“I shall see you soon, young Harry Potter.” And with that he left leaving the ghost to his thoughts and considerations.

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