Chapter Text
Crimson Clovers
NOLI DECIDERE VERITATEM
(Speak not of the Truth)
PROLOGUE
The grounds of the Cemetery were quiet, veiled in a gentle mist that softened the harsh edges of the gravestones scattered across the hillside. It was early autumn, and the morning sun cast a pale, silvery light over the landscape, turning the fallen leaves into a muted golden and copper color. He walked slowly through the rows of graves, his footsteps muffled by the thick layer of leaves, a simple bouquet of wildflowers in one hand and a leather-bound book in the other.
He finally reached the grave he was eyeing from the distance, a modest stone nestled among the shadows beneath a large oak tree. For a long moment, he simply looked at it, his gaze tracing the simple inscription. There was no grandeur in the grave stone, nothing that hinted at the complexities of the person buried beneath it. And yet, it was enough. He knows it was enough because it was what the person buried underneath the earth wanted.
With a quiet sigh, he knelt beside the grave, placing the bouquet of flowers—crimson clovers and lillies, his favorite—at the base of the stone. He rested a hand on the cold damp earth, the grass prickling his palm, but the ache he was feeling was settled in his chest that no amount of time seemed to soften.
“I’m sorry, if it took me two years. But at least I brought you some flowers” He then lifted the book he was holding as if showing it to him. “And a book to read. Well, for me to read.”
He leaned back, settling himself on to the ground, the book resting on his lap. He ran his fingers through the cover, feeling the familiar leather beneath his fingertips, before opening it to a marked page. It was a book of poetry, one they had both read together in stolen moments, back in the quiet corners of the Hogwarts library. He had brought it here, today, for them to share one more time.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and began to read aloud. His voice was soft and low, each word carrying a weight of memory and unspoken sorrow.
“Is it thy will thy image should keep open,
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?”
He let the words carry his memories, each line a reflection of the bond they shared, of the quiet moments that meant so much for him, though he’d rarely had the courage to say out loud.
He reads poem after poem, even if his voice falters every few seconds. He pressed on, each word a tribute, a final conversation between them. He could almost feel his presence—a quiet and watchful presence, listening to each word with the same calm intensity he had so often shown.
Atlast, his voice finally grew soft, his hands resting on the open book. He looked down at the stone, his heart heavy yet strangely at peace.
“I know you would have hated this,” he said softly, a faint bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “All this fuss. You always said you never needed anyone’s gratitude, never wanted anyone’s praise. But… you deserve more than they ever gave you. I wish… I could have given you more”
The wind stirred around him, rustling the leaves, and for a moment he could imagine his presence—a quiet warmth, a shadow lingering beyond his reach.
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8 years ago…
A thick smoke steams out right after someone whistles the whistle of the train that is slowing down into a halt. He stepped out of the train, his black leather satchel slung over his right shoulder—where his shrunken luggages is being kept—as he climbed down into the land of Britain, Scotland. And from a distance, He can already see the Hogwarts castle, standing proudly above the hill.
“Matthias Lexington?”
He exhaled, a polite smile forming on his face as he slowly turned around to look at whoever was addressing him. “That is me.”
The woman quickly looked up and down on him and smiled. She took a step closer towards him, her dark blue robes rustling as she moved.
“Welcome to Great Britain, and welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Lexington”
He smiled brighter when he recognized the woman standing in front of him. A familiar warmth crawled into his chest.
“Thank you, Professor McGonagall”