witness || h.s.|| ON HOLD

prologue|| best served cold

AN: Hi guys! It's been so long since I have written on here wow! I am going to do my best to update very frequently! I have a lot of ideas for this story and I know it's been a while, so pardon me if I am a little rusty! I hope you all enjoy this! Don't forget to add it to your library and vote and comment!

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Harry

        I was only fourteen when it happened. Although it was many years ago, it lives on in my brain as vividly as the day that it happened. The day that my mom was taken from me, and from this world.

      It was a hot summer night, our air conditioning was out yet again, and my mother and I began propping old books upon the windowsill to hold them open and let some sort of breeze in, anything would be better than the stifling house flooded with humidity that we had right now. 

    "Harry, no! Not that book! That book is special!" My mother gasped, reaching out to grab the leatherbound journal I had found in a chest of drawers, its only purpose seemingly being to collect dust. 

     "Mom, is it actually special, or is it just you being your good old sentimental self?" I teased, chuckling as she rolled her eyes and clutched the book to her chest, walking over to put it back in the drawer that I had found it in.

        "Okay, smart ass!" She teased, lightly smacking my shoulder as she returned with some old magazines to use instead. "For your information, it is special. It actually...," her voice began to fade, her smile being replaced with a frown.

        I furrowed my brow in confusion, placing my hand on her shoulder, rubbing it slowly. "It actually what mom?" I asked softly, dropping my sarcastic tone and being filled with concern at her sudden change in mood.

     She looked up at me, her eyes glassy. "It was your father's."

    My hand stopped rubbing her shoulder then. My body beginning to tense and my jaw clenching at her words. 

  I never knew my father. He died when I was just a baby, too young to remember anything about him. My mom didn't like to talk about him too much, not because she didn't like him, but because she was so in love with him, even thinking about his death was enough to make her break. That was really hard on me growing up, I think part of me has always craved that father-son relationship that most boys my age had. I always wanted to ask her about him, to know more, but it was too hard for her to talk about.

    When I was really young and would ask about him, she'd always tell me, "He had your eyes, bright, glimmering, and green, and even though you don't remember him, from the moment you were born, he loved you so deeply. You and I were his whole world, and even though he had to leave us so soon, he still watches over us, like a guardian angel."

        I'm snapped out of my thoughts by my mother's hand cupping my cheek, smiling weakly up at me. 

   I clear my throat and take the stack of old magazines from her small hands, smiling back at her, before continuing to prop the windows open. 

  It had always just been my mom and me, she never remarried or even dated anyone else, her heart seeming to forever belong to my father, even after his death. I became the man of the house from the time that I understood what it meant. Always trying to protect my mom, to look out for her, and be a son that she was proud of. 

     I loved her with my whole heart, and she loved me right back. Most guys my age weren't close with their moms like I was, but I didn't care. I wasn't gonna be a dick to her just to seem cool, that always seemed dumb to me. She was my mom, she was my whole world.