“Harry” He sobbed his lover’s name quietly. The flowers he once held (purple hyacinths) now lay discarded on the ground beside him. The granite tombstone in front of him read,
‘Harry Potter
July 31, 1980 - June 24, 1997
Our savior, may he Rest In Peace’
Draco fell to his knees. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. How can he move on when the very man he breathed for no longer does? No longer can, and never will be able to.
How can the world move on when his world lay a few feet beneath him? Shattered, broken, and burned.
It seemed as though the world was mocking him. Every ounce of grief was dulled by the clear sky. To the world his grief wasn’t important. The earth shattering undeniable ache he breathed, and will breathe until he no longer can wasn’t important to the world.
Knowing this his sobs morphed into a desperate and devastating sound, screams. Screams that shook his entire body, screams that would surely leave him voiceless for weeks, screams that had him choking, coughing and crying.
Though even his screams couldn’t describe how much pain he felt. Grief was truly a nasty thing.
*^*
Death stood behind Draco. Death saw his grief seeping through the features of the blond man, and it devastated him truly. Death however, had seen enough lover’s cry with enough grief to know, to feel nothing more than a touch of empathy
and all he could do at this moment was sympathize.
It wasn’t until Draco screamed an animalistic cry, death stopped in his tracks. Draco screamed for what seemed like hours of that same cry relentlessly. Gripping the Earth beneath him, choking, coughing, shuddering, crying and just screaming.
Death couldn’t feel anger radiating off of him, nor acceptance, or even denial. Only regret. His sobs were the type to tear one’s soul in two. His screams felt like someone cutting open your chest and twisting your heart, and Death, for the first time, bled for someone else, felt sorry for someone else, wanted to cry for someone else. Why had he taken the Potter boy away?
Draco stood in front of the grave even after nightfall. His cheeks tear-stained, eyes puffy and shivering from the cold. The wind had been picking up in the brisk air and it should have felt as though knives were cutting any exposed skin Draco had let show. His face, his hands, his heart. Still, he sat there. Never moving even through the night. Grief was a nasty thing.