Release

The morning was everything Draco knew it would be; cold, damp, grey - perfect.

The leaves were too soggy under his feet, making a squelching sound with every other step. Brooding clouds seemed close enough to touch, swirling with a dozen different shades that created a low ceiling. The silence was deafening but it did nothing to change his mood or his mind. He was here to remember.

Despite the oppressive atmosphere, Draco wasn't sad. He had a task, a purpose now. He knew why he was here.

He weaved a swaying path, looking for the entire world like he was just out for a stroll. He chuckled at the thought. A stroll? Not quite - not here, anyway. Not even he was that morbid. Still, he was more content than he could remember being.

Like a domino falling, that admission started a series of pictures in his mind. They came rapidly, each a painful jab, and he didn't stop them. Instead he relished them, the hurt they caused. It was time to let them out, let them go. He silently stepped around a dank edifice and past the older tributes, watching the stones gradually become cleaner, more recent, until at last he stood before his goal.

It was shiny and pretentious and gaudy. Everything his lover would never have wanted.

Elaborate etchings and crests were set in stone before him. Flowery words proclaiming heroism and bravery, shining proclamations of adulation that Harry had never wanted, neither in life nor in death. The ground around the sparkling monument was littered with the fresh flowers, small trinkets, and pictures left by his adoring public. Any of the older offerings that didn't hold up to the elements were quickly whisked away by the full-time caretaker the Ministry employed.

Draco carefully traced the name. Funny how, though his fingers felt cold marble, his heart felt the outline of a strong chin. He flattened his palm against the stone but the harder he pressed the more reality eluded him. It wasn't hard stone; it was morning stubble, scratchy and wonderful. It wasn't cracked coldness; it messy midnight hair, silky and glorious.

He slapped his hand against the engraving, jerking against sensations that he couldn't stop now. There was no sting in his hand from the impact, but tingling at his fingertips from caressing toned muscle. He wasn't feeling the cold. Warm, strong arms wrapped him up and held him safe. Hot breath bathed his neck. His legs gave out but it was from the most delicious weakness, not grief. His knees cracked against the pedestal, but the pain went unnoticed. His forehead ground against the unyielding surface but he only felt the firm chest that he had risked everything to curl against. He tasted salt on his lips, recalling impassioned nights tucked safely in secret. He heard the blood rushing in his ears and his traitorous memories layered them with the sound of gasps and cries, whispers, laughter and long heart-to-hearts.

He let it all run rampant within him, building inexorably to the release he so desperately needed. He shuddered and clung to the unfeeling rock, not realizing that the empty grey graveyard vibrated with a haunting, wracking howl. He didn't know how long it went on. He didn't care; he was too busy breaking. Too absorbed in holding and experiencing every sensation. Imprinting the memories he'd been too afraid to let out. He smiled viciously, gratefully throwing himself to the storm until he was finally spent.

He was coming back to himself in slow increments. Each one of his memories retreated silently to be carefully stored away, minus the pain, until he began to notice the trivial little physical details again.

The pregnant sky was only now fulfilling its promise, scattering half-hearted raindrops. His fingers were numb from clutching the grave and he felt quite a few scrapes and cuts now. He was fairly sure there was a large bruise on his forehead, and his trousers had absorbed more than their fair share of groundwater. He stood with all the grace of an old man, twenty-one going on eighty, and swayed for a moment while contemplating the strange, hollow feeling of catharsis.

It wasn't the same as it had been. There was loss and longing still, but clearer somehow. Memories of tousled hair and vibrant green eyes were no longer tainted by festering pain and cancerous grief. Tilting his head, he sighed into the slow rain, letting it wash away the evidence of his tears. The fat spatters fell faster, filling the countryside with an obscuring white noise.

As far away as his mind was, he was still too numb to jump and the hand the gently squeezed his shoulder.

One more deep breath to inhale the damp spring, then he pried his eyes open. The grave was still before him but now looked less edifice-like, no longer foreboding. The figure beside him crouched down and laid another offering at the base of the monument; golden roses held by a red ribbon. There was a soft whisper of hello and farewell then the quiet man turned Draco back toward the main path.

"Come on, Mate. 'Mione's got dinner on. She'll throttle me if I don't show up with you." With a strong arm slung over Draco's shoulder, Ron sheltered his vulnerable friend.

~End~