Disclaimer: I do not own the character or the circumstances that put them in this position.

Notes: This is one of those pieces that made me write it, right now, at 4:27 am. It was inspired by a beautiful piece of art that you can find at

http:// www .artisticalley .org/ gallery/ data/ 880/ 14-blur.jpg. (minus the spaces, of course)

Please look at the illustration. It explains the oneshot that follows.

Every year he came back. Ever single year, rain or snow, on the anniversary of the man's death, the green eyed man came back to this spot.

This year, it was raining.

The water dripped rivulets down the lenses of his glasses. It seeped into his cloak, straight through to the skin, uncomfortable and cold. But he didn't deserve to be comfortable. Not today.

He stood there, awkwardly. What was he supposed to say to the man he'd gotten killed?

He stood there still, in his Gryffindor scarf, one of his favorites. He clutched the faded cover of the book in his hands, desperate to keep it dry. It was precious. The pages held knowledge and wisdom beyond the actual topic of the book.

It's last owner was... well, that's what today was about, wasn't it? He brought it with him every time he came back to this spot. He'd gotten that book during his sixth year, when the man on his mind had finally gotten that coveted Defense Against the Dark Arts position. It was one small piece of the man left in the world, and he'd be damned if he would ever give it up.

"Hi."

It did seem silly, to be chatting up a cold piece of marble. Black, it was appropriate. The marble of the headstone was black as night, the name and dates carved delicately into its face. It was of a fine quality, better than most who'd lost their lives during the war would ever see. He should know. He'd paid for this one himself.

"I brought your textbook with me."

Funny, that this book should bring him some small comfort, when it clearly could do nothing for the one to which it had once belonged. He clutched it to his chest, not wanting it to get wet, for fear of it falling apart. Like his nerves were falling to pieces at the moment.

"I'm doing fine with Defense: no Longbottoms this year."

He tried to joke to himself, to make himself laugh. But of course, it wouldn't work. It never worked. There would be no joking here, no laughter. Only regret, and guilt. And bitterness in spades. That could make him laugh, but not of joy. Of irony.

"Ha! I'm even starting to sound like you, y'greasy bastard."

He'd honestly never liked the man to which he spoke. They never had gotten along, not even in the face of the war, in the face of honest-to-God danger and death. They couldn't put aside their grudges and petty arguments for a moment, and they'd both paid the price dearly.

He felt silly, talking to the stone. He would never have made idle chit-chat with the man, so why disrespect his memory in such a way? But where exactly did that leave him?

"Oh, this is all wrong! What'm I s'posed to say?"

What, indeed? How about: I hated you, but I'm sorry you died anyways. I always thought you, at least, would make it through the war, if not only out of spite. Hogwarts isn't the same without you striding menacingly down the halls, robes flaring. The first years are not nearly afraid enough in Potions class to prevent some kind of fatal error. There's nobody there to make sharp, sarcastic remarks over the many ridiculous Welcoming Feast speeches. Slytherin is having to actually earn their points, and Gryffindor is keeping some of theirs. It feels... different.

And him. What should he say from himself? I'm sorry that I never trusted you, when you only protected me. I'm sorry that I didn't get there in time to stop Nagini. I'm sorry you never got to look Voldemort in the eye and tell him yourself, that you'd conned him for over twenty years. I'm sorry I didn't appreciate everything you did for me, and that I often blamed you for my own mistakes. Ultimately:

"I'm sorry I killed you."

Saying it hurt. He couldn't lie to himself. He felt guilty over so many others' deaths, but this one, it felt like it lied solely on him. He didn't realize that he was gripping the book so tightly, until he felt a page rip from the binding. The horror of defacing that book broke the dam inside of him. He hung his head in shame of his actions. He put a hand up to his face, as if to hide the raw emotion sitting there. But there was nobody to see. There were no ears beside his own to hear his admissions, to hear his apologies. But they had to be said, despite that fact.

"Wish I could tell you how sorry."

He wished so feverently. Of course, he'd made his peace with Albus years ago. The wizened old wizard had a mandatory portrait at Hogwarts, where he could be visited at anytime, from the Headmistress' office. But not this man. No, his portrait never awoke. It sat there, in silent, mockingly. It robbed him of any chance to reconcile their differences. He had to live with his choices, and his words. He remembered some of the last words spoken to the man.

He'd called him a coward. He was so undeniably wrong, and he couldn't ever apologize. He didn't deserve to.

"Wherever you are. Take care."

The boy, grown now, laid his hand across the top of the stone as one would the shoulder of a friend. It was comfort, but only to him. The man to which he spoke couldn't see his face, nor hear his words, or feel his touch. He turned away from the stone, feeling the wind whip his hair about his head, not caring that it was dripping water as he stood, not daring to face the cold marble again.

He turned his face up to the rain, letting it splash against his glasses and face. He lived for the little pieces of life now. They say that near-death experiences make you appreciate life. If that were true, then dying, and coming back, made one obsessed by it. There was nothing he loved more than the feel of the rain on his face.

For a moment, with just himself and the rain, standing in a gloomy cemetery, back to the black marble, he could feel safe. Safer than he'd ever felt in his life. He never knew why he felt so safe here, but he did. He kept coming back, each year, on this day, to remind himself. He had to live, because there were those who deserved to live in this world they helped to create, but could not. He owed it to them.

He looked down at the book one last time, his fingers tracing the worn depressed letters on the face. He would miss the great bat.

The world would miss him dearly.

He knew, always, when the boy would be there. This was not his place, he did not attach to this piece of earth, this stone sunken into the soil. He listened to the words; listened to the ones said, and those that were not. He watched the young man struggle within himself, watched him cling to the sage colored book like a buoy.

He wanted to be able to say words back, to comfort now, where he could not previously. The hateful war, and the roles that were played for it's progress. He cared little for it now, still wanting to protect and care for.

He'd saved the boy's life countless times. He would do so again.

"Wherever you are. Take care."

...of him? Always.

Because someone should.

And now, as before, he found himself wanting to. Not being forced to, but genuinely wanting to care for the raven-haired man, who was both aged more than any other, and yet still so much a child underneath it all.

He watched the young face tilt back, relaxing into the oncoming drops of water. He leaned down, so close to that familiar face, the one with the eyes, and the scar. Were they not separate, they would almost touch from their closeness.

But the man would never see him. Could never see him.

Some would ask, when he finally did submit to the natural process of death, why it took him so long to accept his end. He would never tell them that he needed to stay. He needed that boy, as much as that boy had need of him.

For now, it was enough to see the younger face relaxed, and content. It was enough to stave off the afterlife.

It would have to be, because he was not leaving. He promised to protect the young hero, and not even his death could keep him from his task.

A man is judged by his choices in life, and, in his opinion, in death.

And he chose to stay with the boy a little longer, his ever-watchful protector, as always.