This is for this years Jily Week, the prompt being 'Small Gestures'. It was supposed to be published on the 29th but I will be on vacation so I'm posting it early.
I'll let the story speak for itself, though I will say that the one-shot deals with grief over the loss of ones parents, so if that will trigger you, please don't read.
It was easy to forget, these days- the days when the most common cause of death was a curse to the chest- that there were other killers too.
The winter air was full of frost and malice. She fought her way through the army of gravestones as it whipped at her face, nipping rudely at her nose. Her boots crunched loudly in turn against the fresh snow that dusted the ground, the noise seeming to echo across the empty graveyard.
Almost unconsciously, she slipped a free arm inside her jacket, frigid fingers frantically searching until they closed around their desired object. It was still there. Of course it was. She never went anywhere without her wand these days and she knew that, but somehow it felt good to check. There was no such thing as being too cautious. Not when they weren't supposed to even step foot outside the house. Not when they were currently 'in hiding'.
Finally, her battle with the wind ended as she paused near an enormous marble headstone. She put the flowers down on the snowy earth before lowering herself to the ground beside them.
The roses stood out starkly against the death and paleness around them. The trees were bare; a sprinkling of snow had covered the ground the previous night, covering the branches and old, withering headstones in its icy whiteness. The entire cemetery stood in various shades of greying decay. All except the roses.
There was a long silence. Breaths frosted in the air, making puff-like clouds of dragon smoke in front of their creators.
She reached beside herself to take his hand, cupping it in two of her smaller ones so that his long fingers would be covered. He seemed to be drained of colour as well. Only hints of blue were left, etched by the cold along his lips and fingertips.
She knew she should say something to him- tell him to come indoors and warm up, at least- but she couldn't bring herself to move. Watching him watch the roses was enough.
He hadn't been crying when she sat down. The red eyes, however, betrayed their owners past weakness. It was strange to see him so heart-broken, to see him so vulnerable. She now had to be the one picking up all the pieces after the years he had spent putting her back together.
This break from tears was well warranted. She had begun to wonder whether he would run out of salt-water in his body. But, as with most unfair things in life, the fleeting reprieve left him almost as soon as it had come, and grief gripped his heart again.
Icy, cold fingers squeezed savagely at her hands as his head bowed. A palm reached up to rake through his hair, a tiny flurry of snow falling where his hand disturbed it.
Their deaths had come as a shock. Dragon Pox moved quickly, the healers had said.
Months- that is what they had spent mourning for their friends in advance, knowing they were entering a war and that some of them would die. But to think that, in the midst of all this killing and murder, something as simple as Dragon Pox could take the Potters in less than three days had been inconceivable.
Inconceivable, of course, until it happened.
There was a gasp and then a strangled sob. Her hands relinquished his and she tenderly pulled his head down to rest on her shoulder, just above her heart.
It was harder, they both had realized, not to say good-bye. Saying the last farewell was always hard, naturally, but not even having the option was damn near devastating.
They had been on a mission at the time, one that had kept him away until it was too late.
Unlike the parties before Order missions where everyone got drunk and made sure to say final, parting words- just in case- there were no good-byes here. No tender farewells. No one to say I-love-you to except two bodies in caskets.
It was in situations such as these that grief was given the ultimate upper hand.
She ran a hand through his hair as he cried against her, murmuring something intangible in his ear; nonsense under her breath.
She didn't say it was okay, because it wasn't.
She didn't tell him how much she loved him and how painful it was to see him hurting, because it wasn't about her.
So, because she had absolutely everything and nothing to say, she had brought roses. And they didn't change anything, not really. But, for whatever reason, they made everything just a little bit warmer. The roses, she hoped, whispered the things she wasn't able to say; the things he needed to hear.
He sniffed and wiped a snot-ridden nose on his mitten, eyes never leaving the graves. And then, even though tears were still carving frozen tracks down stark pink cheeks, a hint of life came back into his eyes.
And so they sat next to each other for a long time - she holding him up, her and the roses a shield against the overwhelming weight of grief. And she knew that, though the flowers hadn't changed anything or fixed anything, they had made managing this pain just the tiniest of fractions easier.
And that was, really, all that mattered.