Severus' grave is not like the others.
There are dozens of them, each side by side, neatly dug and with new stones carved with names, dates, quotes - some of them have enchanted photographs framed into their granite, but it strikes Lucius as somewhat gauche, and Severus' is mercifully plain, if only because no one has photographs of him smiling.
There are no flowers on the dead man's grave. No flowers, no offerings for the dead, not so much as a candle lit on the grave's top.
SEVERUS SNAPE.
9th January 1969 - 2nd May 1998.
A true hero.
McGonagall picked out the stone, Lucius can only guess - or perhaps the Potter boy did. Either way, it matters little at all, for Severus would hardly care for it. Then, Severus would hardly care for having a grave at all, and might have liked some sort of bizarre and characteristically misanthropic ceremony intended to irritate and inconvenience as many people as possible. He wasn't really the sort for monuments.
Lucius feels his lips twitch in sudden humour, and then he feels his throat thicken, and he almost lets out a sob; he has a handkerchief to his mouth in less than a moment, covering his quaking lips, and he turns his head away from the carved stone in a display of weakness he might not usually have allowed himself. Narcissa catches his gaze from where she stands, waiting for him at the cemetery gate.
He shakes his head, minutely, and she gives a small nod, turning her pretty face away from his again: Lucius looks to the plain earth at his feet, and at Severus' undecorated headstone. It is perhaps in-character for him, to have so empty a space above his corpse, but Lucius doesn't care a whit, for Severus has no ability to prevent Lucius from doing FAVOURS for him now that he is dead.
Lucius kneels, not caring for the fact that the grass is wet and the dew and wet soil is clinging to the hem of his robes, and he murmurs a quiet spell under his breath. Roots spill out from his wand and onto the ground, curling through the newly turned soil with speed, and a Peace Lily sprouts proudly, grass and forget-me-nots covering the ground until Severus' grave looks like it has been there weeks instead of a day, until it looks almost natural, but for the mound and the slab of stone declaring his name and dates.
Chest aching, Lucius stands and spells away what clings to his robes, brushing his hair back from his face and pressing his lips together, so tightly that the pink skin pales in the overcast evening's light.
"Are you ready?" comes Narcissa's voice, quietly: her slender fingers are outstretched to him, petite and inviting. Lucius considers telling her the truth, and saying that he is not ready, and that he would rather stand and stare at the stone reminder that he has no friends left at all. "You'll feel better at home." He wonders if she wants him to believe her, or if it is just a platitude to soothe him.
(He had seen Severus' body hover with the others, collar as open as his neck was. Lucius has killed a great many people with no regrets to speak of, and watched many more die, but never has the sight of a corpse make him as faint and weak as seeing Severus' had. He still hasn't recovered, and is yet to find out if he will.)
"Yes, my dear," Lucius agrees quietly, and he takes Narcissa's hand. Her fingers are cold, but he holds them tightly in his own. The Peace Lily shifts in a breeze, bobbing prettily amongst the blue flowers and green grass over the mound: much as Severus would scoff, his grave looks better than the others now. For some reason, it makes Lucius feel more grief instead of satisfaction, and he turns his head away, holding his wife properly to Apparate home with her.
He does not feel better at home. In all truth, he did not expect to, and Severus would have scolded him for so silly a belief, perhaps. If he was here.