This one shot is a real departure from my usual style.
I hope that you like it.
Rain fell steadily, puddles forming at the man's feet, hood from a dark cloak obscuring his face from any prying eyes.
The tree he was leaning against shielding him from the graveside mourners. A small group of people standing, no sound from anyone, several sets of eyes, downcast.
He wanted to run to them, screaming, rage at them, say that they never knew him, that they had all used him for their own selfish means.
"Hypocrites," His voice spilled with venom and barely hidden despair.
A sob threatened to escape, he had not the time to give into the bone crushing sadness he felt, his chest feeling like it had a bloody hole where his heart had once been, torn violently from him.
Straightening his spine, shoulders squared, body tense, he swallowed his tears.
The funeral procession having moved away from the grave now, no grave digger there yet to fill the gaping hole where the lonely coffin had been placed.
The single red rose was being crushed in his hand, thorns piercing his skin, he perversely revelled in the pain. To him only fitting that he should bleed for him, like he had to save him.
His mind repeating the same memory over and over.
"Promise me, whatever happens, you'll live your life."
Protests muttered, tempers flared, eventually becoming heartfelt tears.
"Promise you won't leave me." He had pleaded, voice hoarse from the tears that flowed, heart feeling torn in two.
"I can't promise, this war could take both of us, I promise" he paused, just briefly and a single tear had slid down his face, "I will promise to try."
That promise having to be enough, lips met, tongues duelled, breath exploding into each others mouth. As if they were trying to keep each other alive. Hands wandered, fingers exploring familiar skin, storing ever sensation to memory.
Sliding into hot warm channels, hearts pounding, slow love making, knowing it could be the last time.
Orgasms erupting, bittersweet in their intensity, tears forming and falling on feverish skin.
Arms wrapped around each other, chest to chest, feeling the slowing of erratic hearts.
A quiet voice, filled with acceptance, whispering those dreaded words again.
"Promise me."
Standing now at the grave, rain pouring as if the sky felt his pain, robes soaked, but not feeling the cold. The rain covering the steady drip of blood, now coating the rose, blending with the red of the petals.
A headstone, shining almost brightly against the stark grave.
Harry Potter
Beloved son of Lily and James
Severus felt his legs give, kneeling, the words breaking the damn inside, he screamed, head thrown back at the sky.
His sobs swallowed by the sound of the pouring rain, two words drifting on the wind.
"I promise."
