The graveyard was quiet in the thin light of dawn. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and moss, the sky still bruised with night. Dew clung to the grass in silver beads, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
Rows of headstones stretched endlessly before Harry, pale markers of the war. Each bore a name carved in cold stone — names of friends, enemies, innocents. Names of those who had bought peace with their blood.
Harry moved slowly, his boots soft against the damp ground. He had avoided this place for years; every step here opened wounds that had only half-healed. But age had a way of blurring the lines between past and present, and something had pulled him back.
At last, he stopped.
The grave was simple.
Severus Snape.1960–1998. The bravest man I ever knew.
Harry crouched, fingers brushing the damp stone. His throat tightened. He had chosen those words himself, years ago, when the war was still raw. Even now, he wasn't sure they were enough.
"I kept my promise," he whispered, voice hoarse.
The stillness pressed heavy around him. Until—
Footsteps.
Harry stiffened, instinct sharp even now. His hand twitched toward his wand.
Through the thin morning mist, a tall figure emerged. Pale hair, unmistakable even in the dim light. A bouquet of white lilies rested in his hand, immaculate, unblemished.
Lucius Malfoy.
Harry froze, caught between memory and present.
Lucius did not look at him. His features, carved with the same aristocratic sharpness Harry had always despised, were softened now — not with kindness, but with something stranger.
Weariness.
Regret.
He approached the grave and knelt, slow and deliberate. His gloved hand lingered as he set the lilies against the stone. Fingers traced the engraved letters with a reverence that felt out of place in a man like him.
His lips moved. No sound carried. Whatever words he spoke, they were meant for Severus alone.
Harry's chest twisted. He remembered Snape's hoarse voice, broken and bleeding, remembering the cruelty, the cold laughter, the way his heart had been crushed and discarded.
And yet — here Lucius was.
Kneeling.
Mourning.
For the first time, Harry wondered whether Lucius Malfoy carried his own chains.
Lucius rose with quiet grace. His gaze flicked toward Harry at last. Cold, calculating eyes, still dangerous — yet behind them, a flicker. Recognition. A shadow of something Harry could not name.
They did not speak.
There were no words for what had passed between Severus and Lucius. No words for love twisted into cruelty, or for regret too late to mend.
Lucius turned and walked away, his cloak stirring the mist. In moments, his figure faded into the grey, leaving only the lilies at Snape's grave.
Harry remained. He stared at the flowers, white against dark stone. Symbols of purity, of mourning… or perhaps of guilt.
He did not touch them. He could not.
Instead, he bowed his head. "Rest, Professor," he murmured. "You are remembered."
The wind stirred, carrying his words away. The graveyard fell silent once more.
Harry lingered a moment longer, then turned and walked into the mist, leaving Severus Snape to his silence, and to his lilies.