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To most it was any other Friday in April, to Harry it was the day, five years ago, his hopes and dreams were crushed in a single instance. He carried a mist on his eyes like others carried the weight of criticism on their shoulders. Everywhere he went there was a poignant ache in his heart he couldn’t shake. A wound so deep it never stopped bleeding. Draining him dry.
Harry shakily pulled himself up from the grass, joints creaking, back refusing to fully straighten. His fingers brushed against the polished stone in front of him. He closed his eyes and could still picture his husband’s face, plain as day. The mist on his eyes only accentuated the image in his mind. White blond hair. Depthless gray eyes. A sharp jaw. The softest lips he’d ever had the pleasure of calling his own. His Draco.