The funeral is held on a bright spring afternoon. A light breeze ruffles your loose hair and the scent of floral tickles your nose. The cemetery is peaceful; the grounds beautifully landscaped and you notice a view of the ocean in the distance. You think it might make a pleasant final resting spot but have already decided that you wish to be cremated when it’s your time to leave this world. Past battles with inferi have given you nightmares of reanimated corpses and a fear of a similar fate awaiting you should you be buried.

A pact was made between you, Harry, and Ron years ago, after a particularly horrible fight with Inferi, and you trust that your wishes will be carried out. You will be cremated and your ashes will be spread on the grounds of Hogwarts as will theirs: together in death just as you have been together since you were barely twelve years old. You are only twenty-five, but you have lived enough for two lifetimes it seems.

Your pact, your friendship, your love for Harry and Ron that is shared and reciprocated in ways that transcend anything anyone will ever understand. They are your brothers, your best friends, and you have risked your life for them as they have risked their own for you. Your bond with them, platonic despite a brief flirtation at more with Ron years ago, will ensure that you are never far away from them even after you have left this mortal plane.

You do not really know why you came. A glimpse of the obituary while reading the Prophet the other morning had caught your attention. You had been taken back to sixth year, to clandestine meetings in the shadows of the castle, to urgent kisses and frantic groping that left you wanting more, to a time before war had changed everything. Not even Harry and Ron know of those secret meetings. They were your secret, shared with only one other who had never told a soul as far as you are aware.

The service is extremely small. You wore gray because you did not know her at all and feel that wearing black would be inappropriate. He is seated on the front row and you realize it’s the first time you’ve seen him in years. From your position, your gaze moves over the sharp cheeks and long nose, lingering on the bump that you know was caused by a flying accident when he was a child, and you think he looks too thin. He is stoic and distant, untouchable just as he was during those shared years at Hogwarts. His full lips are curved into a slight frown and you can see a nerve twitch as the priest drones on and on.

He is wearing a formal black robe and you can see a pristine white shirt beneath the collar of the robe. His skin is still the color of dark caramel and you can’t help but wonder if he tastes of toffee and honey even now all these years later. You have never explained to your friends the reason you began to take honey in your tea or the reason you carry around wrapped toffees in the pocket of your robe.

It was so long ago, a fleeting affair between two teenagers who were consumed with a passion that confused them even as it drew them together until reality forced them apart. It seems foolish to still think of him, to remember his kisses and wonder if he ever thinks of you.

They say that your first time is special, that it’s something you remember regardless of how good or bad it was, so it isn’t unusual for you to think of him occasionally. You have had other lovers since, just a couple, and life has continued for both of you. There was an article in the paper a few years ago, in fact, that hinted at an imminent marriage for him, but an engagement was never announced. You have to guiltily admit that you were relieved to never hear another whisper about such a thing though you’re not really sure why.

You watch him turn his head slightly, his gaze immediately finding you amongst the few attendees. He stares at you as the priest continues to list the many attributes of his mother and you feel as if the oxygen around you has been removed. Your cheeks flush and you nervously lick your lips, taken back to being seventeen and completely bewildered as to how a boy can make you feel like this with a simple look, a whispered word, or a soft caress. You are older now but still flustered by the reaction you have to Blaise Zabini.

His eyes are molten gold surrounded by darkness, a combination so unusual that it still entices you and you find yourself wondering why it took you so long to find him. He looks away and you notice that his shoulders are tense. You are certain that his hands are gripping his trousers and his blunt nails are probably digging into his thighs as he stares at the casket where his mother lies.

You stand and walk to him, sitting beside him without even considering your actions. He inhales sharply, a soft hiss of withdrawn breath, when you place your hand over his. A side glance shows you that his eyes are damp and yet you know that he won’t shed a tear for his mother, not in public where such an action might be considered a weakness. He turns his hand so that his palm is against yours and his fingers entwine with yours as he grips your hand tightly.

Neither of you speak a word. Not yet. There will be time for casual conversation laced with questions and hopes later, for serious discussion that you know will result in sharp words and anger before either of you admit the weakness of need, for urgent kisses and frantic sex against whatever surface you can find, and eventually for slow kisses and making love as the sun rises in the morning sky. Now, you give him the strength he needs to bury his mother and you suddenly understand why you are there.

Blaise needs you.

The End