Kudos to JK Rowling. She owns it all. I own nothing but my imagination.
His shoes make odd little squishing noises as he walks down the darkening lane. It had rained earlier in the afternoon, a veritable downpour, soaking the dry earth and muddying the dirt path. The sky never cleared after the rain, and there is still the faint scent of rain in the air. He supposes it'll rain later in the evening. The man glances about as he walks. It's a familiar path, one that he's walked many times before, so familiar he could almost walk it blindfolded. But yet each time he travels this dreary trail, he see small things that others wouldn't notice. A bent, wilted flower, trampled in someone's haste, a rabbit sitting quietly near the red oak tree, willing the passerby not to see him, and the muddy footprints of previous travelers being oblivated with each step he takes.
He stops by the gate and pulls up clump of wild daisies, the dirt hanging in muddy globs about the stems. Twisting the stems, he fashions a small bouquet. The sunny yellows and whites of the small flowers belie the grayness of the day. The flowers are cheerful and simple, nothing he would have ever bought on his own, but for the task that they're intended, they are perfect.
The man swings open the protesting gate; the hinges scream in protest. It not often that visitors come to this particular part of the graveyard. Not many are buried here, and most of the graves in this secluded spot are ancient, their tombstones, worn, the lettering fading for countless years of rain and snow and sunshine. Walking onward up a knoll, he steps over a depressed spot on the ground, its soil is squishy, almost like quicksand, and he can see a small rivulet of dirty water worm its way down the hill. His shoes have been ruined by his many trips to this place. Countless trips in rain or shine, the leather has become cracked, dark patches caked with dried mud. The sky has darkened and he's not really sure if it's from the approaching rain, or if it has gotten late without him noticing.
He stops, and squats down. He steadies himself on the small gravestone before him, his hand resting on the rough upper edge. He lays the wildflower bouquet at the base of the tombstone, and spends a moment in quiet contemplation. It wasn't so long ago that the owner of the name on the stone was alive. Alive and with him.
Kneeling, he sits back on his feet, and touches the cool granite before him. He supposes that during the dog days of summer, the stone is warm, almost too hot to touch, but he doesn't know for sure; he's never walked there during the day, only during the darkening hours of evening. His hand lifts unconsciously, and his fingers trace the letters on the stone. Up, and down, and around his finger slides around the edges of the a, the r, the o in the name. It's almost as if he's a part of the stone when he does this, his mind finding solace in this simple movement, his raging thoughts slowing and quieting. Funny that spending a few brief moments with this monument can bring him peace.
He shifts and sits close to the stone, the dampness of the ground soaking into his trousers. A shiver runs down his spine from the damp chill that caresses his legs and bottom. His pants are probably ruined, but it doesn't matter. He'll wear them again next time, and the time after that and probably again next month, until the knees are worn through, and the seat is stiff from endless hours sitting on the damp ground.
'Funny', he thinks. It never rains unless I plan a trip here. He glances at the sky; the clouds are now drifting into place for a storm. Their fluffy whiteness darkens, and the distant rumble of thunder can be heard. He settles against the stone, his cheek resting on the granite. He can almost feel the heat from early in the day still there. It's fading, growing colder under his touch, until nothing is left but the cold, grey granite pressing against his cheek.
He sits there resting, and is startled when a raindrop hits his cheek, which slowly slides down his face in tear-like fashion. He feels other drops hit him, but he closes his eyes and leans fully against the tombstone, letting the rain wash over him.
In the brief moment of heat he felt from the gravestone, he could feel summer, and the soft slide of his lover's skin against his, and the taste of him in his mouth, and mostly the way his heart was touched when he kissed him. The man runs his hand slowly up and down the edge of the stone, his fingers stroking the rough stone. He stops and stares amazedly at the cut on his finger. Just a small one, a nick actually, on his forefinger. He watches the blood bead up, seeping out from between the jagged edges of skin on his finger. That's how he it is when he's here sitting in the graveyard, the sadness and loneliness seeping out of the jagged edges of his heart when he sits next to this stone.