Someone once promised to spit on my grave.

The world can be cruel in so many ways.

All because I told her to have a nice day.

I thought that the world would be angry with any word I said,

until one man told me to have a nice day.

He gave his word that he'd get me to speak,

to open up to him one day.

Even if he had to sit by my grave.

By T. Nicole McCants

Draco sat in the light ran, ignoring the water soaking into his clothing, causing it to cling to his skin. He shivered , it was getting cold, the sun had set long ago. He wasn't sure how long he'd been here but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Every year the came and sat here, and spilled his heart out. All his fears and loves and worries.

For years he was thought to be a mute, after the war he didn't have much to say. But when he spoke he angered someone, even with the simplest of words. True he hadn't chosen wisely but in the end he saw the light. But leaving the dark side hadn't matter in the eyes of many, it was that he had joined it in the first place. So many years his mind had be clouded by his elders, he'd been sculpted and used. Now he lived to pay the price of a misguided child. Even the simplest hello, caused people's faces to cloud in anger.

His self imposed silence was caused by one such episode. A promise to defile his resting spot, because he uttered have a nice day. Meaning nothing beyond what the words themselves said. A simple everyday phrase sent one woman into a rage and why? Because they had come from his lips?

He looked up at the gray sky that was crying softly soaking his skin. It always rained when he sat here and he never once thought to bring and umbrella. The rain helped to wash away some of his sorrow. It hide his tears and washed them away. Leaving no tell-a-tell signs but the red rimmed eyes.

He hadn't spoken one word since that day choosing instead to acknowledge words with nods and waves. Until of course he heard the phrase spoken to him, a soft lilting voice, that he hadn't heard since the war. The voice had wondered why he didn't reply in kind, but learned very quickly though rather nastily that he didn't speak. The voice hadn't believed that he simply thought he was too good to speak, but saw the hurt beneath. That voice made a vow one day to break through his shell and get him to open up and forget the cruelties of the world. Promised to sit beside him even in death, to talk to him to let him know he was loved. Even if he had to sit beside his grave. The voice made good on that promise; Draco felt the warmth and love for years, and now he was sitting here cold.

He had spoken, if only for him, Draco would share his loves, his fears, his worries. He ran a hand over the cool stone, tracing the words.

Here lies Harry James Potter

Savior, Lover, Loved

1980 - 2003