J K Rowling owns it all…I just play with the characters.

This is dedicated to KC, who never realized how many friends he really had, and what life had to offer.

Red, gold, and orangish trees stood against the rainy gray sky, their colors painting a tale of cheerfulness on an otherwise gloomy day. The trees had always reminded him of hands reaching for the heavens, their branches waving like fingers towards the gods. The scent of wood and peat burning wafted across the dying fields, carried along by the fall wind.

Days like this were far and few between now. Days where Harry would agree to a walk. Days that he would agree to come out of the house. He'd been like that since Ron's death. Dying by one's own hand was a terrible thing. Not just to the one who wielded the knife, but to those who loved him and were left behind.

Draco watched the leaves scatter from their feet, the golds, reds, and browns rustling as they trudged across the Weasley land, Harry's arm linked loosely through his. Ron had been buried there; under the old maple tree near the pond. It had been his and Harry's favorite place during summer holiday. Now it was no one's favorite place.

"It's going to rain," Harry said quietly. "I can smell it."

"The storm clouds are coming in from the north, but we've got at least another hour before it starts," Draco replied, stopping before the tree.

Harry laid his hand on the cool stone, remembering the heat that had once emanated from it that day Ron had been laid to rest. Sinking to his knees, he trailed his fingers across the carved letters, his fingers brushing away a stray leaf stuck to the surface.

"It was good of you to have a stone put up for him. You know, he never liked you," Harry said, his voice low from unshed tears. "What was the poem you had put on it… the one Molly liked so much?" Harry asked in a hoarse voice. It hurt sometimes to keep the pain in, but it hurt far worse to let it out.

Dropping to one knee, Draco wrapped his arm around Harry. "I did it because you loved him. And he loved you. I didn't need any other reason."

Harry nodded. The young men were still before the grave, the only sounds heard in the forgotten garden were the whispering of the trees against the wind, the soft sigh of leaves swirling around them, like memories of the past.

"Sometimes, I wish I had the courage to end it, you know, like he did," Harry whispered, breaking the quiet, a lone tear tracing a path down his face.

"It doesn't take courage to die, Harry," Draco said, his arm tightening around Harry's shoulders. "It takes courage to live."

"But, it was my fault that he lost his hand; he blamed me," Harry said, his arms wrapping around his stomach, rocking to the beat of the ache within him. Oh gods, it hurt, the pain was tearing into him, pulling him apart, shredding his heart into a thousand broken pieces.

"It was an accident, and you know it. That was Ron's way of coping with it. Blaming you, blaming me, blaming anyone he could."

Harry pushed away from Draco, and fell on the dying ground. "He wasn't like that!" Harry screamed, his hands balling into fists.

"Yes, he was," Draco said, easily dodging a punch from his distraught boyfriend. Although he'd thought the words a thousand times, when he spoke them they came out much more harshly than he intended. "He blamed everyone. He could have made a choice to live; to make his life worthwhile." Draco grabbed Harry's hands, stopping their flailing. "Instead he chose to let it eat him up, and then he chose to die." He didn't want to hurt Harry; he just wanted to make him understand what he was doing to himself. It was difficult watching someone you love waste away, their grief tearing them apart a little bit more every day, until all that was left was a ruined husk of a man.

"No, nooo," Harry moaned, the sound echoing across the cold, still water, the tears starting to stream down his face. He hadn't cried for nearly four years, and now he couldn't stop.

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry and held him. "You never blamed anyone, love," Draco whispered, holding Harry a little tighter, feeling the boy shudder against his chest, the tears seeping through his robes. Sometimes it was good to cry.

Wiping the last tear from Harry's face, Draco looked up at the roiling clouds. "We should be going, the storm's coming."

"Alright," Harry said, his hand reaching for the marker again.

Draco's long fingers rested atop Harry's hand as he guided him to the words inscribed on the black marble.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glint on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

The soft patter of rain fell on them. Harry turned and gave a small smile; the first one in four years. "I'm ready to go now."

Draco looked into the sightless green eyes of his boyfriend, a raindrop sliding down his cheek now, and he entwined his fingers in Harry's, ready to help him find the path home again. "Alright."

I wish I could claim credit for the poem. But it's called Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep by Mary Frye.