Title: "I'm Not Sorry"
It was quiet, still. A faint, almost non-existent breeze was the only moving thing in the graveyard, twisting through the huddled group of relatives. They all donned black. Some were crying, others stood there, staring at the ground.
Harry was surprised that he had even come. Why should he have, anyway? It's not like he had to. They wouldn't care, just as they hadn't before. But he did come. He was here, standing on the sullen earth, gazing at the casket before him. Red roses lay scattered, contrasting with the blackness underneath.
The priest began to speak, reading from a little prayer book. But Harry didn't hear him. A lone bird gave out a cry that echoed, making some flinch. The harshness of it cut through the motionless air. He couldn't help but think it was a sign. A sign of what her life was. What it had been.
He knew he couldn't leave it at that. She had done a lot for him, even though she had never loved him. He knew what he had to do. Waiting until the priest finished and scattered a fistful of dirt on the painted wood, Harry moved forward.
Pausing, he searched for the right words. "We are gathered today," he began, swallowing, "to watch as Petunia Dursley is lowered beneath the ground. We are here to witness her body disappearing from us forever."
He stopped, unsure how to continue. People avoided his eyes, taking in the refuge of looking at the coffin.
"When I arrived on her doorstep twenty years ago, she was unwilling to take me in. But she did. She did, although she didn't want to. I don't know where I would be -- what my life would be right now, if it wasn't for her.
"She didn't love me, and I didn't love her. But she gave me a place to stay, at least for a little while. I owe her much. I owe her my thanks. So, thank you, Petunia. Thank you for taking me in and caring for me, even though you probably hated it."
Two men moved forward, taking up the casket and lowered it. He watched as it disappeared from view, hiding in the ground, never to be seen again. They began to cover it up with the remaining earth.
He looks over the medley of dark colors in front of him, ranging from dark green to pitch-black.
Green. His father loved the color green. He wore it all the time and most of his accessories were a rich green color. He misses that about his father. He misses the solemnity in the green color.
Green isn't taken as a violent color. Green is a quiet color, bold yet subtle. Just like his father. No one expected him to be a killer; a murderer. No one thought that a man wearing green, his blond hair flowing past his shoulders was a killer. But appearances are deceiving. Draco knows that. He turns to his mother, standing near him. Her face is fathomless. But he knows how she feels. She told him yesterday. She is not sorry for his death. She tells him Lucius deserved it.
And he believes her. There was a time where he looked up to his father. His father was his hero. But not anymore.
"Here lies the grave of my father," he begins bitterly, staring at the patches of grass growing on the muddy ground covering the grave. "He was a Death Eater. He murdered, robbed and tortured. And when he died, I heard him say something."
They look at him expectantly, hoping that his words would somehow change the legacy of Lucius Malfoy.
"He told me, 'I'm not sorry.'" Gasps travel through the small group, quickly extinguished. "Those were his last words."
He sees his mother bite her lip. "So, Father, I repeat them back to you. I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry for your death."
He throws the flower in his hand on the grass and leaves.
There is silence behind him.