Disclaimer: I do not own anybody and am not making profit now or in the future.

Author's Notes: Thanks to Munky for betaing

Four Moments of Mourning

By Kanzeyori


Present Continuous:
actions or events happening at the moment

The iron is cold against my wrists above my head and my back is being carved with scratches from the uneven stone wall. The git has my wand in his pocket. The basement room is well-lighted with a well placed lumos and all considered, I thought I would prefer not to see because a dungeon is a dungeon no matter what new word you call it and the blood really does add to the atmosphere.

"Why are you doing this?"

Malfoy just looked at my scar and my glasses and my green eyes, his swollen lips curving upwards in a smirk.

"Right." I muttered. Malfoy then drew his arms close to his chest and disapparated with a last look, and too soon too soon the Death Eaters stalked through the door. An honor guard for their Lord.

I speak and he speaks and we speak as the stars align; conjugate with me, verbs in english and verbs in latin and verbs in star-words that speak destinies writ in star-dance and it's all terribly melodramatic.

I hear the spell words and I see the green light, and I think in those last few moments that this is how it'll be:

The Death Eaters stare and think at last, then turn to one another and start leaving in twos and threes, after dismissed. Voldemort might or might not stay.

Lucius Malfoy will turn to Snape and declare,

"I say this calls for a drink."

Snape will just stare impassively at what's left of me and reply,

"Indeed. This calls for alcohol."


Past Simple:
moments and periods of time which have just occurred

Malfoy had lifted the glasses from my face and his fingers were the only thing I could see as they traced my eyebrows, brushed across my eyelashes, skimmed across my lips and cheekbones and everything he touched tingled as much from those indistinct grey eyes tracing my face as from the contact, because it is not mine, it's not, and none of it I could claim

"Let me." with the 'please' on the end bitten off and swallowed. It was a breath close to begging and not fooling either of us.

"You---Malfoy, no." I jerked away, as far as the chains allowed, because he has no right and it's not mine to give.

"You can't stop me. And there'll be no other opportunity. After this." he waved his hand around vaguely, "Today. Not without," and he trailed off almost uneasily. I looked at him. And, awkwardly aware that his face was close enough for me to focus on, I took back what I had said before,

"He'll probably forgive you, you know."

Malfoy stared at me strangely.

"You underestimate your own value." He said and oddly that made the queasiness settle, even as I leaned out and touched Malfoy's lips in a kiss.

He was still for a second, then moved, then mouthed his desperation to me, shuddering in his seeming rush to memorize me while I tried to find something and something and something in his wet taste or the rough feel of his tongue that was not there for me except I was falling and all the air was borrowed from me for someone else.

It was Malfoy who caught and separated us. He lowered the glasses back in front of my eyes and lightly pushed it up my nose.

"I don't love you." The blond stated casually as he shoved me back, chains clinking, head clacking on stickywet stone, and plucked my portkey from my pocket, hand catching a bit.

"Tell it to someone who cares."

"There's no one." And Malfoy scooped up the body, the red hair mixing with his blond on his right shoulder. He mentioned as he shifted his armful of boy, "If you annoy him, he'll kill you faster."

"Thanks." Malfoy nodded absently in response and I caught his eyes before he could disapparate. I asked him, because I am bruisedfeeling spread out like sacrifice like meat with stone at my back and future stone-set, because I need some last words and some more time, just more time more time that I do not have and am not allowed, I asked him,

"Why are you doing this?"


Future Conditional:
actions which might occur in the future

And this is how he thinks it should happen:

Harry Potter will wake up and find a lemon drop in his mouth. He will return the portkey to Dumbledore who will tell him that Ronald Weasley had died rescuing him from the Death Eaters who had captured him. He will find out that Draco Malfoy delivered Ron to his death, this average Weasely who didn't matter and who should have been safe (should have stayed safe), and he will be angry and he will hate because Malfoys believe they deserve nothing but the best, and the enemies of a Malfoy are not exempt from this distinction. The fire will return to his eyes and will stay for a good long time, forever if possible.

Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater, as he should be, and he will survive because that is his nature. He will survive and Harry will hate him for it, for both the ends and the means.

Harry will hate him even if they fuck, and perhaps they will. It will hurt either way. I know this, I know this.


Past Perfect:
situations already passed, and permanent

The anti-apparation wards were down and the halls echo with screams and hexes. Dark robes with silver masks slide in the school's shadows and people panic because Harry Potter was nowhere to be found.

I was racing down the halls when I was yanked into a classroom and slammed up against the door.

I could feel the point of a wand in between my eyes and Malfoy drawled,

"You would die for him, would you not?" The edges of Malfoy's eyes tightened as his searched mine.

"What?" I felt Malfoy grab my arm roughly and the vibrating buzz of apparation.

It was a basement, the air layered thick pressing warm and close and metallic. I think the stones are bleeding, but no, it was a body who was. Malfoy walked over and cupped his hand under the chin, raised it soft, and it's someone brokenandemptyeyed and it was Harry and it was Harry and it was Harry.

"You would die for him?"

I felt my stomach do a slow slow turn that never finishes because circles are round and have no end and my insides are circlewhirling like my mind is because it is Harry in front of me, it is, and because I think I know what he's asking and I nod then, slowly, firmly, anyway.

"Good." Malfoy pronounced and outlined an idea, ("I modified it, it's permanent if the drinker dies") and I doubt, I do, but I looked at him and saw:

Malfoy wasn't looking at me at all. His eyes met mine mostly, but he looked at someone else because he couldn't seem to stop. He never could.

and I thought:

Malfoy could have, could have pulled his head up by the hair could have slammed his head back and ground it into the stones

"He'll hate you." I blurted. Malfoy looked at me and agreed readily,

"Yes. You know him best." He knew; he knew and he's still willing to do this. And I know, and I understand, and I'm still willing to do this too; we're pawns, the two of us, and our differences make no difference at all if our king was dead.

"Give it here." I reached out and Malfoy handed me the potion and it tasted as bad as I remembered. I watched as the fringe of hair in my eyes went from red to black and Malfoy, tipping a bottle into Harry's mouth, faded into a blur. There was a moment, then his form drew near and his image popped into focus as he slipped something in front of my eyes and I knew that it was a pair of round-lensed glasses.

Just as I knew that my eyes were now green, just as I watch as Harry's face bleeds out until I see my own freckled face on his.

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