Mourning the Enemy

“Come we must celebrate,” joy laced his cold voice, poisoning us, his followers, his Death Eaters. I hesitated, my heart anchoring me to the limp body pined to the forsaken ground. I remained alone maintaining a silent vigil for the dead corpse at my feet. The-Boy-Who-Died lay in front of me, his succulent lips lay open, an expression of fear etched on his normally golden face. His dark hair lay confused across pale skin, matching the standard hue of my own, all colour sucked from his lifeless form. I felt a torrent of emotions accompanying him never to be felt again on this earth, anger, hatred and love. Love, an emotion that I never thought I could feel. I steadied myself against the violent storm threatening to engulf me in a flood of tears.

‘I am a Malfoy, I do not feel,’ I repeated to myself. All in vain.

Still the emotions rose, six years of anger, pain and hurt had been vanquished, three of love, lust and jealousy ignored. The green light had shattered me. I had hoped it would heal me, releasing me from my torment. Yet here I was, blubbering, mourning, hurting like a hopeless wreck. Am I no better than Longbottom, a doddering fool, who can get nothing right. This was my triumph, the first step on the long road of destiny, the defeat of my greatest enemy, my worst torment. Yet here I am fighting myself, devastated by the form that haunted me, infected my dreams and contaminated my fantasies. His face urged me to caress him; his body, even through the soiled robes, urged me to worship him and his lips, despite their deathly pallor, urged me to kiss him.

I remember clearly my heart’s destruction, only moments previously. I felt every second, the torture, the fear and the interrogation. Each moment of his despair amplified a thousand times by my infatuation. My perverted desire shook me, cracking the ice in my heart. This shouldn’t happen I said. Why didn’t I feel this way about Stibbons, Kalinov or Weasley? Why Potter? He’s humiliated me, tortured me and beaten me; so why do I want to save him? It’s not as though he’s beautiful, defiled by that scar and his untamable hair. Stibbons was gorgeous, a heartthrob for millions; yet I felt nothing, his screams pleasing, his pain orgasmic, his death was momentous, the killing curse releasing. Potter, however, weakened me; his screams hurt me, his pain crippled me, his death destroyed me, the killing curse tormenting. Those fateful words ‘Avada Kedarva’ nearly killed me. I prayed for the green light to engulf me, too.

I broke, my feelings, hopes and fears engulfed me, shattering my mind into little pieces, obliterating all hints of self-control, my façade failed me, my mask had slipped. Floods of tears streamed down my face; even in the moonlight they stained my face, my pale skin glistening. My mask had fallen. The mask of death lay on his perfect body. A symbol for the fate, which had befallen him. My sobs continued audible in the forgotten silence, nothing stirred in the old, battered graveyard, except for grief: Unknown grief for unacknowledged fears for an unwanted fate. I did not know why I was mourning, merely who. I, Draco Malfoy, was mourning Harry Potter. I was Mourning the Enemy.