Aftershock

Aftershock

Good morning, Mr. Malfoy. Seeing as I murdered your only heir, I feel honored to attend his funeral.

Ah yes, you see, I misplaced something when I saw all that blood seeping through his robes. They call it my innocence, but that I had lost with Cedric's death. I, myself, call it my optimism.

I had been angry with him then. My second broom destroyed- really, it was his fault, you know, for becoming so abruptly out of character. I was depending on him to move both times. If anything, his cowardice- pardon -could be counted on.

But all he did was gawk at me as if I had gone mad. I thought it was some ploy of his- you know I associate his face with Dementors now? Another ruse to throw me off my game. How was I to realize that I would throw his off forever?

I had such nightmares after. Not about him, of course not. Just the ones that I've always had, except so much more vivid. As if that crash had knocked something loose in my subconscious.

Then there was our second collision, after I had stolen his broom. Now...now- I don't dream.

I hallucinate.

It's like insomnia while you're asleep. I can't distinguish dreams from waking anymore because it's become so much the same. When I rant about an argument I had with that damn Malfoy- pardon -Ron looks at me as if he can't remember who I am, and what I'm doing here.

Obviously, I wasn't friendly with your son. I'm sure you understand. Malfoy- Draco, that is, was never friendly with anyone. It seemed he felt that distance was natural, and that you built your life around who your enemies were, rather than who remained your friend. I was his enemy, and in his way he devoted himself to being mine. His voice often drove me mad because it was just so indifferent. I always wanted to take his words and stitch the warmth back into its rightful place.

I can't imagine you want me to cry for him. No one else here seems to, passing the casket in wordless sobriety. Their whispers sound more like worship than condolences and grief. I have the sudden urge to...touch him, because no one else would do it. To see if his temperature has changed in death. Maybe lay down beside him, though he wouldn't feel it; he did the same for me when he thought I couldn't notice.

I only hit back harder afterwards, feeling dazed and perhaps dazzled, not knowing up from down.

He seems as if nothing had ever changed. The wonders magic can do. You had him arranged in Malfoy fashion, looking as if he expects death to bring no rest but only trials. His youth never had a chance.

I understand. You did not bring me here to cry, nor anyone. I pass him silently, the only one to say no parting words. Something in me, those unshed dreams, perhaps, wants another glimpse of him.

Instead I glance back and see only you, gazing down on him, your features calculated to deny emotion. Only the length of time you linger at his side shows any recognition. Your hand grips your cane so tightly, and you are dignified in black.

Deatheaters gathering in mourning look no different from Deatheaters otherwise. You did not bring me here to cry, but I know why you did. I see you have no virtue. I see you would kill the boy your son died in saving. The boy indebted to your heir.

'So,' you say, your eyes turned upwards in a false plea for forgiveness. 'What last words do you have for my son?'

My gaze pulls yours downward, ground-ward.

'I don't owe you anything, Malfoy.'

And you look at me, drawing your wand as if in grief. Your gaze is returned, to be sure.

Good morning, Mr. Malfoy, and good night.