would die for you I would die for you I’ve been dying just to feel you by my side To know that you’re mine I would cry for you I would cry for you I will wash away your pain with all my tears And drown your fears I will pray for you I will pray for you I will sell my soul for something pure and true Someone like you See your face every place that I walk in Hear your voice every time that I’m talkin’ You will believe in me And I will never be ignored I will burn for you Feel pain for you I will twist the knife and bleed my aching heart And tear it apart I will lie for you Beg and steal for you I will crawl on hands and knees until you see You’re just like me Violate all the love that I’m missin’ Throw away all the pain that I’m livin’ You will believe in me And I can never be ignored I would die for you I would kill for you I will steal for you I’d do time for you I will wait for you I’d make room for you I’d sink ships for you Take the cross for you Make me a part of you Because I believe in you I believe in you I would die for you Draco Malfoy stood tall and proud, his arms folded neatly across his chest, in the center of an almost-empty room. His robes were hand-tailored (a brilliant shade of green), his dress shoes perfectly polished by some unfortunate house-elf, his hair sweeping in brilliant strands of white light down his back, and the jeweled staff that had belonged to his father rested arrogantly in his hand. He was the epitome of Malfoy, even down to the ice in his eyes as he gazed at the coffin before him. Silly girl, he thought dismissively, then wondered idly how it came to be that after all those years together – after marriage even – he still saw Pansy as nothing more than a little girl. He supposed it probably came from her immaturity as a child, the way she pined after him, tried to seduce him, told him how she’d wait for him...He had not cared for her, even in the beginning, and it never really mattered to him whether it bothered her or didn’t. She had always been just an instrument – a simple tool whose sole purpose was to produce a male heir for the Malfoy family. And that she had done; thrice over, actually, but Draco had his doubts about the youngest two. It had never seemed to him that Pansy’s eyes were that blew, and he was certain that his own weren’t. But she had died for him. He was still in shock over that. When the aurors had come, they had taken her, not him. Even the famous Harry Potter himself had placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, Draco. I misjudged you.” Draco didn’t understand it at the time, of course, and only watched in shock as they took her away. Potter probably thought that glazed look was remorse; for all he knew, his childhood nemesis was a saint. Draco had found out later that she had been charming all his dark work, placing a sort of “magical fingerprint” on it that would lead back to her. She had been crying when he visited her in Azkaban. He wasn’t surprised, really; waiting for a trial you know will ultimately end in infinite imprisonment or death, he knew, could be nerve-wracking. Even his father had shed a few bitter tears the night before his sentencing. But Pansy hadn’t been crying over the trial. She was crying over him. “I’m sorry, Draco,” she had sobbed into his shimmering new silver velvet. “I’ve shamed your name again. I’m sorry.” He had stood awkwardly by and patted her on the arm while her tears made things real for him. She was sacrificing herself for him. And then she had fallen to her knees and prayed. “I’ve done all that I could for him; please keep him safe.” He shook his head incredulously at the memory and let one hand come to rest on the dark wood in front of him. He wished just for a moment that the casket could have been open – for her sons’ sakes – but knew that the Ministry were being generous even permitting a funeral; they would never allow the Dark Mark on her arm to be seen. He snorted. He didn’t know why she’d joined Voldemort in the first place. She wasn’t particularly prideful, even if she was filthy rich and a pureblood. And yet, she had taken the oath – sold her soul for a cause she didn’t even believe in – the same night as he, right after a long argument in which she tried to talk him out of it. He had won, obviously, and then she had insisted on burning her flesh with him, “to feel his pain.” Draco sighed. It’s not like it mattered if the casket was open or closed; no one was there to see it anyway. He glanced around at the deserted room. The three boys sat obediently in a row and reminded him perversely of her, and his aunt was parked primly in a corner. There was no one else. He supposed his mother might have been there, but she hardly ever left the Manor since his father was executed, and Pansy’s family...They all believed every lie she’d told. They wouldn’t even acknowledge her anymore. They hadn’t appeared at the trial or at the execution, and they wouldn’t appear at the funeral either. She had damned herself as soon as she confessed. She had damned herself before that, really. As soon as she and Draco married she was working against them, obeying Draco’s orders to steal Ministry plans her father had hidden under cover in his house. Draco hadn’t even known about them until Voldemort mentioned them at a meeting, and he did receive quite the Cruciatus for not finding out. But yet again, Pansy had stepped in, taking blame on herself and enduring a thrashing so horrible she was crawling back to her place in the circle on her hands and knees. Draco hung his head and went unnoticed by his family, in much the same way his that his family went unnoticed by him. He wondered why he never loved her – the one who died for him, carried his cross. He wondered why he could never love her the way she obviously loved him: enough to sacrifice herself and her family and her life. Or maybe she hated him so much she just wanted to get away.