Author's Note: This is a songfic based on the song, Somebody's Darling, from the American Civil War

Author's Note: This is a songfic based on the song, Somebody's Darling, from the American Civil War. For the complete lyrics, go to http://users.erols.com/kfraser/confederate/songs/darling.html

The italicized phrases are excerpts from the song. The plain type denotes Draco's reactions.

I would love to do a much longer, more involved piece on this song, but my current time constraints are preventing that.

Disclaimer: I have no rights other than those stated in the US Constitution. Draco is owned by J. K. Rowling. Although the copyright on the song is expired, I'll give credit where credit is due. The words to Somebody's Darling are by Marie Ravenal de la Coste and the music is by John Hill Hewitt.

Somebody's Darling

Into the ward of the clean white-washed halls,

Where the dead slept and the dying lay;

Silly song. Death is not aseptic. Even if there are any white-washed halls about, they don't stay clean for long. Anyway, Death does not sleep or lay passively. Death writhes, groans, convulses, and screams. Death spatters.

Somebody's darling was borne one day.

Somebody's darling, so young and so brave,

Wearing still on his sweet yet pale face,

Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave,

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Somebody's darling, of course. They don't write ballads about people like me. Nobody's darling. Nobody.

Somebody's darling, somebody's pride,

I've never been anyone's pride. I sometimes yearn to know that feeling, even for a moment before life's fading, but I know that I never will. I strove to please people who could not have those emotions and I alienated those who could.

Who'll tell his mother where her boy died?

My mother wouldn't care where or how I died. Not that anyone would bother to tell her.

Matted and damp are his tresses of gold,

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;

Pale are the lips of most delicate mould,

. . . .

Back from his beautiful purple-veined brow,

Brush off the wandering waves of gold;

Cross his white hands on his broad bosom now,

. . . .

Yet there he lies with his blue eyes so dim,

And purple, child-like lips half apart.

It could have been me. But they don't romanticize Nobody's Darling, Lonely Dragon, Forgotten. They're describing my features exactly, but in words no one would ever think to use in conjunction with me.

Give him a kiss, but for somebody's sake,

I've never been kissed by anyone who meant it.

Murmur a prayer for him, soft and low,

I've prayed and prayed, shouted and screamed and whispered and begged and pleaded and cried, but God refused.

No one has ever prayed for me. The only prayer my death would earn would be one of thanksgiving.

Somebody's watching and waiting for him,

If only I was wanted somewhere, someone might await my arrival with bated breath and fast-beating heart. If only.

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;

If I died (how it haunts my dreams), no one would cry.

No one would cry.

No one would cry.

No one would cry.