A/N: Written for QLFC round 13. Prompts: AlScor, (word) crass, (word) history, (word) gruesome. WC: 1583 (ffn)

I picked up a magazine and stared at its words until they became colours. Prepare was a bright yellow, like caution tape surrounding a burning home; healers was a subtle pink, devils (red) and angels (white) combined. Loved ones was a cruel purple, recovery a blood red. Hope was an endless abyss of black.

I watched the colours dance over its paper floor. I watched as the darkness consumed them all, as the page transformed from a rainbow to a night sky.

Hope took over everything. And yet, hope wasn't even there. You were quite keen on the fact that black was not a colour.

It's a shade, you'd insist, and I'd roll my eyes.

Nevertheless, right now, hope was all I had. Hope or darkness.

I'd choose darkness.

But you'd choose hope.

I felt nothing.

As I sat on that plastic chair, the eighth hour ticked by, and I realized I hadn't cried this entire time. Everyone else had, but not me.

I wanted to cry, Scorp. I wanted to get rid of my pain. I wanted to release an ocean of tears and drown in it. I wanted so badly it hurt.

But I couldn't.

It happened in the most gruesome way.

You had written me a love letter. A love letter, for crying out loud! And not an original one, either.

It was one of those sappy confessions, where you admitted that you had been eyeing me for quite some time, that you lay awake at night thinking about me and so on. One a nine-year-old girl would write to her idol, or at least along the same lines.

I would've shaken my head and chuckle. I would've doubled over and guffawed until my stomach hurt. I would've smiled apologetically to the writer of the letter, been careful to avoid them for the rest of the year.

It would've been insignificant–a quick laugh, forgotten about in a weeks' time–if it were by anyone but you.

The clock seemed to be going backwards.

2…1…12…11…10…

I tore my eyes off it when it hit 5. Time was fast-forwarding in front of me. I watched as you were hurried into the emergency room, your mother and father trailing behind you. I wasn't there when this happened of course, and I knew it was only a figment of my imagination–but it was so real.

I didn't see your face. One of the Healers was blocking my view, and to be honest, I was grateful.

I heard later on that you had lost sight in both eyes, hearing in your left ear and half of your right arm, from your elbow down. Your nose, leg, and jaw were broken, as well as half your ribs. Your heartbeat was too fast, too slow.

But worse of all–your skull was fractured.

Even if you survived–even if you made it through the night–I'd never have you back.

Not really.

What had happened? Everyone refused to tell me, but finally Hugo did.

You'd been attacked by a group of four or five people as you were in Diagon Alley buying my birthday present. He's the son of a Death Eater, they had justified when the Ministry Police arrived.

I guess they didn't want to tell me because they were afraid I'd go after them or something. But they don't get it. Even if I did sneak into their houses and beat the living daylights out of them, I still wouldn't have you back.

No matter what I did, I wouldn't have you back.

You were gone.

Absent. No more. Vanished, done, non-existent.

Not here.

Not with me.

I was told to go home by your parents. Their voices were kind, like they have slowly become the last little while. At first, your father hated me–not because I was a boy, but because I was a Potter. And your mother just thought I was too ordinary–nothing special. Not good enough for her little angel.

(Seems like the angel has lost his wings.)

Your father was blaming himself. I could hear him from across the hall. His past had finally caught up with his present. No, not his. Yours.

He was broken. I was glad you could not see.

Your mother said she'd tell me if you woke up. I waited for her letter.

It didn't arrive.

I rolled off my bed when I deemed it fit. I heard pots and pans clanging in the kitchen below.

"You're up early!" Mum said enthusiastically–a bit too enthusiastically–and I didn't have the heart to tell her it was because I hadn't slept at all. She was clearly trying to avoid talking about you.

"Yeah," I muttered, and I sat down at the table. Mum came with a plate of beans, toast and eggs. Your favourite.

I remember your first time overnight. Mum made us breakfast in the morning and your face broke out into a huge grin. You said you were so used to fancy food by the House Elves that you never were able to try a good ol' English breakfast. You gobbled your food so quickly Dad asked you if you wanted a second. (You said yes.)

Mum must've known, because she began to stammer. "I'm–I'm so sorry Honey–I didn't think–"

I mustered up a smile. "It's okay, Mum, thanks." And then I took a bite, and continued my game of pretending that you didn't mean anything to me when you meant the world.

"I'm going back to the hospital," I announced after I finished my breakfast.

"Alright, Al," Mum said, and that's when Dad stumbled in, his hair a mess.

"Hey Al," he said, quickly waking up. "How are you doing?"

His voice was soft. I knew he was caring about me, but it still pissed me off.

"How do you think I'm doing?" I said sourly. I dropped my plate and cutlery into the sink and picked up my knapsack. "I'm going over to see Scorp. See you tonight."

I could tell that something was wrong.

Everyone's face was forlorn–at least, more than usual–and when I walked over to your room it was empty. A young Spanish woman was replacing the sheets.

"Excuse me, what happened to the patient in this room last night?"

She didn't speak a word, but she looked at me with such sadness I almost lost it, right then and there.

I knew the answer; in fact, I think I knew it before I even stepped into that room.

"Hey."

"Yeah?" I looked up from my textbook: History of Magic.

"Wanna spend the rest of our lives together?"

I froze. Hesitant, I said, "You mean, like, me and you?"

"No, like me and some strangers I find on the street. Of course me and you!"

I silently scolded myself. That was a stupid question, even for me. "Don't be so crass!" I said defensively.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. So what do you think?"

I stared into your storm grey eyes. "I don't know. Wouldn't you get bored of me?"

"I'd never get bored of you. In fact, I'd probably get bored of not being bored of you. You know what I mean?"

"No," I said, even though I did.

"Anyway, yes? Or no?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, duh."

This is what I was thinking about on the way to your funeral. You and I, casually planning to spend the rest of our lives together.

Damn it, Scorpius. You didn't keep up your end of the deal, did you?

Damn it, Scorpius!

The tears came, but they were angry, bitter ones, rather than sad, poignant ones. Why'd you leave me? We had a plan. We were going to spend the rest of our lives together, weren't we? What ever happened to that?

Suddenly, I was shaking, and the tears were coming down harder.

I wanted to scream.

Fuck you, Scorpius Malfoy.

The funeral was full of crying grown-ups and moving speeches. You would've hated it.

So I held our own funeral service, after everyone left.

"Hey Scorp," I started, "so, you're dead."

"And uh, I don't think I've ever told you this, but...I loved you. I mean, I love you." Just because I had to speak about you in past tense didn't mean I had to speak about our love in past tense, too.

I cringed at my words. This was almost as bad as the first funeral service.

So I stayed silent.

I sat, crossed-legged, in front of a giant photograph of you. You were laughing, over and over and over again. I had nothing to say.

I just sat there and watched you laugh. For how long, no idea.

Forever, preferably.

A/N: This is my last QLFC fic, and even though the competition was really stressful, I had a lot of fun and I feel like I've written some decent stuff during it. This is by far my favourite piece of all my QLFC ones. What do you guys think?