A/N: Well, here is it, the first of two in my little two-shot. That is, if it can even be called that. Enjoy, and please review! Also, my apologies for any misspellings, as I was raised Canadian, I spell like it!

Lastly, thank you to C. Adrien Cummings for betaing and for his opinion, as well as to XxRon-luverxX. I love you both! *squashes*

Disclaimer: I don't own them, I just wish I did. All characters are J.K Rowling's. The poem 'The Beginning' is not mine either, but was written by a wonderful poet by the name of Rupert Brooke. Lastly, I do not own the epitaph, as that was taken from Google.

Warnings: Multiple character death, implied slash, suicide, angst.

As he walks along the crowded streets of London, he almost wishes that the footsteps he heard were meant to be chasing him. Almost.

The rain pours down in torrents; soaking his clothes and making his already pitch coloured hair seem even darker. He smiles humourlessly at how the weather seems to match his emotions.

"Seven years," he says to himself, his footsteps slowing as they reach their destination. "Seven years as of today."

The man stands in front of the gravestone, the place that marks where his love now lies. He runs his hand over the front, fingers lingering over the letters carved into it, forever acknowledging who lay beneath.

Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy

October 17th,2005 – May 13th, 2031

Son - Lover - Friend

"There was never a night that had no morn."

Only now does he let the tears fall from emerald eyes. Only now does he allow his knees to buckle and his heart to clench. This, to him, is reality in its finest, as he takes out the well-worn book and begins to read aloud, the revolver in his left hand and his voice shaking:

Someday I shall rise and leave my friends

And seek you again through the world's far ends,

You whom I found so fair

(Touch of your hands and smell of your hair!),

My only god in the days that were.

My eager feet shall find you again,

Though the sullen years and the mark of pain

Have changed you wholly; for I shall know

(How could I forget having loved you so?),

In the sad half-light of evening,

The face that was all my sunrising.

So then at the ends of the earth I'll stand

And hold you fiercely by either hand,

And seeing your age and ashen hair

I'll curse the thing that once you were,

Because it is changed and pale and old

(Lips that were scarlet, hair that was gold!),

And I loved you before you were old and wise,

When the flame of youth was strong in your eyes, - And my heart is sick with memories.

His voice shakes until the end, as does his body, his very soul. "'The Beginning'," he mutters into the rain, an often remembered memory playing behind his eyes. "It always made me think of you, you know. I never told you, but I always did love poetry, as much as I'd deny it to you. The way you read it, your voice shaping the words, it was almost seductive."

His eyes gaze upon the gravestone once more, as if expecting it to answer, the final line blurred but still legible.

There was never a night that had no morn.

A ghost of a smile crosses the man's face at that, at seeing his lover's favourite quote etched where it would not be forgotten.

He knows it is time then — that, just as he read, there would be a 'Beginning'. However, to this night, for him at least, there would be no morn.

He thinks of him then; of his bright, smiling face, and of the mornings they'd spent in each others' arms... of the memories he hadn't let himself dote on in a long time. How he wished they'd have been able to see themselves grow aged and ashen together! However, he does not dwell on this, knowing that they'll be together again soon.

He lifts the revolver to his head then, raising his face to the sky, the rain washing away the tears. His declarations of love are lost in the crack of the gunshot as he ends his own life.

His body falls to the ground, lifeless, the rain now washing away blood instead of tears.

And, for the first time in seven years, he is at peace.