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Final Confession

By Lestatian

       

I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming of quidditch, of the wind rushing through my hair as I soar upwards on the Firebolt, eyes constantly searching for the elusive golden snitch. The broom acts like a loyal and devoted servant, obeying my lightest command, sensing my thoughts almost before I make them. We know each other well.

Other players surround me, swooping and diving, set in their rigid patterns, flying mechanically as they chivvy their balls about the pitch. I fly alone, set apart from them all. There is only one thing that I have to do. I am the Seeker.

I seek many things. Fame, recognition, glory. I wonder whether any of them shall ever truly be mine.

I've spotted it. Not more than ten feet away, fluttering about in agitation and indecision. The broom senses it too, as I've set it to do, and we move as one, streaking across the pitch.

But it looks that even though I'm closer; another will be the one to clasp the winged ball. His hand outstretched, he leans forward, willing, wanting. We fly towards each other so fast, I think we're going to collide, but his concentration isn't on me, its on winning the game, it's bringing the victory to his house. All I see is him.

He catches it. Did I ever truly think I could beat him? We were so close, for those elusive few seconds, which I later try to recall in vain, the feel of him thudding into me, the smell of his sweat and the touch of his breath. It distracts me, so that at the crucial moment I allow victory to be snatched away from me.

I will be punished, of course. My house will shun me, and unless I keep on guard and my wand at the ready I may find a waiting fist in the dark. Father will be very disappointed. Although he does not play quidditch, and never has, he realizes what it symbolizes and will hurt me most severely for the defeat of my house. Honour is all that matters to him. And should be all that matters to me.

Sometimes, when I lie on my bed, and I stare at the ceiling in the dark, I dream that I see his face, and that I can feel his warmth beside me. I crave him, he plagues my thoughts constantly, I breathe him, I feel the flow of him in my veins. It never ceases, never ends. And sometimes I can't bear it. Knowing I'll never have what my body so desperately wants. The only release I can feel is in pain. Pain clouds the senses and dulls the mind. It takes you away from all the menial tasks of everyday living, and all you can concentrate on is the sharpness, and then the steady dull throbbing. Providing the wound is deep enough, of course.

It is an obsession of my mine, to collect tools of self-mutilation. Knives are my favorite, with wicked blades and cruel hilts, twisted in wreaths designed to increase pain when they are plunged, twisted, thrust into a warm, willing body. Sometimes when I'm in a contemplative mood, I can stare at a blade for hours. I have quite a collection. Father always gives me a new one every Christmas. It's so thoughtful of him.

I see him surrounded by his lovers and admirers, holding the snitch above his head in exaltation. My half of the pitch stays silent. But it won't stay silent for long.

I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming of a life different from this, where everything I have ever wanted is mine without question. I wonder whether I would truly be happy if I had everything, or if I would find another avenue to crave. Perhaps that is my true nature, to always want something I can't have.

My icy exterior is nothing but a fašade. I couldn't have Potter or Weasel knowing how badly I want him, need him. Annoying the Weasel has its uses, it pleases those around me, and I do derive a momentary pleasure from it. He is so easy to bait, I feel sorry for him.

When I go home, Father always asks me what I've done that term to earn his respect and admiration. I don't know why he bothers. It's probably just another excuse to punish me. He constantly spies on me and has several others who inform him of my exploits when I'm in school. Snape, for one. Pansy, for another.

I'm supposed to marry her. It'll never happen. I'd kill myself before I slept with a dog like her. In fact, I intensely dislike the whole idea of marriage itself. To bind yourself to another, to rely on them and be yourself. Nothing scares me more. The only person you can rely on is yourself.

But sometimes you can't. Sometimes our bodies betray us, and while our minds are screaming at our stupidity, our limbs react to instinct and lust. When my Father casts the Cruciatus curse on me, I always try to stay silent, but the hurt is so deep that not even I enjoy it. I fear one of these days I'll break my vocal cords. However, that doesn't stop me from casting it on myself. If I am to serve the Dark Lord than I'll have to be able to bear it. Pride is everything: show another weakness and you might as well sign your own death warrant: in a world like this where evil rules the only way to get yourself off the floor is through power. Power is everything. Power is life.

Others in my house are scared of me. I formulate this carefully; among those with whom I share a room I have never lost a bet, nor a duel. I have cast curses in my first year unknown to Death Eater apprentices in the seventh year, curses so full of evil arts and dark magic I would be expelled immediately if Dumbledore were to find out. Snape teaches me Potions privately. He wouldn't, but Father makes him. They have been lovers for many years, and although Snape does not approve of the way Father does things, he will make no move to stop it. I'm glad of that. I don't need pity, or friendship. I just need to be in control.

Of course I'm not. When I go home Father always makes sure I know where my place is, something that usually ends up with me leaning over his desk and taking whatever he has in store for me. I've learnt to switch off when he does, and I pretend that I'm not crying, that I'm not hating it. That I wouldn't give anything to be able to do this to someone else.

I'll never be able to do it. Father would kill me if he knew. Crabbe and Goyle are so wrapped up in each other they don't care, and there's no one else I can turn to. I think that's why I'm so jealous of the Gryffindor's - yes, I am jealous, and I know that I'll always be looking through on the other side of the glass. They are constantly surrounded by friendship and warmth and happiness. No wonder they all turn out to be productive members of society. And we either have dreams to rule the world or kill ourselves before the age of thirty.

I don't love him. I don't even like him. We have nothing in common and we lead a totally different lifestyle. He can't even dream of what life is like for someone like me. And he never will.

I've got to put a stop to this insanity. It's over a year until we leave school, and after that I'll be made to follow in my Father's footsteps. Father's desperate for me to join the cause. Or I should say that he's desperate for someone else to become the Dark Lord's 'favorite', so He has someone else to play with.

Sometimes, when it's late at night I slip outside and spend the dark looking up at the stars. I don't know why, as it makes me feel even more lonely than I already am. But at least I don't have to pretend that I'm something I'm not.

It's either me or him. Think of how pleased the Dark Lord would be if I did the job for him. Or would he flay me because he wasn't allowed to watch? I think about how I could do it as I run the blade down my arm. It's thin, so the stream of crimson blood is thin too, however soon it bursts its banks and runs outwards, covering my arm in its path. The blade moves from my arm to my chest, and over my heart. The pain is tremendous, and I am gasping from pleasure and immense pain.

As I said, it's either me or him. And as I have no real love for this world, it might as well be me. I wonder whether they'll even have a proper funeral, or whether they'll fling my body on a fire and forget about me. Perhaps my Father will let his twisted nature show and bury me in a Muggle cemetery. It's the kind of thing he would do.

When I was younger I used to dream that I'd die a truly heroic death. I usually thought this after I'd been beaten and was chained in the cellar with the blood drying to my skin. Father said I didn't deserve to have such beautiful skin. Only my hands and face are free from desecration. I can't even call it skin anymore.

Instead I lie in my bath, so as not to make a mess. I can only imagine the horror my mother would feel after seeing her son get blood on the carpet. I can feel the life draining out of me, the blood flowing from my veins.

Still, I move the blade across my scarred skin, until my entire body is bathed in red. Death is not far away, I can feel myself getting weaker with every second.

I wonder what he will say when he hears the news that Draco Malfoy is dead. He'll probably say I had it coming. No. Weasel will say that, he will try to fathom the reasons and try to make out that I was not such a bad boy after all.

Father will be irritated, but not overly displeased. He will marry another and create a new heir, one that is worthy of inheriting the Malfoy fortune. A boy he can truly be proud of. All I hope is, that when he sees his son lying dead in the bath, four hours after first being told by a hysterical house elf, that he realizes and appreciates the beauty of the artwork that I created.

I carved his face on my chest.


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