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“Draco,” a Fathers hoarse cry for his son because he loves him. “Draco,” and of course his son loves him too, because it’s hard not to love one who gave you life, but there were times when he was close. Close to hating this man who loves him, because his love had brought them to terrible things, but that was the very reason he didn’t hate him, because the terrible things are done out of love, however misguided they may have been.
“Draco, “And the mother joins in. His mother who he loves also and who loves him, and her calling him is probably the hardest because she has done no terrible things, no misguided evil actions because of her love. She has merely loved him, and loved his father, and stayed with them because she does, and that’s why this is hard. That’s why, when he takes the first step towards the evil snake of a man who his father follows out of love for his wife and son, he intends to join them, because they’re his family and he loves them as they love him. But he can’t, he knows it inside that he can’t because it is wrong, and he has spent his entire life doing what is wrong and needs to now do what’s right.
People watch him, he knows, as he walks towards him, they can’t see the fear on his face but they know it must be there because who can walk towards such terror and not be afraid? Maybe there are some people, but he is not one of them and he never will be, and that’s fine, that’s wonderful because he doesn’t need to be, not for this. For this he just has to be crazy, perfectly insane for just a second, long enough to forget that this might be his death and that maybe he wants to live. He wants to live sure, but he wants others to live as well, people he loves and some that he hates but others love. It wouldn’t be fair for him to go on loving and them to live on mourning. Nothing’s ever fair, but it can try to be.
His father who loves him had once given him a knife, small and delicate with a hand carved out of a basilisk’s tooth, and the blade soaked in its venom, and of course he’d brought it with him because he was going to battle, and knives are useful in battle. And also because he’s sometimes extremely lucky and see’s things that may be useful on his way out of the door, and absently tucked it into his robes. Sometimes people are just lucky.
It wouldn’t kill him, he knew, of course it wouldn’t how could it? But then the creature congratulates him, congratulates him and pulls him into an embrace, and it’s all he can do not to shudder and it makes him so angry. This shadow of a man has struck fear in so many, in himself, but he is nothing; nothing in comparison to so much more. And he can see his Fathers face over the shoulder of this monster, and his mother next to him and they both look so relieved, and his wished he could apologise because he knows now that he will cause them pain. He can’t, of course, but he stares at them over a mad mans shoulder and hopes that they’ll understand, hopes that they know that he loves them and like they do for him, like his father has done, this deed is because he loves them.
And yes, at this moment he’s afraid, terrified and angry and seeing things in perfect clarity and maybe that makes him a little crazy. A little insane for a moment; for long enough. So when he pulls back from the awkward embrace he takes in a sharp breath and stabs him. Pushing the blade into his stomach, his fist pressing into the soft flesh, and all that follows his pain. His pain because this is excruciating, a vicious heat that spreads up his arm and for a moment he’s sure he can smell the flesh burning, or maybe that’s just memories of a friend perishing in the flames, and of course he screams. He screams in agony but he can’t help but realise that the screams are not only his own. No, it would not kill the beast, but it would be painful and maybe it would slow him down. Maybe.
His vision goes black for just a moment, but he can feel himself being pulled back towards the light, maybe by a spell, maybe by a person. He can’t tell, the dark is too persistent, but when his eyes are clear once more he’s inside, and the burning hasn’t stopped but has dimmed a little, and the monster and his parents are gone. Not for long.
Potter’s there, of course, he would be wouldn’t he. He doesn’t care, he hates him, this was never for him, he hates him. But he takes his hand when offered, pulls himself upright with as much dignity as he can muster, and looks him straight in the eyes.
“It wasn’t for you,” he tells him, because he has to know, “It wasn’t for you.” But Potter isn’t listening, he’s staring in horror at what used to be his arm: at the charred black mass of burnt flesh that dangles at his side. He can’t feel it, no. He doesn’t know why but he can’t feel it, but the sight is enough to make him sick, to blur his vision once more until he finds himself on the floor again, the remnants of his last meal still clinging to his lips.