Pawn
Draco Malfoy stared in mild revulsion at the entire contents of his supper (which wasn't much, though it seemed to have multiplied with the pinkish stomach acid) settling sluggishly at the bottom of the marble sink in the abandoned girls' restroom.
"Dammit," he muttered weakly, choking back another gag that heaved his stomach up through his chest. His midnight pale skin had turned cool and clammy, and his hair, wet with perspiration, clung to his face. Breathing heavily, he looked up into the mirror in front of him. Dark circle encased his eyes, outlining his already sharp features. It was as if someone had super- imposed an image of a skull, dead and barren, over his features. His pale skin and white hair didn't help this image. The countless troubled and sleepless nights had defiantly worked their magic. He twisted the rusting faucet handle and let the cold water run into his sweating palms. With a harsh, he splashed the water on to his stained face, running his long fingers back into his hair. Wash away the guilt. Wash away the fear. Wash away the sin. A second glance into the mirror. A skull stared back.
"Dammit!" Heaving through the last of his energy, Draco kicked the back underwall of the sink out of frustration. "Damn it," he whispered, his voice cracking into a sob. Defeated, he rested his head on the rim of the ancient sink.
Why did he have to be the one to off the old man? What did the Dark Lord think it would prove? There were dozens of other Death Eaters much more skilled, and willing, to have the honor of killing the one and only Albus Dumbledore. Was it because his father had failed? Did he think it was necessary to restore the Malfoy family honor? Screw honor. Once he may have been filled with pride for his family, for the Dark Lord, or everything both of them stood for, but no longer. It was now only a fleeting memory. No- it no longer existed. Screw it all. Behind him Draco heard loud footsteps breaking though the sounds of his choked crying. He lifted his head and turned to face his intruder, his composure only halfway regained.
It was Potter. Always Saint Potter. Did the boy feel it his duty to come barging in on him to declare his wrong-doings whenever he was given the opportunity? Did Potter think he didn't understand the seriousness of his actions? Like he was a child? Or did Potter find joy in informing him he was scum so low he didn't deserve to live. The thought made him sick.
He struck Harry with a slash of his wand. How was it fair? How the hell was it fair that Harry Potter was guarded with the upmost security each and every day from the Dark Lord, who could not easily destroy him? It would take months of planning, at least, to come up with a feasible way to kill "The Boy Who Lived". What did Potter have to worry about? He had time and an entire guard to help him plan his counter attack. He had time to find a way to escape. But he, Draco, had nothing. He had no guards to protect him. There was Snape, yes, but he only had his pathetic attempts at helping him in his task. No one was to help should the Dark Lord change his mind and decide that he was unfit to complete the task of killing Dumbledore. Voldemort had constant access to him if he wanted him dead. Every minute of every day the thought of his own impending death hung on his shoulders like lead weights. He found himself paranoid, looking around corners and checking behind him, waiting for a wand to be pointed at his back and the Killing Curse muttered softly in his ear like the sweet lullaby of eternal sleep. Maybe he would be glad if it came.
He and Potter were now throwing blows at one another as if it were a sort of game. Some kind of horrible game. That's all anything really was anymore. He, Draco, was the unwilling pawn, seemingly unimportant. Forever was he surrounded by queens, and castles, and knights, and bishops, whose powers and abilities far surpassed his own. Yet, in the end, he had to make the final blow to the king, had to strike him down with his singular attack. But how was he to make it to the king with only one movement? It was nearly impossible. An entire army stood between him and his white target, but his own army was elsewhere, fighting on other chessboards, unconcerned with his matters. He was only a lonely pawn.
"Sectumsempra!"
It hit Draco like a swift blade sinking into his chest, cutting off any air he had been taking in through shallow breaths. He could feel the magic searing across his chest and his stomach and he knew the blackness inching its way into his steadily fuzzing grey eyes would take over quickly. Dimly, he wondered if he would die. Inside of him, a small desire for death rose up. He couldn't kill Dumbledore, as much as he hated the man. Nor could he bring himself to kill Potter if the opportunity arose. He couldn't commit murder. He was a failure. A failure to the Dark Lord's plans and he knew that someday the master he served would be the one to end his life. Perhaps it was better to die by Potter's hand, the hand of a foe, than his failure be discovered by the Dark Lord and he be killed shamefully. Letting his eyes fall shut, he slipped away into the black, cursing his fate, his father, the Dark Lord, but most of all cursing himself. His wretched self and his immature eagerness to join the Death Eaters' ranks. But reflecting, it was not as if he had much of a choice.
Somewhere in the void he floated in, Draco felt distant hands running gently over his wounds. Sharp ice cut into the black and he felt a gasp escape his lips and his torso jerk.
None of it was his choice, not even from the beginning did he have the power to decide his own fate. Did he have the power to say no to his father's wishes as a child? Or his aunt's? What power did he have to deny them, or question what they told him was correct? He had none. Nothing. He was again the pawn, the lowly piece thrown around the board by the players shaping his battle, with no power to move on his own. The option he was given was to sit, wait, and move where instructed. Even then, as he lay in agony, soaked in icy water and pools of his own blood, choices were being made for him. No one asked him if he valued his life enough to save it. No one asked if he wanted to be healed. Yet here they were, cleaning and repairing the mortal gashes running themselves along his thin body. He had a dim idea of who it was. The quick, hushed voice was all too familiar, but it ceased, and the fire blazed incantation stopped.
The pain was almost unbearable. No scream issued from his mouth simply because he did not possess the energy to create one. Never was he strong enough. Not even for a damn scream. Surprisingly sturdy arms pulled his limp frame from his would be watery grave, clutching his shoulder blades and the bends of his knees tightly. All at once explosions of agony broke through his skin and he felt his consciousness leave him. But before he was completely lost he uttered one thing;
"Don't fix me…"
And he was lost into oblivion.