WAHAHAHA! Harry Potter fanfic:D People are going to slaughter me.
Actually, this idea was rolling around in my head ever since I read the Half Blood Prince. Which was a summer ago. So there.
Anyway, heree you gooee.
Have fun:D read and review!
Disclaimer: Harry Potter wouldn't be much of a hit if I owned it, believe me.
Finaleby anbumoo
It was ironic, really, he thought to himself, settling in front of the mirror for the tenth time that day, how fate seemed to hand you the worst position at the worst possible time. Not that he really believed in fate, of course. He stared coolly ahead at his pale complexion, sneering and the greasy hairs framing his face.
It was kind of like those scripts that mad playwrights write, where one character kills the other and then suicides, and by the end everyone else was dead, except he sure as hell wasn't going to suicide and everyone else had better damn stay alive after all he had done for them.
And yet— a scowl formed across his face— it had been him who killed him, the almighty torch of the light, or whatever else he had been known as. The one man he had ever trusted, admired, hell, maybe even loved had been snuffed out by him.
Albus Dumbledore.
It was still fresh in his mind how it happened, how their gazes had locked and he had called his name in such a pathetic weak voice, hardly acceptable for the greatest wizard who had ever lived.
He had hated the old man then, hated everything about him, from the desperate twinkle in his eye to the way he had made him promise, no, swear, to do what he was going to do.
And then he had shouted the curse and then everything was forgotten and then he had had the urge to leap forward and seize the old man's plummeting corpse.
He didn't, of course. It was part of their plan, and he was a good actor.
He had seized the Slytherin boy instead and charged down the stairs, still with that indifferent look, but inside he was screaming for someone, anyone to realize what he had done, to slaughter him, to force him to repent for his crime.
But they didn't.
And still he kept running.
It was proof as to how much the playwright hated him when he sent the Malfoy boy on and turned around to find the Potter boy hot on his trail.
They had fought and he had taunted and then Potter had used the spells that belonged solely to him, and he had somehow end up with his wand pointing at the boy.
Potter had told him to kill him.
Potter had said he was a coward.
Potter had no idea as to just how he was right.
And yet he had still snarled, no, howled a statement that had forbidden Potter to say the truth again, because he was a coward, because he did deserve everything that happened to him…
Because he could not bear it come from his rival's son.
Then he had cursed, and that lump of a hippogriff had caught him, and he was running again and he had disapparated into the night, back to his master's side.
He had been promised a reward that night. For some reason, he doesn't care.
And now he wants nothing more than to cry and howl and throw a tantrum like a child he never was. And that's just what he does because his acting mask had slipped and it didn't matter because the rest of his life was a play anyway and he could be an exceptional actor if he wanted to.
The next thing he knows he's glancing at the mirror and donning his sneer and changing his costume and replying to the sting on his left arm because it's time for the next act and he doesn't want to be late.
And it doesn't matter, but as he steps towards his new master he secretly hopes that this act will bring him that much closer to the finale and his happy ending.