The Darkness of Mind

A/N: I've never been much of a Malfoy fan, although I do appreciate well-crafted villains. But the sixth Harry Potter book finally added the necessary depth to Malfoy's character, and I found myself haunted by a plot bunny that didn't let go until this story was finished. So here it is - my first Malfoy fanfic ever, dealing with a guilt-ridden Draco struggling with the dark consequences of his actions. Be warned; like most of my stories this is pretty sentimental and involves a lot of crying. This was actually meant to be a one-shot; a short story of about the length of "The Brightest Star in the Sky" (one of my other HP stories posted here), but the story somehow developed a life of its own and practically forced me to enlarge it by several chapters. Strange thing, mystifying...

MAJOR SPOILER WARNING FOR BOOK SIX - do NOT read this unless you've already FINISHED "Half-Blood Prince," or you'll regret it for the rest of your HP fandom days...

As usual, please send a review and tell me if you spot any grammar/vocabulary/syntax/whatever mistakes - thanks in advance J

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, nor do I intend any copyright infringement. All characters mentioned were created by J.K. Rowling (takes a bow), and this story has been written for the sole purpose of creativity and free-of-charge enjoyment.

Now for the story...

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My mind is darkness now
My God, I am sick!
I've been used
And you knew all the time
God, I'll never ever know
Why you used me for your crime!
Your foul, bloody crime!
You have murdered me!
You have murdered me...

- "Judas' Death" from JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR
(Andrew Lloyd Webber/Tim Rice)

And of my weeping something had been left,
which must die now.
I mean the truth untold,
the pity of war,
the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.

- Wilfred Owen, "Strange Meeting"

Chapter One - AFTERMATH

Draco Malfoy clenched his teeth in the futile attempt to hold back the tears welling in his eyes. It didn't help; the salty drips trickled down his flushed cheeks, which were glowing almost eerily in his otherwise deadly pale face. With an angry move of his hand he wiped them away, but fresh tears followed almost immediately. After a few more wipes that produced no effect other than that his sleeve ended up drenched, he gave it up and clenched his fists instead. He tried to tell himself that the tears were the result of the pain his fingernails caused as he dug them deep into the soft, white flesh of his hands, but who was he kidding?

The truth was that Draco Malfoy was guilt-ridden. He wouldn't dare to say it out loud, but here in the darkness of the shabby room where his only company was his ghostly reflection in the cracked mirror, Draco admitted that he had overestimated himself. He was not as cold and evil as he had hoped. He was not a killer, and despite everything his parents had imbued him with for all his life, despite family tradition, Draco discovered that he was different: he had a conscience; he was not unscrupulous. His wickedness and malice had its limits, and his final encounter with Albus Dumbledore had pushed him to these very limits. He had not been able to take the final step. He had not been able to perform the task the Dark Lord had set him. Severus Snape had completed it for him. And although the Dark Lord's wishes had been fulfilled, Draco's punishment had been merciless: Lord Voldemort had forced him to watch his mother being executed.

Perhaps this had been the moment when Draco finally got a grasp on what he had ignored all along. Despite all he knew of the Dark Lord, he had till then not fully appreciated the strictness and cruelty Voldemort bestowed even upon his own followers. Even during the year, when he had struggled to carry out Voldemort's wishes and had sometimes despaired with his task, he had, though afraid of Voldemort's punishment, never really believed the Dark Lord might actually do what he had threatened to if Draco failed. Not even when he had watched Snape speaking the Curse had Draco thought that Voldemort would have his mother killed. After all, the task had been completed, although by someone else.

Now that it was too late, Draco knew better.

He moaned as the memory stirred up again - he saw his mother being dragged into the room, her pale eyes wide with terror, making useless pleas to her sister Bellatrix, who stood beside Lord Voldemort, her expression stone-cold and bare of any emotion. He heard Voldemort's evil laughter as he ordered Snape to speak the curse, saw Snape's wand aim at Narcissa, who at that point had stopped pleading and only looked at Draco, heard Snape's voice speak the curse Draco had once wished to be able to perform.

The rest was a blur of flashing green light, screams, and howling laughter. The next clear memory was that of Narcissa lying on the floor, a look of unspeakable terror in her glazed eyes, which seemed to look accusingly at Draco as he knelt by her side, shaken by sobs threatening to choke him.

The only reason why he was not completely orphaned yet was that his father was safely locked away in Azkaban - by now the only place the Dark Lord could not get into. The prison was guarded by a special task force consisting of the most gifted and trustworthy Aurors, none of whom would give in to any temptation, coercion or curse on Lord Voldemort's part or that of his Death Eaters.

Had someone told him last year he would be glad that his father was in Azkaban, Draco would have laughed into his face before smashing his fist into said face. But now he was glad.

At least sort of.

He felt more lonely than ever before in the comfortable life he had led. His father was safe, but the point was that he was not here with him. Draco Malfoy had always been keen to get away from his parents as soon as possible; he'd felt embarrassed by the sometimes exaggerated love and care Narcissa had displayed; infuriated and sometimes intimidated by his father's proud arrogance, cold-bloodedness and strict persistence. Now he would give anything to be back with them.

Draco forced the memory back. He wiped his eyes again with his already soaked sleeve, blew his nose and splashed some water on his burning face. Then he looked into the cracked mirror and almost recoiled at the sight of himself. Nearly Headless Nick could not be much paler. But at least the tears, visible evidence of his weakness, had stopped flowing.

Guilt and shame were temporarily replaced by rage. Draco felt the strong urge to smash something. He was furious at himself for not having had the galls to do as he had been ordered; furious at Dumbledore, who had somehow managed to rouse these unbidden feelings in him; furious at Snape, who hadn't spoken a single word to him since Narcissa's death - not to mention that he had been the executioner...

Another picture slowly formed before Draco's eyes: a black-haired, green-eyed, bespectacled boy with a scar the shape of a lightning on his forehead. The boy Draco had hated more than anyone else in his entire life. But as he attempted to focus all his hatred on Harry Potter now, he couldn't. The blaze of burning fury inside him melted away, no matter how hard he tried to keep it alive. Instead, it suddenly occurred to him that he and Potter had more in common than ever before: both of them had been deprived of their families by the Dark Lord; both of them felt they were stuck in a place they didn't belong.

Draco gasped as he realized what he had been thinking. A place they didn't belong. Was it possible that he was beginning to doubt whether his allegiance to the Dark Lord was right?