Dumbledore was a kindly old man, innovative and full of wisdom, but troublesome. For every moment that this man drew breath after tonight my mother would be cursed, tortured. She would writhe on the pristine stone flooring of the manor until blood painted her porcelain features rouge.
For that reason Albus Dumbledore would die tonight. It wasn't as if I was particularly partial to the old man anyways. He was biased and nosey and those were the least of his crimes.
In all reality it shouldn't have been me moving toward the astronomy tower. It should have been someone with a little more experience. If it came down to a duel -wand or no wand- my plans would fall apart. He was a seasoned wizard, after all, armed with decades worth of wandless, nonverbal spells of every variety.
The closer I got to the tower the clearer the stakes became. No matter what I did my days were numbered, but at least this way my mother's blood wouldn't paint our stellar stone floors.
No matter what this was the best way.
"Malfoy?" Her voice was hoarse as she peered around the cloak's hood, "where are you going?" When I didn't answer she grabbed my arm. "Malfoy!"
Two options presented themselves; kill her or lie.
She was a nosey, swotty, do gooder with a penchant for spreading Merlins good word. There was no guarantee she'd believe whatever lie I told her and if she followed me it would be bad for the entire operation. Yet, I couldn't find the words to kill her.
Her hands were warm, warm enough to quell the goose flesh rising beneath my cloak, and her eyes were shining. I wondered idly if her shining eyes were a product of tears.
Tears were incredibly human.
An image of her on her back, eyes cast skyward, invaded my mind's eye. Going through with this would almost guarantee her death. No one could hide forever.
"Well?" She moved her hands to her hips, prepared to write me a citation for after hours meandering.
Her hair smelled like ink.
Her lips looked like petals.
And I couldn't kill her. Swot or not. Mudblood or no mudblood. Hermione Granger did not deserve to die.
I found that if Hermione was the last beautiful thing I ever laid eyes on then I could accept that.
For that reason and many others too troublesome to contemplate I withdrew my wand, "petrificus totalus" her arms went rigid by her side as she fell backwards. And as an act of good will I caught her by the shoulders, lowering her gently.
It was far from a good deed but it was all I had. "I'm going to see the stars." I lied, "and I can't risk a brown noser like you ruining my plans."
She narrowed her eyes, but what more could she do?
The stairs to the tower were daunting. For every one I ascended several more seemed to spawn, but all too soon I found myself at the top.
The breeze of this sordid evening rustled the silver strands of hair upon his head, yet he did not move. My foot falls were heavy on the ancient flooring. Everything about my posture begged for him to notice me, it begged for him to kill me first, yet he would not sacrifice his view of the lake.
"Ex...explellriamus," his wand came flitting from his robe pocket. Still he showed no signs of alarm.
"Now that that's out of the way," he turned toward me slowly, hands hidden deep within his pockets, "I'm ready." For good measure he closed his eyes and opened his arms.
A perfect sacrifice from a perfect Savior.
And yet those damned words would not leave my tongue.
Hi is arms trembles violently -he didn't want to die!- and yet he clenched his fists and braced himself for the moment his heart stopped. Whenever I dragged the image to the forefront of my mind, steeling myself to face what I'd done, the severity of the situation would threaten to consume me.
But my mother, the woman to gave me life, sat within the dungeons awaiting my return. Flashes of her platinum hair and tinted smile threatened to drown me quicker than the image of the headmaster.
She trusted in me just as I trusted in her, but I could not kill a man.
He had to die, but it would not be by my hand.
I lowered my wand, allowing the piece to hang between my pale fingers like a bottle of whiskey.
Moments passed and became minutes yet I had not fired. He lowered his trembling arms, slowly opening his eyes.
I met them without wavering.
"You might as well kill me," I whispered, "because he will and he won't be merciful." I swung my arms behind my head, turning my back on my responsibilities. "It's the least you could do" I continued, "after all I just spared your life."
"Young Mr. Malfoy," he voice was gentle, blossoming toward me with something I'd never had- options.
There was always A or B. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. One or the other, do or be done, but -just like with Granger- some times, most times, there was a C.
His C was an offer.
"Get some sleep. We'll have her out by tonight." When I didn't reply right away he summoned his wand, "oh, and welcome to the order."
A.N. I intended for this chapter to be short and Im sorry if my grammar is trash. It's a combination of me thinking I'm a modern Shakespeare and not proof reading. Read and review