A/N: This one's kinda dark. And sappy. It's about Draco and his last thoughts. Not exactly happy reading.
***
I hate being me, which is good because I won't be me much longer. I think everyone says that, but I don't think anyone ever meant it as much as I do. I hate that my first reaction was always to say something cruel and hateful. Conditioning, I suppose. I hate that the only people who are interested in conversing with me happen to be treacherous, evil and/or idiots. I hate that I can't tell my "friends" anything that worries me or troubles me because somehow it would get around school that Draco Malfoy had feelings other than contempt. Worse, my father would hear about it.
I never knew how, but invariably my father knew everything that happened to me. He knew the moment I showed the slightest deviation in the Plan he had laid out for me. Plan with a capital P. The master plan. Before I was even born my life had been planned out for me. I was to be in Slytherin and make friends with those who would help me later in life. I was to become a powerful wizard. Then, I'd be a great Deatheater. I'd help Lord Voldemort in his rise to power. Then I'd be the ultimate backstabber and kill him. My father had loyalties to no one but himself. It was for this ultimate destiny of ruling the entire wizarding world that I was prepared.
My father seemed to take the words "We forget our pleasures, we remember our sufferings" to heart in raising me. I will never forget what he has done to me. My father loathed weakness of any kind, even more than he loathed disobedience. When I was five, I was terrified of snakes. My father locked me in a room with the largest snake I had ever seen and wouldn't let me out until I killed it. I spent three days in that room, half out of my mind with fear. I hadn't slept, scared the snake would crush every bone in my body. I hadn't eaten either and hunger was gnawing at my ribs. Terror was disintegrating my reasoning. By dawn of the fourth day, I was desperate enough to drop a pile of books on the snake's head, killing it instantly. Father was pleased, even if I had made a mess. He had said there was hope for me yet. I remember the elation I felt at this remark, even though it was praise by no one else's standards. It was more of an acceptance that I was the only material he had to work with. I was never quite the same ever that. It was as if the snake defeated me after all.
I think I was nine when I realized my father didn't honestly give a damn about me. I was sick, violently so. I was burning up one moment and my teeth were chattering the next. I spent most of my time sleeping. I was fed broth for days on end because I couldn't keep anything else down. My body ached when I moved. Hell, it ached when I didn't move. My mother would visit me often, but my father never came, until one night about six days into this sickness. He looked down at me in my bed and sneered. "This is the son my wife bore me. This is my heir. This is the foundation for all my plans! And here he lies weak, pathetic, like a half-squashed bug because of a head cold. I would have done better if I had a daughter," he said. The words fell on my ears like a hailstorm, just as cold and damaging. I think I cried then. "H'm. I may have a daughter, at that. Perhaps we should rename you. Something nice and feminine- Rosa perhaps." I remember protesting, even to my own ears I sounded pitiful begging for his acceptance. And then he spit on me. I was like a light had been snuffed out somewhere inside me and there was a cold hatred slowly filling my veins. I glared at him silently. He gave me one more contemptible sneer and left.
My mother isn't evil; she is snobbish. I'm certain she married father for exactly two reasons: his money and his name. She was also from an old, rich wizarding family. She was selective about her company. There's nothing wrong about that. It was her greatest dismay to see the death eaters assemble in our banquet hall. She felt we weren't mixing with "the right sort" and that "the riffraff should be put out." She muttered these things to herself, not daring to tell father. I was always near her and came to know her mind on many issues from her self-addressed mutterings. I loved my mother, I still do. My mother is tall and beautiful with fair hair. She has the fairest hair I ever saw. Her eyes are generally hard when she looks at others but they're always soft for me. She always smiles at me. She used to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. My answer was always "more powerful than Lord Voldemort." Her mouth twitched at the corners and she looked pained. She never stopped asking me that.
I hate that people have given up on me. People never give up on Neville Longbottom, though I swear one day he'll kill us all in one of those horrible accidents he keeps having. Why should they give up on me? Why have the great and wonderful Harry Potter and his friends given up on the possibility that I may be a decent person? Why does everyone just assume that I am evil to the core and have no hope of not joining Voldemort? Why does everyone think I will forever bend to my father's will, like a skillfully controlled marionette? Maybe they're right about the last one. That's not my point. Who are they to give me up as a lost cause? My mother never gave up on me. Zara never gave up on me either.
Zara. Like one twinkling star in an otherwise black night she was. Zara was one of the few bright spots in my otherwise bleak existence. She was also from an old wizarding family. I believe my father planned for us to eventually marry. I would willingly comply with that demand. Zara was so bright and cheerful and warm. She was a gorgeous little girl with odd grayish-violet eyes and pretty black curls. She was remarkably wise for a child. She would whisper softly in my ear: "The dragon has many aspects, not just one." I took me years to figure out what she meant and by then she was gone. Her family had moved to France and she was accepted to Beauxbatons Academy. I missed her like crazy. Zara had hurt me badly when she moved and she reopened the wound every time she sent me a shallow letter from France once or twice a year.
I didn't see Zara again until fifth year. She came as an exchange student. I had been eating my dinner when I heard a voice whisper, "The dragon has many aspects, not just one." I turned around in a kind of shock. I recognized Zara immediately. She was still gorgeous and her eyes had a familiar glow.
"Zara!" I gasped.
"I'm glad you remember me, Draco," she said softly. I was thankful I hardly blushed. "Can we talk? After dinner?" I nodded and she left.
I took her to the library. Hardly anyone was in it, which was what I was counting on. "How have you been?" she asked. How do you think I've bloody been? You left me alone with him and all you sent me were a handful of notes! I wanted to shout at her. I looked at her. I couldn't say anything to hurt her.
"Not so well," I replied.
"Lucius hasn't changed much, has he?"
"Actually, he has. He's gotten worse," I replied. She grabbed my arm.
"He can't be. You'd be-"
"Dead? Would you actually care?" I asked.
"That's not fair! I've been worried sick about you."
"Yeah, you're letters were really touching," I replied sarcastically.
"What was I supposed to say? Dear Draco, last night I cried thinking about how much I miss you? Dear Draco, I have the most terrible nightmares about what your father does to you? Dear Draco, I pray for you constantly? Dear Draco, it's been three years and it still hurts like the first day? Dear Draco, I love you?"
"Yes!"
"You could have too!"
"Dear Zara, you've left me alone. Dear Zara, I wish I could talk to you. Dear Zara, I hate you because I ache to see you. Dear Zara I wish I was dead. Dear Zara, Come back."
She looked up at me through a veil of tears. "I have," she whispered. Poor Pansy. One tear from Zara was worth ten smiles from her. I ran to comfort her, overcome with guilt at making her cry. I don't remember what it was I said to her to make her stop crying. Whatever it was, it must've been great because I got a very good response. I was in the middle of a sentence when she kissed me. I held her tightly, sentence forgotten, everything forgotten. WHAM! That sound brought me to my senses. I immediately disentangled myself from Zara. I swore under my breath as Hermione Granger picked her book up off the floor and scurried out of sight.
I turned to Zara. Though my heart was racing and I wanted to kiss her again, my conditioning kicked in again and before I knew it, a smirk had formed on my face. "Don't smirk at me, Draco. I know you better than anyone else. You may fool other people with that look of disdain, but I'm not falling for it," Zara said sternly. I felt a small bit of relief that she hadn't fallen for it. I was also very nervous. What was I supposed to do next? I had never been in this situation before and I could see my normal approach of hurling scornful remarks wasn't going to work. I was at a loss. "You think too much," she sighed. She left, her steps quickening as she ran down the hall. I had the urge to run after her, which I quickly squashed. It would be undignified.
I didn't sleep that night. I was both extremely elated and agitated by the night's events. I was elated- well, duh! We all know why I was elated. Someone I hadn't seen in ages just appeared at Hogwarts. I had been kissed by the only girl I ever truly liked- the only person I ever truly liked, who also said herself that she loved me. That part was also cause for agitation. Did she truly love me? I was almost certain I loved her, but how could you tell? I would probably find some way to screw this up. Nothing good ever lasted long for me. Then there was Hermione. What had she seen? That sounded like a dumb question even when I asked myself that. She had seen Zara and me kissing. Would she tell anyone? Well, Hermione had integrity and- who was I kidding? Of course she'd tell! She'd tell Harry and that annoying Ron Weasley. They would tell everybody else and eventually the whole school would know, which would mean my father would know. Maybe my father wouldn't care. He had been the one responsible for our um-friendship to begin with.
Breakfast was a nightmare. It was terrible to be the center of unwanted attention. I almost felt bad for all the times I had put the limelight on Harry and his friends. I said almost. First everyone stared at me as I entered the room. As I made my way to the Slytherin table, the Gryffindors were busy making kissy faces at me. Harry had a smug smile on his face. Ron was laughing his head off. Hermione had her head in her hands and was trying not to look at me. Things were no better as I went past the Hufflepuff table or Ravenclaw table, where Zara was enduring the teasing with her usual grace and dignity. After what seemed like forever, I finally sat down at my table.
That wasn't pleasant either. At first the Slytherins just looked at me. Then someone ventured to ask if it was true that I had kissed the new exchange student. I was still forming a response when the table erupted with loud comments, taking my silence as a yes. I was more uncomfortable with the talk then I had been with silence, especially because some of the comments rendered Zara's character questionable. "I suggest you keep your comments to yourself, since you have no idea what you're talking about," I snapped icily. Faces turned toward me questioningly. I cast them a look of pure venom, before sweeping out of the Great Hall, which was the worst thing I could do under the circumstances.
I found Zara by the lake at sunset. "Beautiful, isn't it?" I said. She nodded agreement. I slipped my arm around her waist and she leaned her head against my shoulder. We stood in silence before she turned around and studied me intently. "What?" I asked. She smiled. We kissed. It was sweet, but brief. She leaned in for another. I placed a finger on her lips. "Now, now, we don't what any rumors flying about," I chided.
"It's interesting how rumors grow," she said.
"What have you heard?" I inquired, feeling a scowl tug at the corners of my mouth. She looked around and giggled, in imitation of the Ravenclaw girls.
"I heard we making out on top of the books, and that we were actually having sex in the library when Hermione walked in." She paused momentarily to glare at the small smile on my face. "I heard we were going out, that we were engaged, and that I was pregnant."
"How dare you!"
"How dare I what?"
"Become pregnant without me," I replied, dodging to avoid the hand she reached out to smack me. "What was that for?"
"You know what that was for," she replied, frowning, but I noticed that her eyes were not frowning. They were laughing.
I could have married Zara. I should have married Zara, but my father had changed his mind. He had found someone who would make a better match. Pansy Parkinson. I should have drunk poison the instant I got that letter from my father telling me to stay away from Zara. I should have written him back and told him to take his little match and shove it up his - but I couldn't. I never could stand up to my father. I was a good puppet. I did exactly as he told me.
There were tears in her gorgeous violet eyes. Tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn't plead. Pleading was beneath her. She merely nodded. She understood what disobeying my father meant. Perhaps she even understood what it meant to obey him. She kissed me. I could taste the salt on her tear-stained lips. "One day, you'll do great things," she whispered. "He can't control you forever." How I wished she was right.
She was. Zara was never wrong. I remember well the great things I did at my father's command. I killed many Muggles, tortured a few. It's incredible what you can do when your heart has given up on you and left in disgust. We had captured a wizard, one of those who were fighting against us. It was decided that we were going to have some fun with him. Or her. She knelt in the circle of death eaters, hands tied behind her back. She lifted her raven head. I gasped. It was Zara. I rember thinking *No, no she can't be here. She just can't be.*
She looked at me. Our eyes met. There was no disgust in her eyes. Only love and faith, that at faith she always had in me. That faith that one day I would grow a spine. Her eyes widened and she writhed in pain from the Cruciatus curse, but she didn't scream. I don't know how, but she didn't scream. Her gaze was unwavering, that faith always there. "Beg, pretty girl," someone said. "Beg and we'll end your pain." Zara raised her head. She wouldn't beg. She had too much dignity to beg. She'd die under the Cruciatus curse before she begged. I knew that. I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't let them hurt Zara anymore. I pulled out my wand.
Before they realized what was happening, I had killed half the death eaters in the circle. I undid Zara's bindings. "Run," I told her. She nodded. I kissed her goodbye. Quickly, with as much feeling as I could muster. She started to run. A flash of green light told me what happened next. I screamed and ran toward her. She lay sprawled across the ground. "Oh, god. No, no, no." It was a desperate prayer in my head. All the prayers in the world couldn't help her now. She was gone. My Zara. I kissed her sweet lips one last time and left forever the world of my father.
I joined Dumbledore. We won the war eventually. I killed Zara's muderer. I should have known it was my father. She was avenged and I had done great things. But life was cold, empty without her. So I decided to end it. Right now, I'm staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the poison I should have drunk years ago to kill me. I feel like I've been waiting forever. Perhaps I have. I wonder if I'll see Zara again- after death. I'd like to. I have- so much- to apologize-for...
***
What did you think? Not my usual style, I guess. Do I even have a usual style? Review, please.
Luv ya-
J. Silver
***
I hate being me, which is good because I won't be me much longer. I think everyone says that, but I don't think anyone ever meant it as much as I do. I hate that my first reaction was always to say something cruel and hateful. Conditioning, I suppose. I hate that the only people who are interested in conversing with me happen to be treacherous, evil and/or idiots. I hate that I can't tell my "friends" anything that worries me or troubles me because somehow it would get around school that Draco Malfoy had feelings other than contempt. Worse, my father would hear about it.
I never knew how, but invariably my father knew everything that happened to me. He knew the moment I showed the slightest deviation in the Plan he had laid out for me. Plan with a capital P. The master plan. Before I was even born my life had been planned out for me. I was to be in Slytherin and make friends with those who would help me later in life. I was to become a powerful wizard. Then, I'd be a great Deatheater. I'd help Lord Voldemort in his rise to power. Then I'd be the ultimate backstabber and kill him. My father had loyalties to no one but himself. It was for this ultimate destiny of ruling the entire wizarding world that I was prepared.
My father seemed to take the words "We forget our pleasures, we remember our sufferings" to heart in raising me. I will never forget what he has done to me. My father loathed weakness of any kind, even more than he loathed disobedience. When I was five, I was terrified of snakes. My father locked me in a room with the largest snake I had ever seen and wouldn't let me out until I killed it. I spent three days in that room, half out of my mind with fear. I hadn't slept, scared the snake would crush every bone in my body. I hadn't eaten either and hunger was gnawing at my ribs. Terror was disintegrating my reasoning. By dawn of the fourth day, I was desperate enough to drop a pile of books on the snake's head, killing it instantly. Father was pleased, even if I had made a mess. He had said there was hope for me yet. I remember the elation I felt at this remark, even though it was praise by no one else's standards. It was more of an acceptance that I was the only material he had to work with. I was never quite the same ever that. It was as if the snake defeated me after all.
I think I was nine when I realized my father didn't honestly give a damn about me. I was sick, violently so. I was burning up one moment and my teeth were chattering the next. I spent most of my time sleeping. I was fed broth for days on end because I couldn't keep anything else down. My body ached when I moved. Hell, it ached when I didn't move. My mother would visit me often, but my father never came, until one night about six days into this sickness. He looked down at me in my bed and sneered. "This is the son my wife bore me. This is my heir. This is the foundation for all my plans! And here he lies weak, pathetic, like a half-squashed bug because of a head cold. I would have done better if I had a daughter," he said. The words fell on my ears like a hailstorm, just as cold and damaging. I think I cried then. "H'm. I may have a daughter, at that. Perhaps we should rename you. Something nice and feminine- Rosa perhaps." I remember protesting, even to my own ears I sounded pitiful begging for his acceptance. And then he spit on me. I was like a light had been snuffed out somewhere inside me and there was a cold hatred slowly filling my veins. I glared at him silently. He gave me one more contemptible sneer and left.
My mother isn't evil; she is snobbish. I'm certain she married father for exactly two reasons: his money and his name. She was also from an old, rich wizarding family. She was selective about her company. There's nothing wrong about that. It was her greatest dismay to see the death eaters assemble in our banquet hall. She felt we weren't mixing with "the right sort" and that "the riffraff should be put out." She muttered these things to herself, not daring to tell father. I was always near her and came to know her mind on many issues from her self-addressed mutterings. I loved my mother, I still do. My mother is tall and beautiful with fair hair. She has the fairest hair I ever saw. Her eyes are generally hard when she looks at others but they're always soft for me. She always smiles at me. She used to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. My answer was always "more powerful than Lord Voldemort." Her mouth twitched at the corners and she looked pained. She never stopped asking me that.
I hate that people have given up on me. People never give up on Neville Longbottom, though I swear one day he'll kill us all in one of those horrible accidents he keeps having. Why should they give up on me? Why have the great and wonderful Harry Potter and his friends given up on the possibility that I may be a decent person? Why does everyone just assume that I am evil to the core and have no hope of not joining Voldemort? Why does everyone think I will forever bend to my father's will, like a skillfully controlled marionette? Maybe they're right about the last one. That's not my point. Who are they to give me up as a lost cause? My mother never gave up on me. Zara never gave up on me either.
Zara. Like one twinkling star in an otherwise black night she was. Zara was one of the few bright spots in my otherwise bleak existence. She was also from an old wizarding family. I believe my father planned for us to eventually marry. I would willingly comply with that demand. Zara was so bright and cheerful and warm. She was a gorgeous little girl with odd grayish-violet eyes and pretty black curls. She was remarkably wise for a child. She would whisper softly in my ear: "The dragon has many aspects, not just one." I took me years to figure out what she meant and by then she was gone. Her family had moved to France and she was accepted to Beauxbatons Academy. I missed her like crazy. Zara had hurt me badly when she moved and she reopened the wound every time she sent me a shallow letter from France once or twice a year.
I didn't see Zara again until fifth year. She came as an exchange student. I had been eating my dinner when I heard a voice whisper, "The dragon has many aspects, not just one." I turned around in a kind of shock. I recognized Zara immediately. She was still gorgeous and her eyes had a familiar glow.
"Zara!" I gasped.
"I'm glad you remember me, Draco," she said softly. I was thankful I hardly blushed. "Can we talk? After dinner?" I nodded and she left.
I took her to the library. Hardly anyone was in it, which was what I was counting on. "How have you been?" she asked. How do you think I've bloody been? You left me alone with him and all you sent me were a handful of notes! I wanted to shout at her. I looked at her. I couldn't say anything to hurt her.
"Not so well," I replied.
"Lucius hasn't changed much, has he?"
"Actually, he has. He's gotten worse," I replied. She grabbed my arm.
"He can't be. You'd be-"
"Dead? Would you actually care?" I asked.
"That's not fair! I've been worried sick about you."
"Yeah, you're letters were really touching," I replied sarcastically.
"What was I supposed to say? Dear Draco, last night I cried thinking about how much I miss you? Dear Draco, I have the most terrible nightmares about what your father does to you? Dear Draco, I pray for you constantly? Dear Draco, it's been three years and it still hurts like the first day? Dear Draco, I love you?"
"Yes!"
"You could have too!"
"Dear Zara, you've left me alone. Dear Zara, I wish I could talk to you. Dear Zara, I hate you because I ache to see you. Dear Zara I wish I was dead. Dear Zara, Come back."
She looked up at me through a veil of tears. "I have," she whispered. Poor Pansy. One tear from Zara was worth ten smiles from her. I ran to comfort her, overcome with guilt at making her cry. I don't remember what it was I said to her to make her stop crying. Whatever it was, it must've been great because I got a very good response. I was in the middle of a sentence when she kissed me. I held her tightly, sentence forgotten, everything forgotten. WHAM! That sound brought me to my senses. I immediately disentangled myself from Zara. I swore under my breath as Hermione Granger picked her book up off the floor and scurried out of sight.
I turned to Zara. Though my heart was racing and I wanted to kiss her again, my conditioning kicked in again and before I knew it, a smirk had formed on my face. "Don't smirk at me, Draco. I know you better than anyone else. You may fool other people with that look of disdain, but I'm not falling for it," Zara said sternly. I felt a small bit of relief that she hadn't fallen for it. I was also very nervous. What was I supposed to do next? I had never been in this situation before and I could see my normal approach of hurling scornful remarks wasn't going to work. I was at a loss. "You think too much," she sighed. She left, her steps quickening as she ran down the hall. I had the urge to run after her, which I quickly squashed. It would be undignified.
I didn't sleep that night. I was both extremely elated and agitated by the night's events. I was elated- well, duh! We all know why I was elated. Someone I hadn't seen in ages just appeared at Hogwarts. I had been kissed by the only girl I ever truly liked- the only person I ever truly liked, who also said herself that she loved me. That part was also cause for agitation. Did she truly love me? I was almost certain I loved her, but how could you tell? I would probably find some way to screw this up. Nothing good ever lasted long for me. Then there was Hermione. What had she seen? That sounded like a dumb question even when I asked myself that. She had seen Zara and me kissing. Would she tell anyone? Well, Hermione had integrity and- who was I kidding? Of course she'd tell! She'd tell Harry and that annoying Ron Weasley. They would tell everybody else and eventually the whole school would know, which would mean my father would know. Maybe my father wouldn't care. He had been the one responsible for our um-friendship to begin with.
Breakfast was a nightmare. It was terrible to be the center of unwanted attention. I almost felt bad for all the times I had put the limelight on Harry and his friends. I said almost. First everyone stared at me as I entered the room. As I made my way to the Slytherin table, the Gryffindors were busy making kissy faces at me. Harry had a smug smile on his face. Ron was laughing his head off. Hermione had her head in her hands and was trying not to look at me. Things were no better as I went past the Hufflepuff table or Ravenclaw table, where Zara was enduring the teasing with her usual grace and dignity. After what seemed like forever, I finally sat down at my table.
That wasn't pleasant either. At first the Slytherins just looked at me. Then someone ventured to ask if it was true that I had kissed the new exchange student. I was still forming a response when the table erupted with loud comments, taking my silence as a yes. I was more uncomfortable with the talk then I had been with silence, especially because some of the comments rendered Zara's character questionable. "I suggest you keep your comments to yourself, since you have no idea what you're talking about," I snapped icily. Faces turned toward me questioningly. I cast them a look of pure venom, before sweeping out of the Great Hall, which was the worst thing I could do under the circumstances.
I found Zara by the lake at sunset. "Beautiful, isn't it?" I said. She nodded agreement. I slipped my arm around her waist and she leaned her head against my shoulder. We stood in silence before she turned around and studied me intently. "What?" I asked. She smiled. We kissed. It was sweet, but brief. She leaned in for another. I placed a finger on her lips. "Now, now, we don't what any rumors flying about," I chided.
"It's interesting how rumors grow," she said.
"What have you heard?" I inquired, feeling a scowl tug at the corners of my mouth. She looked around and giggled, in imitation of the Ravenclaw girls.
"I heard we making out on top of the books, and that we were actually having sex in the library when Hermione walked in." She paused momentarily to glare at the small smile on my face. "I heard we were going out, that we were engaged, and that I was pregnant."
"How dare you!"
"How dare I what?"
"Become pregnant without me," I replied, dodging to avoid the hand she reached out to smack me. "What was that for?"
"You know what that was for," she replied, frowning, but I noticed that her eyes were not frowning. They were laughing.
I could have married Zara. I should have married Zara, but my father had changed his mind. He had found someone who would make a better match. Pansy Parkinson. I should have drunk poison the instant I got that letter from my father telling me to stay away from Zara. I should have written him back and told him to take his little match and shove it up his - but I couldn't. I never could stand up to my father. I was a good puppet. I did exactly as he told me.
There were tears in her gorgeous violet eyes. Tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn't plead. Pleading was beneath her. She merely nodded. She understood what disobeying my father meant. Perhaps she even understood what it meant to obey him. She kissed me. I could taste the salt on her tear-stained lips. "One day, you'll do great things," she whispered. "He can't control you forever." How I wished she was right.
She was. Zara was never wrong. I remember well the great things I did at my father's command. I killed many Muggles, tortured a few. It's incredible what you can do when your heart has given up on you and left in disgust. We had captured a wizard, one of those who were fighting against us. It was decided that we were going to have some fun with him. Or her. She knelt in the circle of death eaters, hands tied behind her back. She lifted her raven head. I gasped. It was Zara. I rember thinking *No, no she can't be here. She just can't be.*
She looked at me. Our eyes met. There was no disgust in her eyes. Only love and faith, that at faith she always had in me. That faith that one day I would grow a spine. Her eyes widened and she writhed in pain from the Cruciatus curse, but she didn't scream. I don't know how, but she didn't scream. Her gaze was unwavering, that faith always there. "Beg, pretty girl," someone said. "Beg and we'll end your pain." Zara raised her head. She wouldn't beg. She had too much dignity to beg. She'd die under the Cruciatus curse before she begged. I knew that. I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't let them hurt Zara anymore. I pulled out my wand.
Before they realized what was happening, I had killed half the death eaters in the circle. I undid Zara's bindings. "Run," I told her. She nodded. I kissed her goodbye. Quickly, with as much feeling as I could muster. She started to run. A flash of green light told me what happened next. I screamed and ran toward her. She lay sprawled across the ground. "Oh, god. No, no, no." It was a desperate prayer in my head. All the prayers in the world couldn't help her now. She was gone. My Zara. I kissed her sweet lips one last time and left forever the world of my father.
I joined Dumbledore. We won the war eventually. I killed Zara's muderer. I should have known it was my father. She was avenged and I had done great things. But life was cold, empty without her. So I decided to end it. Right now, I'm staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the poison I should have drunk years ago to kill me. I feel like I've been waiting forever. Perhaps I have. I wonder if I'll see Zara again- after death. I'd like to. I have- so much- to apologize-for...
***
What did you think? Not my usual style, I guess. Do I even have a usual style? Review, please.
Luv ya-
J. Silver