A/N title refers to the myth of Icarus, Don't own them, spoilers for HBP, yada yada yada, enjoy.
Another glass of firewhiskey was poured, the amber liquid illuminated by the only light in the room coming from the fireplace that was slowly warming the cold stone room. He had half a mind of putting it out, plunging the room into cold darkness, he deserved it, he didn't want the warmth, he didn't want the comfort of a roaring fire. He didn't want the light it provided. He gulped it down and poured another.
He hung his head, staring through the amber liquid as if it was one of Trelawny's crystal balls and could tell him something about his future, give him some kind of consolence for what he did, but he found none, the only consolence he got was from the liquid burning it's way down his throat, numbing the pain, if only temporarily. It was better than nothing, it was better than having to face the pain, it was easier to just drink it away.
He had done the unthinkable. The only man he had ever trusted, the only person who he could ever say he loved, the man that was more a father to him than his own father ever was was gone, thanks to him. He had struck him down with his own hands, he was the one that had said it, that awful two words six syllables that had caused the demise of the man that he respected above all others.
The last few minutes, before he had done it, had been the most horrible minutes of his life. The man had pleaded with him, he knew why he was pleading, but he couldn't help but thing that his mentor, his friend, was pleading for his life and not for his death. The man who had given him wings was gone.
He had sworn to him that he would be loyal, that he would would live up to the trust that the man had put in him, the man had taken a weight off of his soul and allowed him to fly, however briefly and however little he showed it. And now, he had repayed the man by killing him, something he never once wanted to do.
But he had to, he had no other choice. It had been the old man's decision to do it in the first place, the man had wanted to die, if only to remove himself from the fight, he claimed it was the boy's fight, and not his own, that the first one may have been his, but it was his no longer, and that if anything happened, he would have to die. And it was with the blood soaked hands of the man he trusted that he did.
He sympathized with Lady MacBeth, for he knew now how hard it was to wash away the blood that stained your hands. He had to kill the only man to have trusted him for without that death, the cause would have gone down, he would no longer live, but he now he sought death after what he did, the only thing keeping him alive was his will to not see evil prevail.
If he hadn't done it, it would be two deaths on his own conscience as well, his own, and the boy's. Because if the boy died, so would he, if he hadn't stepped in and killed the man, the boy would've been killed, and he would have faced the horrible, agonizing death of the unbreakable vow.
But despite all the reasoning behind it, he couldn't believe what he had done, he couldn't bring himself to accept what he did, it weighed like a heavy weight on his soul, the same weight that the man had removed had returned. His wings had melted away. And Icarus came crashing to the ground.