I've killed him. After fifteen years, I've killed him.
Should I feel remorse? After all, he sheltered me for so many years after the Dark Lord disappeared.
He should not have succoured me. It was like nestling a viper to one's bosom. But he was always a man to give second chances.
I'm not a coward. He had a chance to resist. He made his choice; I made mine. He played his part, and I played the one I was given.
Dead. He is dead. I never thought to live without his obnoxiously cheerful presence. But I suppose every man must die; we can hardly pick the place or means.
Should I feel pity? He made a bad choice; he chose the viper who stung him to death.
Then again, perhaps I have chosen wrongly too. But there is always an answer to that; I will not go to Azkaban, not again. I've started carrying a poison with me, everywhere I go. It is a...special concoction of mine.
What have I done to him? No more than I would do to myself, even after the fight I've put up to preserve my life. I've always known that I would not die peacefully, not since I allied myself with the Darkness. All I can hope for is relative painlessness.
Why the horror in his eyes? He knew himself to be betrayed, even before I walked into the room. He knew what Draco was supposed to do, what I was going to do. And still he walked into the trap.
Gods, I hate it when they beg.
Was there pity in his eyes, too? I do not need his pity; I have none for myself, and will not take anyone else's. Pity is...debasing.
Pity is humiliating.
Shining master of the griffin, where are your good deeds now? Dead and buried, and good riddance.
There is no good in this world; we live in our own personal hells, surrounded by the darkness we cannot penetrate with our weak human eyes, and die frozen and alone.
And if this is true, of what use is any good we might do?