Sleep was an impossibly futile hope on nights like this. The bed was warm and clean, but it felt like a cold prison bunk. So he lay awake and wondered how everything had gone wrong so quickly.
He didn't deserve to be in the Manor, living like a king. He was now one of the top men for the Dark. Was it even worth it?
He looked over towards the window. The pure white moonlight shone, unobstructed, through the large panes. Top man for the Dark, indeed... Who was there to stop him now? Not the Aurors, definitely. Without a leader, they had quickly fallen apart.
Victory was practically handed to Voldemort on a silver platter, with sacrifice as the garnish.
In the end, the flash of green that killed Harry – the same that had killed both their parents – had come out of a wand held by a hand that had held Harry's before the war and promised to never let go.
His right arm held Harry's mark – proof of his double allegiance: the first for his heart, the second for his head. The Dark Mark took its place of pride on his opposite arm.
Voldemort should've been mad, but Draco had killed his nemesis. Now he was a prized man. He was never too weak to seek the power. And where was he now?
He was rewarded for killing his lover. He didn't know how he could wake up and look at himself in the mirror every morning, knowing that, in the end, he was the one that'd done it.
Now he was destined, not to live, but merely to exist, suspended in some semblance of a half life. His dreams were laced with pleading green eyes, and he was haunted by ghosts of the past, plagued by wounds that would never heal.
fivefivefivefivefive
Do you know what it's like, to fall and have nobody there to pick up the pieces, to tell you it'll be all okay? Have you any idea how it is to live with this ache, this constant yearning that must be denied? To wake up with the realization that it's your fault he's dead, to know that you could've stopped it, that your one stupid action affects the whole world?
They say that Unforgiveables only work if you want to cause pain to the victim, to hurt, to harm. That's true. I wanted to hurt him, to make him pay… But I never intended to this.
I knew that he must pay for making me feel. He must pay for making me believe in him, for making me loathe him, for making me… For making me love him.
I think back to those mornings lit with hope, those tiny, furtive kisses when nobody was looking, and I hate him for it. I hate him for making me cry, I hate this raw emotion; I hate, hate, hate everything about him.
But it's too late now to make him pay. He's gone, because of my stupid mistake, and I am left with a white marble tombstone and a wilting bouquet of black roses.
Nobody else had to lurk in the shadows at his funeral. Nobody else had to have a security troll accompany them to the reception. Nobody else had to hide the endless stream of tears rolling down their cheeks. They could cry openly, and I hate them for that too. Nobody else has to live with the realization that it's their fault, that they single-handedly brought the Dark to victory.
Nobody else lays awake at night and remembers the feel of his heart beating under their palm. Nobody else is haunted by the taste of his lips, the whisper of his voice, his touch on their arm.
Nobody else remembers the marked ridges of that scar, that mark that was both blessing and curse. And, even if they could, would anyone but me remember the silky softness of that dark hair that never laid flat, the depth of those endless green eyes?
I hate him for making me love him, I hate myself for having emotions, I hate everyone for being allowed to mourn.
I hate him for making me believe that I was someone special. Now, I am, and I would give anything for the security of anonymity. When nobody knows who you are, they expect nothing of you, and they get it.
He was always somebody special to everybody. Now that he's gone, everyone says how brave he was, how he died rather than join the Dark. It's a lie, it's all a lie.
He died because I told him to be a hero – if I remember correctly, I said, "So go play the stupid Gryffindor hero-boy again, then, Harry, because nobody cares, least of all me." And he did. But I lied when I said that I didn't care.
He died because I was jealous.
He died because the Dark Lord told me to kill him.
And, Merlin, how I miss him.