Another oneshot to pass the time . . .

Disclaimer- I wish I owned Draco, but I don't own anything at all. DAMMIT!(punches hole in wall).

Well, here it is, read if you want . . .

Memories consume, like opening the wound, I'm back in me apart again. You all assume I search you in my room, unless I try to start again.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Who wouldn't want to look at him all day? He looked at himself, but not out of vanity. He looked at himself in confusion, wondering when it was that his innocence had left him. When he had begun his slow decent into a life of murder, curses, and his own untimely death that was sure to come. He was seventeen, but he felt forty, with the burden he had on his shoulders right now.

Kill Dumbledore . . .

That's what Voldemort had said. Those were his orders, and he had finally found a way to get Deatheaters(a/n-is it capitalized, or not?) into the school. How Dumbledore could overlook something as simple as a cabinet was beyond him. That particular memory of his orders were frightening. He had threatened to kill his mother.

That's when other memories came, Christmases spent with his mother. His mother would never have forced her into this, but his father . . . He was a different story entirely. The beatings, the scoldings, the curses. All that torture he went through as a child. That's when he realized, if he ever had any innocence, it was gone by the age of six.

All these memories that were flooding back to him, they hurt as much as a stab in the chest. The wounds of his childhood, reopening.

I don't want to be the one the battles always choose,'cause inside I realize that I'm the one confused.

Potter was the one that was supposed to fight. He was the only one who should participate in this stupid war. Draco was confused at what he was doing. He wanted to keep his mother safe, but he didn't want to be the cause of Dumbledore's death. He didn't want to be the reason why the entire world falls into darkness.

I don't know what's worth fighting for, or why I have to scream I don't know why I instigate and say what I don't mean. I don't know how I got this way1, I know it's not alright so I'm breaking the habit, I'm breaking the habit, tonight.

He had heard Dumbledore preach about how good must triumph over evil and how you should have second chances. How all people had some inkling of good in them, no matter how small. But he was also brought up to believe that the world had to be purified of muggles and muggle-borns. As he spent more time in Hogwarts, despite the fact that his house was Slytherin, he came to realize that his beliefs were wrong. His realization was mainly because of one person-Hermione Granger.

She had proved to him that muggles and muggleborns could be intelligent, kind, and . . . beautiful. She was beautiful to him, and he wasn't as stupid as Weasley not to notice her. He was sorry that the only time she touched him was the punch during their third year. He loved her, but he knew Voldemort would use that against him, just like he used his mother. He never understood why he started fights with her, but now he knew. He just craved her attention, negative or positive. He couldn't believe that his life had turned out like this. But it would all stop soon, he would never see her again after tonight.

Clutching my cure, I tightly lock the door, I try to catch my breath again I held much more than any time before, I have no options left again.

He reached under his bed, and grabbed a dagger that he had taken from the manor. Ever since he got his mark, he has used this dagger as a release. It was his cure, and he held onto it for dear life, debating with himself on whether or not to end it now. He managed to catch his breath, taking control. He knew that as a Deatheater, he would have an immense amount of power, like his father, but he realized how limited his power really was. He would have to follow orders, he would not have a life of his own. Ever.

I don't know what's worth fighting for, or why I have to scream. I don't know why I instigate and say what I don't mean. I don't know how I got this way, I'll never be alright so I'm breaking the habit, I'm breaking the habit. Tonight.

It's a lose-lose situation for him. If the Dark Lord is defeated, he goes to Azkaban, if he wins, Draco's stuck as a Deatheater for the rest of his life. He's never going to be alright. He pulls up his sleeve, revealing the mark. He presses the blade against it, letting the blood flow freely. As soon as he removed the blade from his skin, the cut healed, part of how the mark works.

I'll paint it on the walls! 'cause I'm the one at fault! I'll never fight again and this is how it ends.

He pressed his bloodied hand on the wall, the mirror, writing HATE. He took out a piece of parchment, writing a small note.

I'm sorry,

DM.

He sheathed his dagger, attached it to his belt, grabbed his cloak, and headed to the Room of Requirement.

I don't know what's worth fighting for, or why I have to scream. But now I have some clarity to show you what I mean I don't know how I got this way, I'll never bet alright so I'm breaking the habit, tonight.

A/N- Well, that's it. My tribute to the most pain-filled and tragic character in the book. Please review- flames are welcome!