AN: I felt like writing a oneshot about dear Draco today, so this is what came out of that. :)
Disclaimer: Unforunately, I don't own Harry Potter.
REGRET
Death.
He'd grown used to the word over the years. It had been tossed about lazily in everyday conversation, all around him. When he was of a young age, a very young age, he'd been afraid of the word, afraid of misusing it. But now everyone misused it, and none of them had to worry about it. He was the only one who left it where it was, and now he was the one trapped in the vices of death.
Of course, it wasn't really his fault. The only one he could blame was his father, his father for shoving him into these things. Oh, who was he trying to kid? It was all his fault, every last bit of trouble he was in right now. If he was courageous enough to stand up to his parents and his uncles and aunts and cousins, then he wouldn't be in this mess. He couldn't blame anyone else for the idiocy of himself. He couldn't blame anyone else for his own grievous flaws – and there were quite a few.
It was cold. The air was biting at his skin. Goosebumps crawled all over him. He tugged on the end of his sleeve; his forearm prickled, although this was more than usual. He knew it was bound to hurt and prickle and ache from time to time, but tonight, the Dark Mark was agonizing. No, it didn't literally, physically hurt, but it hurt on the inside, and the inside was what mattered the most.
He choked something down. He didn't even bother to think about what it was. As his strides lengthened to a slow jog, he glanced down at the wand clutched in his right hand. He hesitated, closing his eyes briefly, trying to regain his strength, regain his stamina, regain the guts he never had to do this. His wand was vibrating in his hand, shaking, quaking, and he knew that everything within him was doing the same.
The tower was dark and silent. He pointed his wand ahead of him. He didn't want to do this, no, he didn't want to do this at all. But it was either this or death, and this was the only way out he could see. He didn't care that it was the easy way out. He didn't care that there really was another way out; he didn't want to bother. He was too tired to run anymore. He was too tired to be afraid anymore.
There he was, the ancient but bloody brilliant man: Dumbledore. Dumbledore was gazing at him with love in his terrifically antique eyes. He instantly hated it, hated the way it flushed through him, hated it, hated it, hated, hated, hated! He had to kill! He had to bring death to one to keep death from another!
He had to!
And now, it was a blur. He was sick, sick, sicker than he'd ever been. It wasn't his physical body that was sick, no, it was his soul. His soul was dark, twisted, bitter and so, so sick. He knew now, as he ran, that he should never have chosen the easy way out. Death was coming for him, whether he was good or bad or in between.
Regret.
He'd grow used to the word over these years.