Had I but known all those years ago that I was such a bad parent, that this was what was to become of my boy, my one son, then I never would have done things differently. I stand here, wordlessly sobbing, memories flooding over me, engulfing me, reminding me of every bad, horrible thing I did to him, every mistake I made as a parent.

Put down the pan, Mama! Please, Mama! He screamed at me as I raised that pan to him when he was only six years old, not bothered that it was straight off the heater and was burning hot.

I wish I had treated him better.

I can't take any more of you! You whine and complain all the time! When I was you're age, I could cook a full meal, and you come here and ask me to get you some dinner! I shrieked as I remember bringing that burning pan down on his head over and over. I tried to rationalize this with myself by healing him when I was done, and blamed the incident on alcohol, and the fact that we weren't living in the best household, what with his father and all.

But now looking back, even when his father died, I still had excuses every single time, for hurting him. I was always either drinking, or grieving, and that somehow made it okay in my mind.

Everything I did, I made excuses for: me, hanging him upside down by his feet for hours at a time, me not feeding him, me hurting him over and over.

All these recollections fill my mind, flooding it with an up well of sadness and emotion, and anger! Not only anger at myself, but anger at him, for not living long enough for me to apologize for every time I had harmed him.

One last memory floats to mind.

My own mother, standing over my dead brother crying quietly, realizing his death was all her fault too, thinking the exact same things I am thinking, thinking that maybe if she had just treated him better he wouldn't have made the decisions that got him killed. Maybe he wouldn't have joined the death eaters, wouldn't have been slain, maybe he would've lived to a ripe old age.

A realization hit's me, and that is that for every single memory I have of mistreating my own son, I have one that corresponds right with one of my mother, and the relationship she had with my brother and I.

So, it's inevitable: all daughters become their mothers.

But what kills me even more, is that I never got to ask for forgiveness. I cannot live with myself anymore, my son is dead, and it's my fault.

I take a quill and piece of parchment out of my purse, and begin to scribble furiously, tears staining the page. I take care to write around them, and to not cry on any of the words.

To anyone who happens to care,

I can't live with myself. My son, my boy, is dead.

People will say to me, "Oh, darling, it wasn't your fault," I know they will. I say it to parents whose children die all the time. But in this case, I know it is my fault, and I can'tremain alive with people saying constantly to me that it isn't when I know to deeply and terribly in my heart it is.

Parents shouldn't outlive their children. It isn't right. Especially when it is the parent who truly deserves to die.

I look at the tattoo that he has on his arm, and it destroys me to know that he wouldn't be like he is, like he was, had I just treated him better, if I had just been a better mother.

I never even got to say I was sorry.

Eileen Prince

I raise my wand to my chest, and say the two words that will take me away from this world, away from Severus' dead body, and will make me truly pay for what I did.