Draco's internal monologue

(during pages 546-556 of chapter twenty-seven 'The Lightning struck tower' of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.)

A/N: This is along the same lines as another one-shot I did of Snape called Hate (see profile), in that I said it was for my coursework, which this is too. Some people said it might be viewed as plagiarism, I should have explained that the assignment is to transpose one type of text into another. So this is prose fiction to a monologue. Anyway PLEASE REVIEW because I'd love to get your thought, it could really help me out. Thanks. Read on.


This is it. Months and months of preparation, and I'm finally here. Dumbledore is practically on his knees, and the Dark Mark is blazing brightly in the sky.

He tells me to get on with it. Get on with it? Does the old man even know what he's talking about? His next statement tells me he clearly does, and suddenly makes me realise he's right, I can't do it. A voice that sounds suspiciously like my father, tells me to get on and do it. How many people would give their right arm for this opportunity? And here I am throwing it away!

But what if I want to throw it away? I think angrily. What if I don't want to be a murderer? What if I don't want to become the carbon copy of my father? But I realise that it's either turn into him, or loose him, and mother. I don't have a choice, I will do it. I have to do it. What does Dumbledore know anyway? A lot I discover quickly as he keeps talking. He's known all along.

I listen as he praises my intelligence, my plan, me. There's no need for him to keep telling me how clever it was. I'm a Malfoy. How could he suspect anything else?

He's stalling and I know it. I can't fathom why, it looks like he's done for anyway, even if I don't do it. But it doesn't matter, I let him do it. The longer he waits, part of me thinks, the longer it is until I become a murderer. My hand shakes at this thoughts, and I desperately try to steady it, keeping my wand aimed at his heart as I respond to his inane questions. Why do I respond? Why not? He'll be dead soon anyway.

But he points out exactly what I'm trying to ignore; the fact that I could have killed him ten times over by now if I wanted to. I feel my hand shake again and fight the urge to lower it. I draw my attention back to his voice, he wants to discuss my options? I have none! I tell him so, but he keeps talking, and I reluctantly listen. He'll protect me? My mother, and even father? After everything I've done, everything father's done?

I try to argue with him, reason with him. I'm strong, I can do this.

But . . . to be safe, and not have to kill?

I begin to lower my wand slowly, but stop when I hear footsteps from the stairs, and watch as four of my fellow Death Eaters intrude on mine and Dumbledore's little chat. They taunt him, and encourage me, order me to do it. But I can't. I'm shaking so violently now that I doubt I could, even if I tried.

They're screaming at me angrily, but I can't do it. I don't even look at them. I can't tear my eyes away from Dumbledore. He's on the floor, he must be in pain, but he's refusing to show it. Our eyes meet and his twinkle reassuringly at me.

I drag my gaze away as the screeching stops, to see Snape standing in the doorway. Immense relief wells up inside of me as Snape sweeps onto the tower. I watch silently as Dumbledore pleads with him. Why would Dumbledore plead for his life? It seems unlikely, especially considering he supposedly trusts Snape. Surely he'd assume Snape would help him, why would he plead?

My thoughts are jarred to a halt as a green light hits Dumbledore squarely in the chest, throwing him over the castle walls. I watch as he falls out of sight, and let myself be coerced down the stairs.

Dumbledore is dead. My plan succeeded and Dumbledore is dead. Snape may have uttered the words, but I did it, I killed him. My parents are safe. I am safe. So why does it feel like I've just condemned myself? Why do I feel so empty?

Because, a small part of me whispers, you've sold your soul to the devil, and doomed yourself to a life of hell in his service.

As Snape leads me across the school grounds, I gaze through the battling wizards at the spot where Dumbledore must lay.

Dead.

And I realise that my last hope of freedom died with him.