Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters from the books depicted within.

I have to admit I didn't like HBP all that much, but there were parts of it that intrigued me and have been continuously haunting my thoughts.

And so, here is the result of said haunting.

Warnings: one-shot, very mild language (maybe one word)

Envisioning Salvation

I'll be the first to admit I never think things through as much as I should. Why should I? After all, the world is handed to me on a silver platter and I'm well aware of it. I know what others say of me, I'm spoiled and selfish, far too arrogant and spiteful.

I've never denied it; I've just never really understood why others care so much about how self-involved I am. Self-involved: meaning, affecting only myself, no one else. It's an easy and safe way to live.

I never have to care that I've hurt someone's feelings, only that I am satisfied. I never have to care what the world is really like, only that my world is filled with things that benefit me.

Oh, a part of me knew what I was doing; I just dismissed it as less than important.

Such a childish and ignorant way to live; innocent in its own despicable way.

I wish I could still live that way.

Spiders crawl over my fingertips and I try not to flinch, repeating to myself that they're not poisonous. They eventually slide into a splinter-thin gap between planks of slowly rotting wood.

I'm lying on a dirty floor in robes over two days old. I would care more about my blackened palms were the rest of me not just as dark and filthy. I really should get up — it's cold and there's a draught close to the door, but there's nowhere else for me. The room is bare, cobwebs the only thing standing. There's not even a window to let light in, I must rely on the thin gaps in the peeling walls to discern the spiders making my body their new home. I must be warmer than the corners they're used to.

Perhaps I'm still the same as I was. It's possible I'm wallowing in self-pity, but I can't be sure. The only times I've felt pity for myself have been the result of petty events. Even then I would lash out vindictively at the closest weak target to make myself feel better.

It is a wonder what tiny dark spaces can do for the mind. I've never been so self-aware before. I was a little shit. I still am I suppose. I'm not having an epiphany here, I don't suddenly feel guilty for all the years I spent torturing those beneath me — hell, I still think of everyone else as beneath me — I'm just getting a new perspective on myself.

Still as self-absorbed as ever.

Everything's about me, it always is and always will be.

Except when it's not …

A man saved my life recently and in doing so killed one of the few people who meant anything in the world to him. Normally this wouldn't matter to me, only … I was supposed to kill that person and I couldn't. I still don't understand why — it was in my best interest to kill him and it wasn't like he could have harmed me. He was helpless before me: an old man, slumped to the floor. Maybe he was already dying, I don't know.

He knew, I think, what I'd done, why I had to kill him. Maybe that was why I couldn't do it. He all but handed himself to me on a silver platter and I couldn't even summon the strength to harm him in the slightest.

I wonder what my father would say.

I wonder what my mother would say. I did do it for her after all, so she'd be safe, so I'd be safe. I'd bring us glory and honour and everything would be as it should be — we'd be seated at the right hand of darkness once more.

You'd think I'd hate him more for taking this from me, but I don't. I didn't understand why it happened as it did that night as we were running away, but now, after days in darkness and filth, I'm starting to see the truth of what I am.

"Pathetic."

I start at the sound of a voice, scrambling to my knees and glancing into every nook and cranny of this room to find the source. There's nothing, no change and I touch my throat, realising it was my own voice.

No tears. Never again. It's not worth it. I'm not worth it. I wonder if I ever was.

I'm afraid of the dark. Of what hides in there, what secrets it holds. It devours. I know I'd lose myself in it and never care that once I was a person.

I'm just as afraid of the light. It's searing, doesn't let me hide from what I am, what I could be, what I want to be.

Perhaps it's still very childish of me, but I want to be exactly who I am now.

The door opens and a faint sheen of grey washes over the floor. The spiders scuttle to their cracks, preferring the darkness. It's no contest for them. The floorboards vibrate from heavy footsteps and I look up as a thin hand reaches down for me.

"We have to leave, Draco."

He stands outlined in the pale twilight of morning. There'll be a storm later, the light's too dark and there's a smell on the wind. He doesn't seem to care, eyes sunken staring into mine. He's ill and I know I'm partially to blame. His eyes aren't red but they should be.

I take his hand and he takes us away from everything we've ever known. We walk the path of shadows as we try to stay ourselves.

It's not a silver platter, but if I look hard enough, I can see the shining threads woven into the track.