I make no claim, nor any assumption, for the ownership of the Harry Potter franchise, and do not intend to ever make such a claim and/or assumption.
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His heels clipped across the glassy tiles, his gait one of dedication. The pale squares creeped up the bathroom walls, towering over his slim frame, as he strode towards the mirrors. His face blank, he reached out his hand towards the silver tap, frowning slightly at the shaking he saw from his own limb. And just like that, it all threatened to overwhelm him.
He had always told his father that he would be the perfect son. No less was ever expected of him. Perfection is not a simple aim to pursue. He had expected challenges, he had expected hindrance, but he had not expected pain. Nor humiliation, nor regret. He had not expected to have his father ripped from him by a boy he could have killed, he had not expected to lose what was left of his childhood to a man who loathed him; a man he had chosen to obey.
And what if he had said no, with the man himself standing over him, wand burning into his flesh? What if he had refused the ink as black as this man's intention? Would life have been happier, calmer, easier, or healthier even?
No. His life would have ended already.
He had been but a boy, striving for his father's approval, revelling in the power that grew from blackness, when the wind changed, and his father was rejected by the master he served, plunging the son into further expectation. He took it upon himself to safe his father, his idol, to free him from the evils of confinement, to restore the reputation held to his name, and to make peace with the master so dark.
He had strived, he had failed, he had planned, and he had given up. He had schemed, he had made weak attempts, but yet his goal evaded him. He had been mocked and ridiculed by those from whom he had once drawn respect, taunted by those he disliked, and laughed at by the master that thought him a child.
His dignity had taken so much. And yet it still continued to bear the wounds. In desperation he continued his task, if not for his master, then for the proof that he was no longer the child they had once thought him to be. He had been overjoyed, at first, when he was accepted amongst them, not realising the humour he provided, smug in the belief that he held respect. But now he knew better, seeing the sneers in their eyes, and their contempt for his father. He was an asset to them; a useful one, yet others could do his job, and could do it in similar ways.
He had grown now, and they would realise that. They would know that his name was an honour, and that his family was loyal, that he should be a respected ally. His task was so simple.
Yet it proved so difficult in practice, with those constant failures, and shortcomings that made him face his commitment to the task, and his ability to perform the deed. This analysis showed to him so frequently, that deep down he was still a child, and that such deeds were not in his nature. Yet his commitment was otherwise absolute, with his childishness, only surfacing in fleeting moments, small moments like the one he found himself in.
He forced his shaking hand to keep moving, hastily turning on the tap. As he watched the torrent swirl in the porcelain, he felt salt water spilling over his eyelashes, rolling down his cheek, flowing away from him like the happiness he had felt so long ago. He reached down both hands and splashed water on his face, hiding his weakness. His heart could not stop it. The emotions he kept bottled up inside him, buried behind the cool façade, leaked out, his anguish mixing with the sobs he choked on, trying to keep them back. He would be strong, be the man, gain power, and redeem his father. He would be feared, be respected, be the murderer.
The murderer.
The sobs hacked their way between his lips, cracking through the air, the manifestation of the proof he could not do it. He would fail. In deed and trust.
His bitterness clouded around him, as he cried his humiliation, his defeat, his punishment.
He sensed a presence long after he should have heard the footsteps, and recoiled for the dignity that at last abandoned him too.
He was weak, he was nothing. The boy before him held such power. Held his life.
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Thank you, for reading this, really thank you, you have no idea how much. :)