The Dead Bird
Draco looked down at the little feathered corpse that lay in front of him. Only a few minutes before it had been alive and singing.
Draco shut the vanishing cabinet's door and rested his forehead against it. The bird held his mind's eye. He remembered how it had looked at him as he carried it away from it's cage. It's eyes had been full of trust.
Draco turned away from the cabinet and slid to the floor, trying to releive his shoulders of an everpresent weight. He put his head in his hands. All he had done, all he was trying to do, all that was to come rushed towards him in a swarm of threats and promises.
He cried. Tears ran down his deathly pale face. How he envied Potter, he was admired, had friends. How he envied Weasly, he had a family who cared. He even envied the dead bird, at least it was now at peace.
The tears subsided and Draco wiped the last few away with his shaking hands. He had a job to do. Tears have no place in the eyes of a Deatheater.
Just because you are chosen doesn't mean you have a choice.
D
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