Title: Paying The Price
Author: Meatball
Rating: PG
Summary: Draco's point of view on Harry Potter and what could have been, just moments before he enters the service of the Dark Lord.
Author's Note: If you recognize it, it doesn't belong to me. J
Dedicated to Margherita for taking my off-beat idea and saying, "That would make a great fic…" grin Girlfriend, you are a bad influence!
Damn you, Potter.
Damn you and damn you! Why couldn't you have been even half as great as you were supposed to be?
Growing up, I watched my mother and father live a haunted life. Afraid to live, afraid to do anything. …cautiously, cautiously... I grew up living those words every day, in every way.
My father, pretending to be a respectable, reformed citizen, while at the same time having to pretend to be loyal to the Dark Lord, having to pretend to be searching for him always, having to pretend that he wanted nothing more than to resume his Death Eater ways. What a miserable way to have to be.
My mother, having to pretend to be a loyal Death Eater's wife, when she would have given her left arm to be just a wife and mother. All she ever wanted was to grab us both and run, as far and as fast as possible. All she wanted was for us to be safe…safe. Not too much to ask, was it?
You had no idea, did you, Potter? What a hero you really were? What a hope and prayer your name had become?
You know, Potter…if you think that the everyday, ordinary wizarding community sings your praises…the Chosen Boy Who Lived, or some such crap like that…if you think that your name is praised and hallowed and adored by the common folk? Yeah, it is. Saint Potter. The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, Perfect Potter…you think you're revered?
God, you have no idea.
You have absolutely no idea.
I grew up hearing your name whispered, in my own family, by my friends' families, even by my Honourary Uncle Severus. Potter, they said, eyes shining. Potter…our only hope. Potter, who gave us a kind of freedom from the Dark Lord. How? No one knew. Why? Again, no one knew. What powers did you have? What abilities? You were a legend, amongst certain Death Eaters and their families. A hero, a saviour, a dream come true. My own father and mother used to whisper to one another. It was a mantra: Someday, when Potter comes back… Someday, everyone was sure, you would return to the wizarding world, and if the Dark Lord ever returned, as they lived in fear that he would, then you would stand before him, with us standing proudly behind you, ready to fight to the death. And he would be defeated once and for all. You were the embodiment of all our hopes and prayers.
And then I met you.
You were…oh, you were such a letdown. I was horrified.
Where were these great powers, this great wisdom, the unlimited strength? Where were all these great qualities that were going to save us all? Surely not in a skinny, stupid, over-emotional boy wearing glasses held together with sticky adhesive tape.
I could have cried. My father nearly did. I remember the way he looked at me, his eyes going cold and dead, with Uncle Severus standing beside me, his hand on my shoulder. My mother sobbed in my father's arms, while he held her close and tried to whisper comforting words in her ear. Are you sure, he'd say, over and over. Are you sure about him? Are you sure that he's nothing special? I hated to tell him. I wanted to lie. But there were other Death Eater's children at school, and they spread the same tales to their parents. Soon, a hopeless grief penetrated all our homes, and it was hard to carry on. Stiff upper lip, and all that. It was so hard, though. It was our darkest moment. The despair…
No great hero, then. No hope, no help. We were alone.
Oh, sure, as time went on, you got lucky. You saved your useless hide in a few tight scrapes, sure. Or should I say that your friends did? But there's nothing special about you. You're a hot-headed, stupid idiot. I swear you've got tunnel vision. You just have no idea of the big picture. With you, it's black and white, good and evil. You've no idea just how many shades of grey there are. And now we -- the Death Eaters and their families -- have to face the music. The Dark Lord is back, and he's worse than ever. And it begins again. Join him, or die. Hell of a choice for a parent or a child to have to make, isn't it?
So here I am, then. In some old graveyard, under a full, shining moon. Just me and the Dark Lord, surrounded by his supporters, forming a ring around us. My father is still in Azkaban -- another thing I owe you thanks for, Potter -- and here, in the eerie silence, I can hear my mother weeping. She's standing with the other Death Eaters, next to Aunt Bellatrix, who looks like she's having a good time, if no one else is. There's something indecent about that woman. I think she's crazy, actually. Uncle Severus has an arm around my mother's shoulders, trying to calm her. Sometimes I don't know how we would have managed without Uncle Sev. Mom and Dad can be so high-strung sometimes, and Uncle Sev is always the calm voice in the storm, the voice of reason. Even at Hogwart's, he's always there for me. Good old Uncle Sev. Even now, at the worst time of my life, he's promised to help me in any way he can. He has promised to brew the finest potions to help me cope.
So here I am, about to become part of the Dark Lord's ranks, not because I want to, but because I have to. He'll kill my mother and my father if I don't. Oh, but I'm not about to become a Death Eater. I'm too green, he says. Too weak. I'm just a child, he says. But he's got a plan. It will make me strong, and I'll have a chance to prove myself. And if I succeed…if I survive…then I will become a Death Eater, and I'll save my mother and father in the process.
This plan of the Dark Lord's -- it will make me strong. Strong like I can't imagine, he says. It will make me fast. Unbelievably fast. Powerful. Heighten my senses. I'll become a machine. A beautiful, perfect killing machine. So he says. The thought makes me sick to my stomach.
It's about to happen, now. I can see him coming. I can smell him. The smell of blood, and fur, and sweat. What a stench…I think I'm going to throw up. I can hear him panting, and I can sense the blood lust emanating from him. He's disgusting.
I start to struggle -- I promised myself that I wouldn't, that I wouldn't shame my family so, but I can't help myself. The steel-strong cold hands of the Dark Lord hold me still, however. He's bruising my arms. Over his laughter, I can still hear my mother sobbing. The Dark Lord holds me tight, and forces my left arm upwards. An offering.
My last human thought, as the werewolf Fenrir Greyback's teeth sink into my left forearm…
Damn you, Potter.
Damn you.