It was the nightmares that finally convinced him. Nightmares of towers and falling white haired wizards.
It was the tears and the hate and the pain. The pain he couldn't escape. No matter what drug, morphine or heroin.
A serated knife blade just didn't do it anymore. He needed something different. Perminent. It was a last option, but the one he liked the most, the one that seemed to call to him. When it came down to it, he was afraid. Why wouldn't he be? Who knew if god exists, who knew if heaven was waiting. Maybe hell was more appropriate to his situation.
Maybe he deserved to burn.
Oh yes, he decided.
I deserve to burn.
But he wouldn't go down burning, however guilty, however destroyed, he would not burn. Fire didn't scare him. Looking decidedly unpretty and charred, however, did. So he ignored the scowls, the whispers and the looks. He ignored the names and the pranks played on him.
He was no longer a leader of his house, no longer feared. He was laughed at, sneered at (though no one could argue that any of those sneers even came close to him) he was cast out by everyone. His 'friends' wouldn't look at him, wouldn't smile or talk to him. They didn't want their reputation shot to pieces either.
And on Halloween night, in his seventh year at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Draco Malfoy wrote three letters. One to his mother, who he hadn't seen in a year. One to Harry Potter, wishing him the best of look, and finally, one to Blaise Zabini, his ex best friend. Each one said sorry, each one said goodbye. Each one asked for a single favour. His mother was to move on, Blaise had to enjoy the role of Slytherin Prince while it lasted, Draco knew how easily snakes turned on their masters. And Harry Potter?
Potter had to defeat the bastard who made him the monster he and everyone else saw him as. Potter had to not give up.
And so he sent the owls off and headed to Moaning Myrtles bathroom, singing quietly to himself.
And when there he leaned against the wall, sliding down till his butt touched the chilly tiles and drew his wand. He set it on the tiles infront of him, smiling as its smooth texture left his fingers. Then, still whisper singing to himself, Draco Malfoy slit his wrists and died, with the thoughts of how wrong everything had gone, of how he used to be everything Slytherin was about, but then turned to the cowerds way out. As he bled out, he sent his best regards to those remaning behind, facing the world and all its terrors as he slipped away, maybe on to bigger and better things, maybe not.
XXX
Harry James Potter got there too late to save the day. Blaise Zabini said sorry too late for it to have meaning. Narcissa Malfoy grieved for the son she lost a year ago, and the lost again on Halloween night, too late to tell him she loved him.