A Deatheater's Last Chance
This was his last chance at redemption. He could come clean, right here, right now… in front of everyone.
He knew, that this was his last chance of escaping this life, this life he had begun to live the minute the hat called out 'Slytherin'. He was proud then, but his pride had diminished since then. He was not the same boy. This was his last chance of escaping the life that had been inflicted on him at birth, a life of servitude, a life of failing expectations; A life of a Deatheater. He knew that if he passed up this opportunity, his life would be over; there would be no other chances at freedom, he would always be in the clutches of the Dark Lord as long as he lived.
The Ministry had declared an Edict, The Edict of Dark Slaves, or so the Ministry now called them, declaring that all Deatheaters that came forward within the next month with information would receive salvation within limits. They were offering freedom… with limits. But that was enough, enough to tempt him. It offered deliverance from the life he was living.
You must commit, Draco, you must take the Oath.
He had put it off for too long, too long for mother's comfort. She was pushing, he knew she could not bare to loose him. She had already lost his father. It would be easy, just to give in and take the Oath. Give into the life of servitude. But for once, he was fighting, fighting for something better; fighting for redemption.
He watched the funeral from a distance. He could see the white coffin but he couldn't process it.
Did he really want to kill him? He knew the answer, he had to. But he couldn't.
You don't have it in you, boy. He remembered that night and how Snape had pushed him away. How Snape had killed Dumbledore, how with that one spell the greatest wizard in history had fallen, taking a small part of Draco with him. He had never expected it. Suddenly, he didn't feel so young anymore. He couldn't do it, he couldn't bring himself to do it. That's when he realized, he couldn't have this life, he couldn't be what mother wanted him to be, he couldn't live up to the expectations. It was then he realized, he wasn't a Deatheater.
We are servants, Draco, We Malfoys are servants. We serve the Dark Lord. That's what Malfoys did. That's what they had done for the past dozen centuries. They served. They did not fight. They served. And Draco would be only one in a chain of hundreds to do the same. Or he could be the first in hundreds to break it.
People were crying. He couldn't see them or hear them, but he didn't need to. Some of them were crying for the greatest wizard many of them had ever known, Albus Dumbledore, some were crying for what was to come and some were crying for what would be missed when the war began. Draco did not cry. Malfoys did not cry.
Draco was a Malfoy. Malfoys were servants. He would live up to the expectations, he would live the live he had been born into, he would live the life of a servant, the life of a Deatheater.
Draco left, passing up his last chance at redeption. He was a Malfoy.
