Notes: This is the scene in the books where Malfoy is crying in the bathroom.
Disclaimer: Characters and settings belong to J K. Rowling.
Draco Malfoy's Guide to Being a Coward
I've never run away before. Sure, like all kids, I've skipped the occasional class, not turned in the occasional paper. I even ran away from my parent's house last summer for a few days, and father was furious. But I've never run away. Not like this.
The only issue is that running away from this could get me killed. No, check that. It will get me killed, and the only thing I can do to prevent that is to do this. This is impossible, and there is no way that I will be able to do it. I am too weak.
Malfoys have never admitted to weakness before now. But the way I see it, I'm not just admitting my weakness, I'm protecting myself. Is it too late to seek help, to seek solace with the very man that I am being coerced to kill? This stupid tattoo on my arm is no longer freedom, it a mark of the enslaved. A mark which I will never escape. What is it about me that makes me want this life so much? Is it just father?
Because I never chose this. I never said that I wanted this. I never consented. I never agreed to sign any contract. But somehow, my name, Draco Malfoy, is inscribed on a contract that I want nothing to do with any more in the form of a snake coiling up and down my right arm. The wand in my hand had given me such freedom before, like in the first year that I came to Hogwarts. When I had held it then, I had felt such power; I could do anything, and nothing could get in my way. But now, it is only a burden. A means of escape; my only means; by death.
I could end this right now. I could end my suffering right here, and never look back upon it, because I would never have a chance to. But that would be the coward's way out, and Malfoys, though they might be egotistical, cunning, and rich, are not cowards. Because if I end it right now, Dumbledore will still die, Voldemort will still kill my only hope, many people's innocent blood will be on the hands of dark, cowardice wizards, and I will still be dead.
Because that is how it all must end. If I do my job and kill Dumbledore, Potter or one of the other teacher's will surely kill me. If I should not kill Dumbledore, then my own father or Voldemort will kill me. If I kill Potter, then Voldemort will kill me for taking his chance from him. If I kill Voldemort, I will have a horde of Death Eaters after me. If I kill myself here, Voldemort will kill my parents. That is how it all must end.
I now see why my father calls Voldemort the Dark Lord, and it is for this reason that I will call him that no longer. It is not simply because my father is afraid; I know that he is afraid, though he will never show it. We share the Malfoy pride. But he respects Voldemort. My father— what a fool! —will respect anyone who is willing to give him the power that he so desires. And Voldemort has that power.
I care no more for power. I did at first, when I was younger. I did even so as much up to the time that I was given the cursed mark upon my arm, forever sealing me as a slave. But now, what does that matter?! What will power gain me that I have not already?! Why would my father, who I had always thought to be a learned man, care for such things?!
My mother is not so. I think that she is like me. I wonder now, as I concentrate only on the wetness of my cheeks, whether or not she has thought the same thoughts as I. Has she contemplated ending herself, just as I am, and has she come to the same conclusion that I have, that Malfoys don't do that? She is only a Death Eater because of my father, and she knows that in her heart. But they both—my parents—know that the only reason that I am sealed is to punish my father.
They both know that I am going to die, because Voldemort has given me the task which he knows I will never be able to perform. But I have yet to preform it. How could my father have let this happen to his own son?! What kind of a wretched man does this to anyone?
My fingers tighten around the wand in my hand as I lean against the bathroom sink. The marble is so, so cold against my two palms, and my feet are growing weary from standing. Another sob echoes out into the bathroom, and I know that no one can hear it, but it still makes me curse myself. The marble is just so cold. As cold as the death we are both to face.
Potter and me. We have a lot more in common than I should like to admit. We were both expected to be brave beyond our years our entire lives. We were both abandoned by our parents. His parents were killed. My have stopped caring. We are both sentenced to die.
But that is the place that we deviate in likeness. Potter will die a hero, sacrificing his very life for all those who he loves, and even those he does not. He will be remembered as the brave, valiant, honorable, hero. He will be commemorated, and he will be served, even in his death. That is how he was born, and that is his destiny. But I? I will die, known as either the morbid, sickening, repulsive man who killed the most beloved headmaster in history, or as the dishonored Death Eater who was too afraid for his own life to perform his only task. A simple task.
I remember when he told me that I was to kill the headmaster. It was right after I had received my mark. I had been surrounded by Death Eaters, and as soon as I'd heard the task, I knew that I could never do it. Everyone else knew it too, but my father leaned down to my ear and told me act like I could. To tell him I would not disappoint.
Voldemort's voice was worse than his appearance. I want to you to kill the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Can you do that for me, Mr. Malfoy?
Then was my father. Do anything but agree, and I'll split your skull, boy.
My mother could be heard crying just as I did as my father said.
Looking back at it now, father was just buying me time. Time to live. Had I said that I could not do what Voldemort asked of me, he would have killed me right there out of anger, without a single regret, because he has no heart. He only cares of revenge. Of power, like all of the darkest wizards. Like all of the Malfoys.
Malfoy. What I wouldn't give to have any other name. It is because of my name that I am what I am. It is all because of my name that I cannot get away from this torture. It is because of my name that I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die.
It matters not what someone is born to be, but what they become.
Words from the lips of the man that I must kill. It seems all too wrong, all too easy, all too perfect. Could even I grow? Could someone like me grow to be someone grater, or have I taken the shovel in both of my hands, and dug—dug too far to turn back and climb back up the walls of the hole that I've made until I see the light? I know that Voldemort is too far gone, but that is because he has no remorse. But I do. I feel—awful. My stomach hurts, my head is pounding and spinning, my heart is racing inside me, and my mind is whirling. What if I could change it all? Yes, I still must die—that I know already, no matter how much I don't want to, I will. But what if I could do just one thing—one thing that changed the whole board, like in wizard chess, how one pawn moving one square could reset the whole game.
I remember once, when I was only 11 and my judgement was low, that I insulted Potter. I have done that many times over—about everything; his life, his appearance, his family and dead parents, his friends, his lovers, his Quidditch skills, his everything. You name it, I insulted it. Well, they say that those who insult are only doing so because they are jealous. I only wish that I could say they were wrong. I coveted, and still do, everything that Potter ever had. But I've never coveted anything as I do this one thing that I am thinking of right now. His right to die.
Harry Potter has a right like no one else, to die. He didn't ask for it, though, which is what makes it so sickening. He doesn't even want it. He isn't even thankful for it. I don't have a right to die, I have only a condemnation to do so. The only difference is that a right is something you don't deserve or earn, but when you are condemned, you are sentenced so. You deserve it, just as I do. Just as every Death Eater does. Perhaps Azkaban was kind.
I am still standing in the bathroom, leaning against the sink. It's the abandoned girl's lavatory—the one to which Moaning Myrtle is native—so I have not to worry about anyone disturbing me in here. My cheeks are now tacky from the tears that have rolled down them from my red, swollen eyes, and then fallen to their demise on my sleeves or in the sink. I am, for the first time, grateful for the ghost girl's silence. Perhaps she understands me. After all, that is all I am anymore. Just a ghost of the old Draco Malfoy, longing to be human again.
At long, long last I finally lift my head and stare up into the fading mirror that is clouded from neglect. Not even Argus Filch cleans in here. Bule eyes, blonde hair, a deathly complexion. For a moment I wonder what my eyes will look like when the life drains out of them. And then I wonder who will be the one to do it.
My father? Voldemort? Aunt Bellatrix? For a moment an image of my mother flies across my mind, but then I brush it away. She won't be the one to do it. I know that. Even if no one else in my family truly loves me, my mother does. I trust her. I don't know why though, because she also shares the love that she has towards me with my father. If anyone has the right to kill me, it is Harry Potter. Not because of who I am, but what I am. A selfish Malfoy.
I might be a brave, egotistical, manipulative Malfoy, but I am no coward, to be dictated by ink on my arm. I will die my eminent death a martyr for myself. I will make a new name for Malfoy, and I will be no coward in the act. Never will I reach the status that Potter has effortlessly achieved, but I will be above my father and Voldemort and all the other Death Eaters. I will stand for what I believe at the cost of what I know is going to be my death.
But see, I don't want to die. Death is uncertain at the same time as being the only certainty. No one can tell me what awaits me, and I, a Malfoy, am afraid. It is so odd, and I cannot express in all of my tears, in my words, in my actions, in my body, how much I don't want to die. I want to live. I want to experience life, and all of the things I have not yet experienced within it. But I know that I will not, and it is all because of my father.
You know, when I first came to Hogwarts, the first time that I met Professor Snape, I thought that he was on the same bar as my father. This thought made me respect him. As I aged, however, I began to hate everything that my father was for, forced to honor him and his authority at the cost of my life. Therefore, I also hated Snape. But now… I know what he is doing. I know what he is doing for the Headmaster, and that takes courage. But I will not tell my father or Voldemort. No one has to know that I know what is really going on, because if they do, many people will get killed.
Maybe this is the least that I can do. My silence will save many lives, and, after all, that is the very thing that I am most jealous of about Potter. No, I will die, but I will let Severus Snape carry out his work in peace. I will die, but so will Potter. How much kinder a death I could afford Potter, if only he would let me. If I killed him, I would be punished by Voldemort, but I could end all of this right now. How much pain I could spare!
But then, if I did that, I would be an outcast; one like I already am. If only Potter understood! How much easier could I make this for all of us!
I will die, I will fight, I will win, even if that means my death.
But I will not be a coward.
Because I am a Malfoy.
Not a coward.
Cowards run, and Malfoys never lose.