So a little background on why I started this story: I had a lot of depression and personal anguish after the Capitol Riot on Jan 6. I went back to HP for comfort and kept wondering about Death Eaters, prejudice, anger, and identity; pretty soon I was needing an outlet and considered writing a small fanfic. The main character took shape and stuck with me for several weeks, then one night I had a weird dream in which, at night in a clearing in a forest, my OC was standing silently with a canon character, and a dog came running up to them, then swiveled around and ran back into the woods. It wasn't barking or growling, just ran up to them without stopping, then turned away as it got near them. I started writing soon after. Here's to my therapy-fic.

May 2, 1998

He is truly dead. The Dark Lord before me, the Aurors, the Death Eaters, and the other people in the school; as dead as the bodies I stepped over mere hours ago.

The masked Death Eater beside me turns, flees into the red morning light, and others—those who weren't too injured or struck down in the fighting— do the same. Should I run as well, or stay and hope for clemency as the Malfoys appear to be doing?

The Malfoys . . . I can't believe they're all alive after everything that's happened; still harder to believe that I haven't killed one of them, yet. . .

I turn and walk from the Great Hall.

There are people rushing towards the Hogwarts gates; some notice me walking in the opposite direction; they give me odd looks. Can they smell it—the blood?

As I walk through the village, a Death Eater sprints across my path, running fast, fast as two wizards go after him—he probably lost his wand and can't disapparate. I hear the two wizards catch him; gravel crunches loudly, clattering as it flings against a building while they tackle him in an alley.

I could disapparate now, but where do I go—the apothecary? The Manor? The cottage? Do I hide, or do I flee? I'm good at hiding, but where? Where do I hide, and what happens to those I'm responsible for?

At the edge of Hogsmeade, beyond an old fence, the land is stony and wooded. I stop, the sight of the dark, cool pines taking hold of me. My wand is pine. They say owners of pine wands tend to live long, but where's the truth in that? After everything that's happened, after all the things I've done, what will happen to me? A war doesn't end—truly end—until the punishments are meted out and the Ministry says 'right; back to business as usual everyone!'

I don't know what to do.

I hear the earth grinding softly beneath their boots, the ones approaching me from behind. I keep my eyes on the trees. Are they two or three?

"Who are you?!"

They see me; they must. In my long, black robes, torn and dusty; in my solitude at the end of the village, whilst those on their side have all gone to the school.

"Who are you with?!"

A feeling slowly wells up in me; from the Dark Lord's death until now, I've felt nothing.

The wizard behind me—commanding, in control, not afraid to act—shouts again.

"Show me your wand!"

Suddenly, I can hardly breathe. Realization tears into my brain, filling my heart, my lungs, my stomach with dread. What will happen to me now?

"SHOW ME YOUR WAND!"

I can't move; my body trembles, quaking like a poplar in a breeze, or a pine that has grown too tall in a glen. . .

The shouting wizard gives an order to his mate, and I hear the distinctive crack of a disapparating human.

"Don't move!"

Perhaps if I were of sharper mind, I would wonder how a person could shake so hard without breaking apart. Perhaps if I were of clearer conscience, I would not be as I am now.

More wizards arrive. I hear their steady footsteps .

"D'you recognize this one?" asks a different wizard from the one who's been shouting, somehow less commanding, and yet, just as.

"Yes, I do" says a third voice, and this one breaks me. The pine forest swims in my vision.

"SHOW ME YOUR WAND!"

As I reach into my pocket, breath returns to my body, but it's like an angry spirit clawing at my throat.

I wish my tad were here; my mam—even her.

"DROP IT! KEEP YOUR HANDS HELD OUT!"

I let my wand fall; my arms remain spread.

"KNEEL ON THE GROUND!"

As soon my knees touch the dirt, I hear footsteps approach.

"Don't do anything. . ." warns a woman's voice. Somehow, even now, that is what helps me to control my fear, the kind that tells me how vulnerable I am.

Two different sets of arms seize my wrists, one binding them behind me with their wand.

"Up on three! One, two, three, up!" The witch and her companion haul me to my feet. They turn me with them and I see him.

Lucius Malfoy stands unbound between another witch and wizard, their own wands gripped tight in their hands. Their eyes follow me as I'm taken—to where, I don't know.

Malfoy's eyes stay on me; his face shows an odd mixture of—regret? Indifference? Smugness?

You ruined my life. You brought this down on me.

The pain in my heart runs out through my veins, because as I look into his eyes—his cold, gray eyes—everything is pulled forward. The choices I made—I made those choices; the things I did—I did those things, but he led me here…

…didn't he?