Disclaimer: I hereby acknowledge that the following characters, as well as situations that the following story is based on belong to J.K Rowling. As such, it is neither my right nor my intention to generate any sort of profit from the following, other than the joy of writing.
Unpaid
I knew, in the back of my mind, that the fruit of my failure would show up here someday. I was surprised, analytical and obsessive as I was, that I didn't keep note of the ten years' passing. I never liked surprises; yet, I managed to shove this inevitability to the darker corners of my mind, until the double shock washed it back over my conscious mind like a tidal boar.
Double shock, from what Dumbledore asked of me and upon seeing the orphan brat at the sorting. So like his father he was in appearance, so like him that it was as if he were still alive. Despite the dead woman's eyes that stared back at me, I found myself filled with that familiar hatred. And as he learned to hate me back, it seemed that my failures never occurred. Here was my rival, standing here, miraculously alive, and young still. Boys, just boys at that age, who used prank and insult as weapons and whose wounds leaked pride, not blood.
Yet, the green eyes haunted me again, accusing me of hiding in a delusion. No longer was I a boy, but a bitter man with failures in addition to this one. How dared I let my grudges and regrets trap me in this unwise, yet tempting, fantasy. So I hated the green eyes too, for destroying my illusion of peace.
All these familiar features, now only belonged to a boy, just a boy. And this boy needed protection. So I took on a chore that offered some penance, but no redemption. The boy may have lived, but his father was forever gone, never to be repaid.