Disclaimer: Clever disclaimers have been done too many times and then a thousand more, still this will never keep me from enjoying them. But, it's a simple as this, all characters, places, and other odd assorted relations belong to J.K. Rowling and not me.

No Regrets, No Reservations


He had heard it talked about in low whispers over the years. It was a dangerous place to go if you weren't seeking what the management provided. But after waking up day after day to a painful yet familiar emptiness, it seemed to be calling his name, beckoning him to its darkness.


There would be no trouble in finding a way to get to it. His father was always visiting Knockturn Alley and slipping away from him with a momentary distraction had never been challenging. He knew, somehow, that his feet would lead him there.


Footsteps neared his room, money weighed heavily in his pocket, and the nothingness inside confirmed his desire to go through with his plan.


* * *

"Too young." The hard faces of the owners stared down at him.


His heart sank. No, let me do this!


"But he's got the money."


More! I'll pay double, triple what you ask.


The first speaker shook his head. "We can't. He's too young . . . What did you say your name was, kid?"


A pause, then his name. His real name this time.


An eyebrow was raised; glances were exchanged. "Well, now that changes everything."


* * *

The bed was surprisingly comfortable. And black. He found this very amusing, it suited his life so well. No regrets, no reservations. It hurt though, he had wanted to have something to hold in his hand, a photograph, a keepsake, but there hadn't been anything suitable. No second thoughts.


The door opened. He laughed silently. My Angel of Death, how horribly ugly you are! And this is the last thing I see before I die.


She held a needle, this he eyed warily. Vile Muggle contraption. He hated it and its informality. The Killing Curse was more compassionate than it was.


Slowly, he shut his eyes. He felt a small pinprick on his arm and, in a desperate attempt to keep his sanity, he searched his mind for a happy memory as the poison flooded his system.


None came . . . but death did.


* * *

When the casket was lowered into the ground, only one person among the many present shed tears over the boy. It seemed the sky also mourned the loss, as it was the same cold grey as his eyes had been.


Eyes that had never sparkled in joy and happiness. Eyes that had never bespoken innocence or a childish nature. Eyes that had seen unspeakable horrors and were now closed to them eternally.


And though the boy had always hated him, Professor Albus Dumbledore cried as he stared at the inadequately engraved tombstone.


Draco Malfoy

Rest In Peace




Author's Note: I honestly have no idea how this story took form. I swore to myself that I would stop writing suicide fics, especially ones involving Draco, but I can't seem to stop. I don't like this story that much as a result, but I thought I'd post it anyway, so reviews are welcomed and flames are laughable.