Static
The roots of the Malfoy family are not our ancestors but our future. With every passing generation, our roots sink deeper, coil tighter around all things social and political and pull away from the emotional. The furthermost branches matter little now, as we bury ourselves further and further in.
Only to wither and rot.
My son. Perhaps I forced you in too far, but I cannot say I regret it. In the end, this severance is your making, cutting away the paths of your inheritance. I find myself becoming your heir, the most bitterly ironic of role reversals, sweeping together the little you had to offer me in death.
So very little- for all we gave you, you have wrought nothing in return. Even your demise was a defeat, murder by that Potter boy you always sought to best. I will never understand how fate contrived to have you constantly repressed, as if in hope to stamp out the pride that makes you a Malfoy.
I named you in hopes to nurture this pride. This you also failed- you never acquired the hide of a dragon or its fearlessness. Cowardice was one attribute I never meant for you to gain, but it seemed I found failure at every turn.
I regret that I could not spent time with you. It became so difficult see my errors and know that, together, they completed my son. I was never one to be reminded of my mistakes, but there you were, my only heir, and there was no avoiding you. I made do and hoped that you would not find me to blame as the years went by.
Those years were so numbered. It does not surprise me to feel such relief, almost overcoming whatever grieving I am here to do.
I do not want there to be any notion that his murder is your avengement. Believe me when I tell you that he shall be killed in my own revenge, compensation for ways in which you failed me, time after time. I accomplish now what you never managed.
What disgrace, leaving your burdens for Father to bear. Leaving me with no room to grow, as if denied our family's fundamental rights. Nothing remains unflawed, only your corpse and the unblemished translucency of your skin. One perfection you dared inherit.
My own flesh has become sullied. It does not bother me, nor do I regret the sins I laid upon it, but I find that I resent the adding of another. This killing was meant to be yours, Draco, to be the first mark across your untouched hide. Instead, it becomes yet another stain on mine, somehow disenchanted because it does not break my skin's virginity, like it should have yours. It fades with all the rest.
Your second mark would have been that of the lord we serve.
Potter already has a mark of his own, lightning slashed across his forehead ever since that fateful night. He is already touched, while you remained so pure. This time, he cannot escape; he seems to know this, waiting for my curse to break upon him and break him one last time. His death serves so many purposes, and so he sacrifices and he waits and wants it.
His death would make yours seem worthless in comparison. There is only one answer, the answer to all questions involving Harry Potter, no matter how reluctant I am to give it.
'Avada Kedavra,'
The mourners find approving silence for this second death, and all I see is the space where his eyes poured into mine. His limbs are splayed like a tree's roots, arms reaching toward you while I no longer can.
The roots of our family rot away from within, a deadliness beating in its core. I cannot stand much longer. I cannot age and anchor this alone.
Let lightning strike our ancestral tree. Let it fall, and I shall be content.