I probably don't look much like the hero they call Harry Potter; years of drug abuse and physical torment will do that to you. The ostracism and bearing of your soul tends to compete with one another, causing distinctly odd looks from passersby. You may not quite understand what I am getting at. I understand.

Those that do not suffer as I do have trouble understanding the anguish and physical torments each new day brings. The implication that all life is sweet and harmonious with all is something Ron would think, I believe. Hermione might understand. She always understood me better than everyone else did. She knew me for who I was, not the so-called boy-who-lived. Gods, how I miss her.

See, this is why I have the joy of living in society's dregs, her... sewers, as it were. Hermione is dead. Ron is dead. Their families are dead, as are most families of the people of my school years. I should have known that they would not walk away unscathed.

I miss them, much as a new mother misses her unborn child when it's announced a miscarriage. I miss the memories of times gone by... good times, happy times. I miss getting to hear their dreams for their life. Their tears were those of those who had grown up properly. They were salty and clear, untainted by life, remaining translucent.

I still ask myself 'when did my tears change?'. Somehow, I know the answer.

It was right after I met Ron on the Hogwarts Express. We had just shared identities, and infinitely more, for we had also shown trust. Trust, which I betrayed. But I digress, and return to my tale. We were just beginning what could have been a good little chat, but we were interrupted, interrupted by a pale, blonde haired boy, who despite his outward show of fierceness, it was plainly obvious he was just as scared as I was.

That boy's name was Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy was one of the things that made my eyes light up like my first trip to Diagon Alley. He was perfect to me; everything that spun an emotion, any emotion at all, was woven into his eyes, into that beautiful backdrop of ice-blue gray. I could stare for an eternity into those eyes and still it would not be enough.

Draco was my enemy. House pride, family histories, friends on either side simply existed to tear us apart. The daily facade of hating him was wearing away my soul. He knew that. Regardless what you may think, Draco Malfoy is not cold, callous and completely heartless. He is quite kind, but only to those he truly loves. He and his father exude nothing untoward to keeping distances. But once in the firelight shone out of one of their many fireplaces, they have been known to sit in one of the sofas in front of one of those fireplaces and simply read aloud to each other.

Some might wonder 'how do you know this, no Malfoy would share this with anyone upon pain of death', to which I answer, you don't know Draco.

---~*~-#-~*'~'*~-#-~*'~'*~-#-~*~---

In these words, this seemingly endless number of pixels, I have told you my true story, as all stories should. In my sentences, I have told the truth. In a simplified form, however: I lost everything one night, lived that way for ten years, gained all I ever wanted in one day, lived like that happily for five years, then slowly lost everything over a thread of seven more years to a nameless entity. Sad, eh? You can leave this story now, but I still have one more secret left to share.

I did not kill Voldemort. He killed himself through his consumption of power. He ignored the aspect that he had people tied into this, people on his side, who, just like every other human being, when they're threatened, they eventually snap and will fight for their safety and their sanity. He forgot that, and it destroyed him. He was destroyed by one Draco Malfoy.

Funny how he appears in everything. He saved me. I was at the mercy of the courts of Death Eaters. I had been silently pleading those fierce icy gray eyes to help me, do something, or at least take me from this misery right now. But he stood and ignored. He stood and watched. He stood until Voldemort himself had come to finish the job he started all those twenty-two years ago. He had barely raised his hand (for he was capable of wandless magic), when two words were uttered by my savior.

Voldemort fell.

---~*~-#-~*'~'*~-#-~*'~'*~-#-~*~---

They all knew it wasn't me. Nevertheless, I was blamed. Still I have been tortured with the knowledge. I never killed Ron or Hermione, but in spite of everything, it landed me in Azkaban.

Now I have come full circle, and have completed my tale. I hope that the wise will contemplate the inner meaning etched just below the surface. The foolish will think 'ah, what a sad story; what's for lunch, eh?'. The tactful will use this knowledge to their advantage, whilst the ever gullible will repeat this mistake, because they never quite learned it the first time.

Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw;

the gullible, the foolish, the tactful, and the wise.

With all blessings there are curses; with all darkness there is light. Do not let past pains torment your future, otherwise you will lose all you ever had. Which, by the way, all you or anyone ever had, were emotional ties with others. Remember, a supposedly evil child with a Death Eater father has cried on my shoulder. No one can be all bad, right? I just hope he remembers that.

Fin'