DISCLAIMER: All characters and settings found in my stories are the property of J.K. Rowling.
A/N: I had originally planned to end the story after the first chapter due to the fact that this was a one shot thing and I had never planned to continue it past Narcissa. However, as you can see, this story insisted to be written! I hope you enjoy how I decided to end it—trust me, it wasn't easy! Also, the story is rated G, but just as a warning this chapter has a bad word in it.
The Other Side
Chapter 3: Draco
I stare at the envelope on the table, as if it will jump out at me in accusation, attaching itself to my face and stifling my cries while I struggle to breathe. Inside lies my future. It suddenly becomes disturbing when one is forced to place a value on one's own life, but that is what I have done. The papers inside that envelope grant me safe passage out of the country after the war begins. They offer me a chance at a new life in a new country—one of my choosing, no less—a chance I am still unsure about taking. For as much as I hate my parents, I hate myself for letting them dictate who I've become. There are many who would have turned the tides of fate which I have so easily let sweep me away.
I stopped fighting. I don't remember the day it happened, or even the year, but I know that I gave in. Perhaps that is why I was sorted into Slytherin; it was never my malice or greed that placed me in that house. The rest of the school has such traits as those, but I did not argue with my father when he said I must join Voldemort's side. Nor did I argue with my mother when she looked down on me, filled with spite and loathing. I am adrift in a sea of indifference. I have never truly lived. At this point, I am even unsure of what to fight for except my own existence and the possibility of rectifying the wrongs I have perpetrated.
Even that, however, doesn't seem enough anymore. As I stare out the window I can't help but notice the panes, intersecting each other, divided, and yet, somehow, combining for a single purpose much like the world outside them. For even though there are two distinct sides in this war, those fighting are only serving a bigger cause—they are merely serving to the whims of fate and one group without the other would surely bring about ultimate destruction. The balance must be maintained. I have yet to figure out where my place lies. Is it with my mother and those Muggle-loving fools? Or do I take up arms with my father and bleed for an evil cause that offers no solace? My choices are not easy.
Few know of the existence of the envelope on my desk; few have the means with which to obtain such a thing. Those who are aware, however, are those who matter most to me in the world. My father knows of my treachery, but is unable to bring himself to kill me. My mother, I know, would rather see me flee and be deigned a coward than stay and fight for my father and his minions. The writing mocks me for it is the scrawl of a beautiful woman. How I know she is beautiful does not matter, but the writing itself curves in all the right places, looks effortless against the paper. I hate the attention to detail I've shown of late. It reminds me of the stories I read as a child where right before the tragic hero destroys evil for good, time slows to a standstill and he notices the oddest things such as the sound of his footsteps, the cawing of a bird, or the unimportant insect creeping across the rubber of his boot.
It is these signs that make me question the contents of the envelope. Do I wish to be remembered as the man who hid behind his father's robes in terror? Do I wish to stand and fight beside him and buck the trend I have laid for myself these past few years? For I know I will not come back if I should choose to fight. I have made too many enemies to survive even a single battle. They will hear my voice, remember all the taunts and miserable circumstances into which I put them, then they will have no choice but to seek me out and deliver the final blow which will end my life. My choice is no longer whom to fight for, but whether to fight. Those fighting alongside my mother will not accept me—the scars I inflicted run too deep for them to ever forgive me. I let out a soft snort when I realize I have no one to blame but myself for the way my life has turned out.
Perhaps it was my father who aligned me with the Dark Lord, but I did not fight him. And maybe my mother never intended to love me, but I chose to become the bitter man I am today. There is no one left to blame as I reach for the book of matches on my desk. I slowly pick away the green wax seal on the envelope and retrieve the papers inside. By striking a match I make my decision and lift the papers, touching one to the other.
I watch the parchment curl and twist between my fingers, turning deathly black and falling to ashes upon the floor. A witch or wizard could never produce the same results from a wand—only the science of Muggles could create such an outstandingly beautiful thing—just one irony of many to people such as myself who take them for granted and look down upon their simple ways. The charred remains crunch when I close my fist and rain down like dirty snow when I rake them from my hand. It is a shame most wizards do not have the capacity to appreciate the fine intricacies of real fire; magical fires lack a soul, they are merely purposeful. To create a soulless entity so devoid of the life it had intentionally been created to hold is a damning thing. I find it adequately parallels my life.
As I stand and pick up my wand, I realize there is nothing left for me in this world and my joining my father will only reassure what I have led others to believe about myself. I will not die for him or the Dark Lord, though they may perceive it as such. I will be dying for myself. I can only hope my next life turns out better than this one. The scar on my arm burns before glowing a furious red and I extinguish the dripping candle by which I have been musing. A trip down the stairs leads me to the only woman I have ever loved and I apologize to my mother one last time before Disapparating to my father's side.
"It matters not how straight the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul."
"Invictus," by William E. Henley