Warning: If you cannot handle death, then this story is not for you. Also, while I'm at it, I may as well condemn all of you psychopaths if you actually believe I am in any way, shape, or form J. K. Rowling. I am far from her brilliance, but props to her for giving me a basis for my obsession and this story. Sadly I am not a member of Yellowcard, but give them props, too, for creating the song that compliments my Fic so nicely (by the way, you should all get your hands onto and listen to Avondale if you can because it is by far my favorite song of theirs and that's saying a lot).
This story is dedicated to Michelle, for getting me into a band that I probably wouldn't have liked had I been on my own and for pushing me along to finish it. You rock!
Hope y'all like it!
I Just Can't Let This Go
When I was about six or seven, my mother, father, and I traveled to a small town called Avondale. We stayed in an old but modernized castle that overlooked the whole rest of the town. Sometime during that summer, my mother used to pretend that we were the royal family of Avondale: my mother as the queen, I as the prince, and my father as the king.
We really were very much like a royal family: riches, servants, lands, and the like. As the years went on, I became truly aware of how my father really was a king: powerful, talented, and ruthless. It was scary how much of a dictator he had become as the years passed by.
My father and Voldemort decided that at the age of sixteen, I was ready to join the Dark Lord's ranks as a Death Eater. I, on the other had, had no intention of doing this. I wasn't going to become a goody-goody and join the 'Light' side, but I sure as hell wasn't about to senselessly massacre non-purebloods. Obviously, neither of them was happy about that.
Now, at a week after my sweet sixteen, I sit here, covered in blood that is not my own. My father had killed my mother, thinking she was a crutch to me, keeping me from putting my heart and soul into my Death Eater training.
If you're gonna rip my heart out,
Could you use a knife that's dull and rust in color?
Once I die,
There will be no way that you can cover
That scar.
It's hard, I know.
If anything, killing my mother only made me more bitter and spiteful towards him. He has become such an evil man. There were days when he used to partake in our make-believe games. In the years a while after Voldemort went into recession, my father loosened up and we became a real family for once. Those were the days when my father flattered my mother with presents and kisses and read to me under the dying light of a flickering candle on my bedside table. In fact, the last time I can remember Lucius Malfoy actually being a good father and wife was the Avondale summer.
The pressures of being in the Dark Lord's servitude had been significantly lifted and he was finally able to spend some time with his family. Those are the memories I choose to keep, those of a smiling, truly happy Father. I try to block out most memories after that, after Voldemort began to resurface and my father once again began to feel the strong burn of the Dark Mark on his forearm.
In the times following that, my father had, for a while, been able to take advantage of my young, defenseless age to take his fury and frustrations out on me. It was really mostly verbal abuse, but I wouldn't even really call it abuse. It wasn't frequent because I learned how to stay out of his way and stay on his good side. My father didn't get smashed and then come home and lash out at me for no reason; on the contrary, he was actually quite a mellow drunk. He just sometimes got a little caught up in the moment.
The last time he ever tried to make any physical move on me was during Christmas break of my third year. Two years of Quidditch by that point had given me better reflexes and added strength. I demonstrated my physical improvements to him and once he got the idea that he couldn't overtake me physically, he backed off.
But that was only temporary. He came home with magical ways to make me suffer. Only because of my mother's insistence did I become as obedient as my free-willed spirit would allow. My mother couldn't take the fights and became more distressed with each one, so I tried my best to keep them few and far between.
And if I get a little blood on you,
Finally the world will know you're guilty,
Know you're wrong,
Of taking every thing you've gotten from me.
No heart.
It's hard, I know.
Until today, I did not think of my father as a bad man or a horrible father. In trying to give his family the best, he made some bad choices, but he always had good intent. Even if that intent was very deep down.
I just never noticed how much of an empty shell he had become until today. He must have handed himself over wholly and completely to Voldemort to kill his own wife. I know they once shared a great, passionate love, as my mother liked to tell me. How he could find it in him to kill the woman he once loved with his whole being is beyond me. I know, now that I have discovered the true meaning of what it is to love and be loved, that I could never even hurt my love, let alone take her life.
What he has done is nothing I can forgive him for. I can forgive him for his neglecting, his absence, the deep and lasting scars of my childhood he afflicted upon me, but not this. Someone needs to bring Lucius Malfoy back to his senses.
Mighty King of Avondale,
I just can't let this go.
Real life ain't no fairytale,
I just thought you should know.
I see no one better fit for the job than I. Really, I have no choice. My father made it as personal as he could (as if killing my own mother weren't enough) in leaving this cryptic not in my mother's limp hand:
If you tell anyone, your Mudblood girlfriend will suffer a worse fate than your mother. You would be wise to sever ties with that filth immediately. With the present war, you don't want to get mixed up with the wrong crowd. Come to my study so we can talk. And don't even think of running away, or you and the Muggle-born will suffer an inconceivably torturous fate.
Upon my reading of the last word, the note disintegrated into ashes. To bring Hermione into the situation was uncalled for, both my father and I know it. Sadness is no longer the forward feeling in my mind. It had now been replaced with vengeance and rage. I slip off my cloak, covering my mother's body in respect.
And when you're finished with the surgery,
I really hope that you will turn to me
And tell me all about the fun you had
When you were cuttin' up.
You were cuttin' up.
I step into the entrance hall of the Mansion at Malfoy Manor, staring up at the grand, glittering staircase that still contained fading remnants of my mother's attempts to make the mansion warm and cheerful. I take the steps slowly, one at a time, dreading and yet longing for the moment that Father would try to explain and justify Mother's murder.
As I draw nearer to the double doors that behold Father's study, I think of how seriously warped my father had become. He had become caught up in a world in which he believes the only way to stay alive is to be evil, to side with the Dark Lord, to torture, to kill. He had become so self-righteous that he believes that it is a serious crime to kill a pureblood when he himself killed his own pureblood wife. Living in this dream world, he also believes that it is fine to take orders from a complete hypocrite: a half-blood who supports an exclusively pureblood world.
Living like a fairytale,
The Mighty King of Avondale,
It all went to his head,
This royalty.
I stand outside the heavy maple and brass doors, not quite sure I want to go through with what I'm about to do. The sound of my father's voice eliminates any doubts I have. He summons me to enter, and I obey, almost a little too eagerly.
He sits with his back to me, writing at his large oak desk, the only piece of furniture in the room aside from the chair behind it and two chairs in front of it. As I feel a chill breeze escape through the open window across the room, I think of how the room reflects Father: cold and empty.
"Draco, the time has come for you to come into your full potential." He thinks that he, as my father, has complete control over me. He is wrong. I do not need him – I could easily fend for myself in the world, at least after I get out of Hogwarts. My father knows this, and that is why he is trying to get me to become a Death Eater before my graduation.
The thing that bothers me most about my father, though, is how he came to believe that my mother was only there at his disposal. He had forgotten how to appreciate a wife to the point that he futilely slaughtered her. He speaks again as I draw closer to him, "You will begin training under the Dark Lord officially once you have completely your schooling at Hogwarts. Until then, you will be performing various tasks under my supervision to prepare for the grueling training that you will endure on your path to becoming a successful Death Eater.
"As far as your mother goes, she was no longer a necessity and would only have hindered your performance as a Death Eater." If becoming a Death Eater means killing your loved ones, then I can't see why my father or anyone would even become one in the first place. Is it fear that sided him with the Dark Lord? Why can't he see that in the end, Voldemort will kill him anyway?
"No, Father. You are a cruel, despicable man, although I'm sure you'll take that as a compliment. Stop living in a dream world."
"Maybe if you think twice and apologize for what you just said to me, I might spare you the punish-"
I stuck a knife into his back.
Inventiveness is what I lack.
He's always hanging up on loyalties.
He never saw it coming. In getting caught up in his allegiances to the Dark Lord, he forgot who it is that he was really supposed to be faithful to: his family.
I watch his face pale, whatever color there ever was in his face dissipating completely. A small trail of 'pure' blood trickles down his side and I find it ironic to see how something so revered can be so quickly lost.
I am not horror-struck by my own actions. I loved my father, but after what he did to my mother, I have no love left for him. If I had not done this, I might've never forgiven myself. I probably could have opted for a more magical method, but the Muggle murder weapon seemed to work perfectly and most unexpectedly.
I think about how alike I am to my father. Anyone can automatically tell that we are father and son. We share the same blonde hair, grey eyes, and angular face structure. Deep down, we also share the same free spirit. The huge difference between us is that I held on to mine while my father gave his up to a lost cause.
I take a quill and parchment from his desk, scribble a few words down on it, and look once more at his limp form. Before I leave the room, the mansion, and Malfoy Manor once and for all, I shove one last note into his hand.
A light wind blows through the bay window, sending the paper fluttering towards the ground as I slam the doors shut behind me. The words on the parchment become visible in the sliver of moonlight that shines on the bloodstained carpet.
Mighty King of Avondale:
I just can't let this go. Real life ain't no fairytale, I just thought you should know.
So… You like it? I hope so! Review and tell me whachu think! And don't forget to check out my other angsty story, With My Dying Breath. Alms for The Nauti Dolphin Foundation appreciated in the form of good reviews, plzthx!!
Charlotte ;)