No Regrets by Mithborien
He never regretted anything.
Seven years of schooling. Of pranks and mischief, detentions and homework. Of crusades of revenge, hexes in the corridors and whispered experiments of magic. Of three friends he would never forget. One, a traitor of the worst kind, betrayed his allegiance, cowering underneath the shroud of evil. Another leading an undeserved, tortured existence, persecuted for the skin he wore leaving the courageous man underneath unknown. And the last, gone from this world, the best friend who never let him down. The Marauders were broken but he never regretted the memories they shared of youthful splendour and unabashed arrogance.
Of age, his family disowned, confident beyond belief. He was free, fighting for truth and good, destined to win because he couldn't imagine it any other way. Nothing to lose and everything to gain. His friends hunted and hiding, the world bathed in terror and fear. A plan thought to be unbreakable, overconfidence a flaw, a secret betrayed, a family broken. The oversight and guilt and conviction his own to bear. Yet he knew he shouldn't regret the fact that the world had been saved.
Twelve years, verging on insanity, ranting and raving. Company in the form of a lonely dog and the thirst for revenge, ever lasting nights and cold floors. Soul sucking shrouds and strangled cries of madmen. But he was a survivor, always had been, always thought he would be. Thinning bones and shaggy fur, the scent of direction and the sureness of animal instinct. Escape and flight, half remembered obligations and choices, noble causes and right and wrong disappearing straight out the window. Desperate anger and cold intelligence. Revenge unfulfilled. A traitor found, an old friend reunited, a son that he would treat as his own. In light of all that happened he never regretted the choices and consequences of that night, as proud of the boy and his dignified ideals as much as his father would have been.
Alone, running free, solitude by choice. Dark nights and dark alleys. Out of sight. Old friends, old houses, old memories. New friends, new responsibilities, new threats. War rising, voices hushed and scheming. Hurried advice, holiday joy, and company not nearly long enough. Secret plans, too many too late. He never regretted leaving that house, the double memories, somehow knowing this time he would never come back.
The thrill of battle, exhilaration of the hunt. The scent of blood, sweat and fear acute and searing his nose. Power and magic gripping his bones. From his first duel, to his last, he would never forget the feel. Reckless chances, dodging curses, some skills never changed. Fighting fast, flashes of light, blurred peripheral and eyes started to burn. This was far too easy and if he had to die he wouldn't regret the maniacal laughter that filled his throat.
The one thing that mattered, a godson safe and frantic. Wide eyed and exhilarated. Scared and concerned. He never regretted saving him.
But he lied.
He regretted one thing.
He regretted having to leave. He regretted falling, surprise and fear and lights glaring down into his eyes. The blood of family never meant a thing to him, but the blood of friends was something he would never forget. Caress of the silk of oblivion and a clawing scream in his ears. The failing of his limbs and the darkening of his vision. The stricken expression of a boy he swore he would protect and the choking sense of his failure once more.
He had promised himself he would have no regrets.
He was sorry he lied.