I sit under the small, withered apple tree on the edge of my family's spacious property. I often thought, when I was young, that that tree could not grow straight because of all the evil flowing through the land it grew upon. I still believe this, although I am now 16 and, according to my father, no longer a child. Lucius Malfoy is pressuring me, his only son and child, to join the ranks of the Death Eaters, a task most men would not be eager to do. I detest my father, secretly of course, and I resent having soon to become a Death Eater. Most people think I am just a duplicate of Lucius, but this is not so. I am too scared to speak out, but I do not at all support Voldemort, or all the pure- blood mania. Not at all to say I am perfect, since I can not pluck up the courage to say anything, but it is a start.
I sigh, quietly, and think to myself, At least school will be starting. Then I can get away from all this nonsense. As my father is in Azkaban, and my mother cares little about me, I am often alone. But, on the plus side, once the summer is over and I am at school, I will stop being pressured to become a Death Eater. Each summer I long for school to start, but as soon as I get there I am sorely disapointed. I have no real friends and am fearfully lonely, at home and at school. True, I have Crabbe and Goyle, but they are just there because they admire my power, and their fathers fear my father. Alliances were made, but not friendship. I am popular, have a high reputation, surrounded by people, but truly all alone. I wish I have someone, an equal, someone to confide in, to laugh with, a friend.
I admire the trio of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, unlike popular opinion. I desperately wish to have true friends like them, but insult and sneer at them to shelter myself, to not let myself get hurt yet again. Whenever I try to reach out, to make a friend, I am always rejected, cast away like an old tattered piece of paper. I long ago decided just to life out life alone, without anyone. True, I will not have friends, but with friends comes fights, hurt, and pain. It will be better to live in loneliness than to love and then have the pain and loneliness enhanced by a thousand fold. I wonder, What is the point of my life? Am I just to grow up, alone, join the Death Eaters, and spend the rest of my life in misery? Am I to do evil deeds, follow a master who wishes to destroy the free world, while hiding behind my cowardice? I quickly learned my life was planned before birth, for the only heir from a long and ancient line of powerful people has a lot to live up to. It seems that all I have to do is follow orders, listlessly, mindlessly, to make people happy. If I ever try to act of my own free will, do something new, my dreams are quickly shot down. This past summer, I contemplated what to do with myself, and my life. With Voldemort getting stronger, there isn't much to live for anymore. I shied away at first from thoughts of suicide, but found my thoughts were occupied with the idea, luring me with its easy way out of my problems. It was all I could think of, this escape from my prison. It is a tempting proposition. The only thought that kept me from such measures for so long is the thought of Hermione.
When I first saw her, I was thrown head first into love. When I learned that she was muggle born, or as I had said to her, "mudblood", it had not swayed me a bit. I sorely regretted saying such a thing to her now, but it is to late. The words had just slipped from my mouth, and she had never forgiven me. Nor will she ever, I think bitterly to myself. I realize now that she will never accept me, and if I ever reveal my feelings for her, I will be shunned yet again. Oh, if Ron ever knew, I can't even think of what would happen. This day, horrible like so many others, makes me think that I am truly nothing, nor will ever be something. As I walk back to my cold, unwelcoming mansion with the sun setting at my back, I feel a chill within me. It was not the cold, although it is chilly, but the decision I have come to. I slowly, fearfully, walk up the dark, creaking stairs, too numb to think. As if in a trance, I head ever forward. Past the elegant dining room, through the cold corridors and drafty halls, to my bedroom, my sanctuary. I stare, as if for the first time, at the large, yet empty looking room, and walk into the conjoined bathroom. Staring at the mirror, I note my dead, steel grey haunted eyes, and my sagging, weak shoulders. I drop my head and look into the porcelain sink, and at the rhythmic falling of crimson drops splashing down the drain. I feel weak, dizzy at the sight of the dark blood, my blood. I fall to the floor, my dying eyes straying to my wrists. Only then do I truly understand what I have done.