Disclaimer: No, I do no own Harry Potter or any of his affiliates nor do I own the passage from the Book of Genesis. Sorry to disappoint.
Harry Potter and I have two things in common.
We both look like our fathers. And we both killed said contributors to our gene pool.
He murdered James simply by existing.
I used a beautiful silver inlaid knife imported specifically from Japan. Only the best for father hmm?
There is a lot of blood splattered on my robes, the crimson droplets staining the expensive fabric. There are tears of blood on my face. Remnants of a curse he tried on me. The blood looks black in the moonlight. Almost as if I had been carelessly painting.
Lucius looks peaceful if you look no lower than his neck. The rest of his battered body is hidden by the shadows of the curtains. The moonlight alters everything to dulled peace… on a good night.
On a bad night, a forbidding night, it could cast a haunting gleam over everything it touched. Like the night Harry killed Voldemort. It had made me wonder if he was really dead. If I would have to continue labouring under the 'cause' or would I be free to relax peacefully.
A night like the one Narcissa had killed Harry. The blood was still fresh when I found her standing regally over the corpse of the saviour; a small smile playing on her thin lips.
That is in the past now though. I can forget the crescent moon reflected in the dull green orbs of his pale porcelain face. The calm acceptance clearly portrayed in his parted lips and peaceful limbs.
I take a last glance at my father. The man I appear to have so much in common with. The ice grey eyes, striking, white blonde hair, confident smirk. I stalk away from the blood pooling at my feet and quietly climb the stairwell.
Harry gets his emerald eyes from his mother. What did I receive?
Perhaps it's the cold calculating trance she seems to have while she is torturing someone; breaking a finger, a subtle acid on the skin that is revealed after she removed their fingernails.
Perhaps it's the glint of arrogant intelligence that always seems to twinkle while she schemes. Or perhaps it's the stoic resolve firmly in place when she sees her death cloaked in the body of her son. Silk rustling over stone, the eerie music of her own mortality. She doesn't move from her regal pose on the satin couch.
Even as my knife plunges into her breast only a small gurgle is heard as her lungs fill with blood. As the life slowly drains out of her I gently slit the smooth skin underneath her eyes. Now she's crying blood as well and we can appear to have something in common.
I bend so close I can hear the exact moment her heart first skips. And in that limbo between life and death I whisper softly in her ear.
"You shouldn't have killed Harry." Then I back away slowly, my eyes firmly on hers as her head slumps forward in death.
I look out into the dark night and see that crescent moon shining over those ruby red lips, porcelain skin. Innocent eyes.
No, Lucius shouldn't have tried to shape me in the image of him. Sometimes I wonder if he had aspirations to be the god the muggles worshipped
So God created man in his own image
And no, Narcissa shouldn't have killed Harry. That was to be my job.
What greater means could there be to become a dark lord then to kill the former saviour. The hope of the light.
No, she shouldn't have killed him. I was to be the his murderer, the one to see blood dribbling down his lips as he struggled to speak, perhaps turn me off my path. I was to be the one who proved that Harry Potter was human, that he would bleed if I cut him.
That he could be hurt. Harmed. Wounded.
I should have killed him.
Guess what?! You guys get to decide whether there are 'hints' of slash in here or if Draco is a little (but only a little) obsessed with his prey.
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