I still hear his screams.
I still remember the way he looked at me with fear and pain in those beautiful green eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks as blood rolling down from his wounds. He was in agony; I think he welcomed death when it came. The poison Tom had fed him wouldn't let him stop bleeding, so he became paler and paler as his lifeblood drained slowly, taking with it the brightness that had once shone in his eyes. His screams stopped; now only anguished sobs wracked his frail body. He was dying, and he knew it.
I think what surprised me most was that he did not seem to be afraid of death. He welcomed it, not only to be rid of the pain Tom had caused with the curse, but also to enter a place where no one expected him to carry the world on his shoulders, where he could finally be free of his worries and painful memories.
I remember Tom gloating afterward, but I could not share in his pleasure. How could one celebrate the murder of such an innocent, pure being? The child—yes, a child, barely seventeen—was no more than a victim of fate, chosen before he was even born to carry the world on his shoulders, a child Atlas.
And so I write this note to you. I cannot live with the knowledge that I took part in the slaughter of innocence, of happiness. I have poisoned Tom, as he poisoned Harry. He will die a slow, painful death. There is no antidote.
By the time this note reaches you, I will be dead as well. There is a goblet of red wine sitting on the table next to me. A heavy dose of the toxin hemlock is mixed into it. As soon as this owl is on her way, I will drink it. It will be a happily embraced relief.
Please tell my son I am sorry I ever dragged him into this mess of my life. I leave all I own to him.
Lucius Draconis Tybalt Malfoy
