Dare to Hope
By Be Boring
Hope. It was the one emotion that he always associated with weak, emotional, worthless fools whose feeble minds were preoccupied with ridiculous things like love, friendship, honor, and other such rubbish. Really, what was the point of it? Either something would happen or it wouldn't, hoping wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference. He had always hated it when other kids had said things like, "I hope I get a good grade on my Charms test." What good would hoping do them? Either they were smart enough to get a good grade or they were the usual blithering idiots who had to resort to hoping that things would go their way because they were incapable of making things go their way. Hoping meant you were relying on someone or something else because you couldn't do it yourself, which meant that you were dependent on other people or things, which meant you were weak. And if there was one thing he had never wanted to be, it was weak. He had failed.
Was it really almost a year ago now? He had been kicking one of the house-elves for failing to get a spot out of one of his socks when he had heard a voice upstairs, a voice that had made his blood attempt to force its way right out of his veins in order to escape. When his eyes had met those scarlet, hateful slits for the first time, his first instinct had been to run as fast as he could, anywhere that he could possibly hide, but for some reason his feet simply wouldn't remove themselves from that spot on the floor. Instead he had listened helplessly as that high, bone-chilling voice had told him exactly what he was expected to do. Somehow he had nodded, even smiled, as he agreed to do what the Dark Lord asked. Something in him swelled with pride at the thought that Voldemort actually found him important enough to include in his plans, but another small, barely visible part of him shrank away. Later that night, it was still that voice that rang in his ears rather than the frantic sobs of his mother in her bedroom, and for the first time in his life, that same small, barely visible part of him dared to hope. He hoped that something would happen to allow him to not have to carry out the plan. Dumbledore was an old man, after all. Perhaps he would just die of old age before he had to do anything.
Back in Hogwarts, surrounded by the fools who considered themselves to be his friends, that small part of him vanished, overwhelmed by the pride and arrogance that so often leapt to the forefront of his personality. He had an important job to do, and kicking Potter in the face was the perfect way to start the school year. It had given him a feeling of immense power to leave him on the train, bleeding and invisible, and gave him the extra boost in confidence that even he didn't realize he had needed. The confidence didn't last long, however.
The Vanishing Cabinet proved much more difficult to fix than he could have ever imagined. He had forgotten about being smug, all-powerful Draco Malfoy, he had ignored his old need to terrorize the younger students with his power as prefect, and he had even overlooked insulting Potter at every available opportunity. Desperation sprang into his fevered head and he began to take wild measures to attempt to carry out his plan without having to face the old man. He didn't want to look into those amazingly blue eyes when the moment came, he didn't want to see the light in them fade away.
But his desperation to not have to be present at that final moment was constantly competing with the horror of what would happen if he didn't fulfill his mission. Voldemort would undoubtedly kill his family immediately, but what if the Dark Lord didn't kill him right away as well? He had never been completely alone before. What would he do if his parents weren't there to help him? And once again, a tiny glimmer of hope glowed in his chest, awaiting something that would relieve him of this burden.
Professor Snape had seemed like such a good possibility, but to allow him to take over or even assist in the mission would be a sign of weakness, and when Snape first mentioned the idea, his pride was still too strong. He couldn't allow anyone associated with Voldemort to see him as the frightened, helplessly trapped boy he really was.
Then came that night, that night that was both wonderful and horrible in one awe-inspiring package. It had been one of the greatest thrills of his life to finally mend that Vanishing Cabinet, for it proved he wasn't a worthless rich boy at all. His family would be able to call him a Malfoy with nothing but pride in their voices, without wondering if he had accidentally attained a couple genes from his mother's no good cousin, Sirius Black, that rendered him incapable of the kind of cunning that the Malfoys were famous for. He had proved at that moment that just because he was some sixteen-year-old spoiled brat (which he was perfectly content to be) didn't mean that he was useless.
But then the night had taken such a different turn. When he had finally looked into those startlingly sky blue eyes, all of his nerve failed him. Every last drop of delight that had flooded him after fixing the cabinet drained away and he was left with only that one miniscule part of him that had dared to hope. The longer he spoke to the old man, the stronger that portion of him grew, and when Dumbledore proposed the idea of actually taking him away and hiding him from Voldemort's all-seeing eyes, his heart had leapt. Here was his chance, this was his opportunity to escape and never have to worry again.
When the Death Eaters burst in and Snape appeared, he had felt icy dread slowly trickle down his spine when he heard those two, awful words, when the light vanished from the eyes of his last hope and he saw it drop out of sight. He almost imagined he could hear his future shattering with Dumbledore so far below them.
Running had seemed the only thing left to do and he had gratefully allowed Snape to drag him out of the castle, thankful that someone else had taken control of the situation. But now all gratitude was forgotten. He had failed in his mission, he had not carried out the Dark Lord's orders. Snape had assured him once they had Apparated back to his family's mansion that he would be safe, that Snape himself would take the blame for wanting more glory than was his due. But he also saw the hopeless, deadened glaze in his mother's eyes as she watched Snape leave the room to report to Voldemort. He knew what she was thinking: No matter what the excuse was, Voldemort did not accept failure. Now the only thing left to do was wait and hope.
Once again, there was that ridiculous word. Leaving his mother to cry silently in the darkness of one of their family rooms, he walked slowly outside like a man being led to his death. In defeat, he lowered himself onto the front steps and waited, staring blankly at his watch and counting the minutes until Snape returned, if he returned at all. Perhaps Voldemort would come himself to punish him, or maybe he would just send another Death Eater. Most of the older Death Eaters didn't like him, they resented the fact that Voldemort had given him such an important task, they would be thrilled to get rid of him to return some of the Dark Lord's attention to themselves.
After only twenty minutes, which seemed to last several long, black, star-filled days, Snape appeared out of thin air in the drive. Suddenly, the now always hoping part of him cried out in jubilation. His family was safe, Snape had managed to convince the Dark Lord that none of it was his fault and the Malfoys deserved another chance to prove themselves. But at the same time another hope swelled deep inside of him. Voldemort would undoubtedly ask more of him, but he knew he wouldn't be able to do it. He was never meant to bear that kind of responsibility. Was it too much to hope that he would be able to avoid it? As Snape approached, he heard the front door open behind him and Narcissa stepped out onto the cold, gray stone that led into their home.
"Please, Severus," she whispered softly, almost inaudibly, her voice breaking on the very last syllable. Her tone, those words, why was that so familiar?
As Snape passed him and stood on level with his mother, he continued to stare straight ahead as he heard his professor murmur in reply, "Go inside, you do not need to see this. I've been told not to use magic."
The door had barely clicked shut, the words had hardly managed to form something meaningful in his exhausted, ever-hoping brain when a hand roughly dug into his hair and forced his head back until the back of his skull pressed against his own spine. He only felt the pain for a moment, then suddenly relief spread through him as Snape released his hair and backed away from him, breathing heavily as he watched the scene unfold in front of him. It was strange how cold his neck felt. With all the blood pouring down his front, he would have thought he'd be warm.
His last thought as he slumped back against the cold, unforgiving stone behind him was that he had gotten what he had hoped for. Now he didn't have to worry about what was going to happen because it didn't concern him anymore. All responsibility was now lifted from his shoulders. He had always despised the worthless dolts who relied on hopes and dreams to get them through life, but really, they had a point. There was something satisfying about a hope finally being realized.