Easier to Run, a harry potter fanfic

Disclaimer: The characters of Harry Potter do not belong to me, sadly.

A/N: This is my first fic, a one-shot set during Half-Blood Prince, and it does contain spoilers. If you haven't read HBP, reading this would not be a good idea.

The lyrics used in the fic are taken from Linkin Park's "It's Easier to Run."

It's easier to run
Replacing this pain with something numb
It's so much easier to go
Than face all this pain here all alone

Feet pounding the ground, wand clutched tightly in his trembling fingers, Draco Malfoy was running as fast as he could, his mind an incoherent blur. No, no, I didn't mean to—no, he couldn't have died—no, it's not real, it can't be happening…

"Run faster, Draco, they won't spare you if they catch you!" snapped the man running just ahead of him. The boy looked at him with something akin to shock in his eyes. He killed him. Oh, Merlin, he killed him, Professor Snape killed Dumbledore—oh, no, not Dumbledore, please not Dumbledore…

"Muggle-loving fool, it served him right," Snape muttered just loudly enough for Draco to hear, and again it seemed that the world in which he lived in had been overturned and crushed by some invisible foot. No—no, Snape doesn't know what he's saying—no, he was a great wizard, he was kind, he offered me a way—a way out, away from the Death Eaters…

Something has been taken from deep inside of me
The secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see
Wounds so deep they never show they never go away
Like moving pictures in my head for years and years they've played

Lucius Malfoy was smiling, his normally cold face lit up with some inner fanatic fire. "Draco, my son, you have been chosen."

"Chosen?" Draco sounded bored, barely glancing up at his father before returning his attention to the stone table he and his parents sat at.

"By the Dark Lord himself," Lucius said softly, his voice caressing the words.

Narcissa jerked her head up nervously, her eyes darting around the room. "Lucius, please!" she hissed at him. "Serving Him has put you in Azkaban, do not speak of Him within these walls!"

Lucius moved as if to pat his wife's hand, but the magical barrier between them blocked his movement. "Calm yourself, dear," he said quietly, "He will keep me alive—and He has given Draco a most important task."

Narcissa flinched, but Draco was staring intently at Lucius. "What task, Father?"

He motioned to Narcissa, who quickly cast a Silencing Charm around their table. "The Dark—He, I mean," Lucius amended, glancing at his wife, "He has honored you and our family by ordering you to kill Albus Dumbledore."

Draco's face froze, and Lucius beamed. "I knew you would be delighted, my son, with this great privilege the Dark Lord has bestowed upon you—"

"Quiet." Draco's voice was barely a whisper. He stood and walked to the only window of the visiting room, a square, barred hole barely a foot square. Pressing his forehead against the bars, he closed his eyes, heaving a deep sigh. Kill Dumbledore. I must kill Dumbledore. The words barely registered in his mind—instead, images of dying people—no, not people, Muggles and Mudbloods—killed by his own spells during the Death Eater initiation ritual, seemed to mock him. Will Dumbledore die as the Muggles did, pleading for life? He is only human, after all…

"Well, my son?" Lucius was smiling, anticipating Draco's joy. "Are you not pleased?"

Willing himself to smile back at his father, Draco nodded. "Yes, Father. Very pleased."

Now look where I am, he thought desperately, look at what's become of me…

"Run, Draco!" Snape's voice was ragged, his heavy breathing audible as he raced on. "They will not spare you!"

If I could change I would take back the pain I would
Retrace every wrong move that I made I would
If I could stand up and take the blame I would
If I could take all the shame to the grave I would
If I could change I would take back the pain I would
Retrace every wrong move that I made I would
If I could stand up and take the blame I would
I would take all my shame to the grave

He had never wanted to be a Death Eater. He could remember the first time he had known that such a group existed, swearing loyalty to Lord Voldemort and believing that only pureblood wizards and witches deserved life: he had been five years old, as innocent as any child that age.

"Mama, where does Father go every night with that scary mask of his?" he had asked cheerfully, expecting a simple enough answer. Instead, Narcissa had covered his mouth with her hand, her eyes suddenly widening in fear.

"No, darling, Father's mask isn't scary. It's an honor that he wears it, a tribute to Malfoy pride that he is sworn to kill the Muggles and once more make our world pure—" Noticing the confused look on her son's face, she stopped. "You see, darling, non-magic creatures, Muggles, are worthless, and—"

Draco looked up at his mother, his small face awed. "There are people who don't have magic?"

Narcissa laughed softly. "Not people, darling, they're not people, but yes, there do exist creatures without magic."

"Oh, I see," Draco nodded seriously. "So Father goes and gets rid of them, just like we had that man come and get rid of all the Bundimuns in our house?"

Narcissa laughed again and hugged him. "Exactly, sweetheart."

Of course, as he'd grown up, he'd learned that it wasn't that simple. Young as he was, he'd imagined Muggles to be a different species altogether, perhaps looking rather like Flesh-Eating Slugs, with no arms or hands to hold a wand, and no mouth to say spells.

"Mother, who's that?" He was eight now, cockier and more sure of himself, slowly growing up into the Draco Malfoy whom everyone knew.

Narcissa took one look and shuddered. "Come away, darling, don't go close to her, that's a Mudblood."

Draco gaped at the girl, who was calmly buying her school supplies, for all the world looking like a normal witch. "She's a Muggleborn? But—but she can't be, Mother, she looks—she looks normal, just like us—"

"No, Draco!" Narcissa was suddenly angrier than he had ever seen her. "Never say that, she's not at all like us, she's tainted, dirty, a filthy Mudblood!"

The young boy winced. "Then—then Father goes and kills people like—like her?"

Narcissa took a deep breath to calm herself. "Not people, darling, how many times must I tell you? But yes, Father kills creatures like that one."

In that one moment, Draco's world was upended, and only one fact stood out in his mind: I don't want to be a Death Eater.

It's death, all of it, he thought frantically, killing and dying and death, and I'm part of it, part of this vicious cycle that has no end—why can't they just leave them alone? How can they kill creatures that, though their blood may be tainted, look just like us? How?

He looked at Snape, who was still running doggedly, shooting occasional hexes over his shoulder. He's killed, yes, Professor Snape has killed Mudbloods and Muggles—why aren't his hands stained with blood? How is it that the killers can look like the killed—and the killed can look so normal, so much like us…

However, time went on, and Draco entered Hogwarts, making a name for himself as the chief Slytherin and archrival of Harry Potter and his group. Making fun of Mudbloods—especially that know-it-all Granger—had become a normal pastime for him, but under it all, there was a part of him that hated it all: hated the mocking of people that didn't seem all that different from him, hated the blatant contempt with which he treated everyone who wasn't a Pureblood, even hated his own name at times for making him what he was.

It's easier to run
Replacing this pain with something numb
It's so much easier to go
Than face all this pain here all alone

But still he told no one and kept mocking, kept acting like a good Malfoy should—and so ran from the dangerous thoughts which threatened to cut him off from everything that he had ever known.

And I'm still running, he said silently, still running—when does it end, this circle of killing and running and guilt—the guilt that doesn't let me sleep at night when I see their faces, the faces that look just like any wizard's or witch's does…

Sometimes I remember the darkness of my past
Bringing back these memories I wish I didn't have
Sometimes I think of letting go and never looking back
And never moving forward so there'd never be a past

The initiation ritual of the Death Eaters. It still haunted his dreams, the faces of the Muggles and Mudbloods staring at him, their eyes so human—he would wake up screaming, screaming for the mercy that he had withheld from them.

Sometimes he would stare at his hands, wondering how they could be so clean after all that he had done, and then take out his wand, caressing the wood that he thought should be blood-stained from the curses it had performed. One more Avada Kedavra, he had thought to himself at such times, holding the wand to his own neck, just one, and it'll all be over. But he couldn't say it, he never could, for suicide frightened him even more than life did. He believed in heaven, yes, and hell—and he knew very well where murderers went.

So many times over the past years, he had wanted to back down and leave Potter alone, simply to lead his own life without the pressure of needing to mock someone to survive…but he couldn't. Seeing the tears in Granger's eyes, so like the tears that he had seen in his mother's hurt him, knowing that he was the cause of pain—but instead of stopping his teasing, he simply laughed louder. Inciting Weasely and his twin brothers was a necessary annoyance, something he had never particularly enjoyed—though the sight of Weasely's red ears nearly made it worth it—but for the sake of his popularity and for the sake of his family name, he continued and hated it—just as he knew the rest of the school hated him.

Just washing it aside
All of the helplessness inside
Pretending I don't feel misplaced
It's so much simpler than change

"Draco?" Professor Snape was looking over at him with concern in his eyes. "Are you all right?"

No, no, I'm not all right, I'd rather die than do what I did—He forced a smile, just like he had done for the last 6 years of his life. "Yes, Professor, of course I'm fine."

"Do you want to slow down for a bit?" Snape asked, glancing over his shoulder. "We're far enough ahead, and a few curses should stop those in front—"

No! I can't slow down, I have to run—no, if I stop, then I might think about the look on Dumbledore's face as he fell—"No, Professor," Draco carefully controlled his voice, "it'll be easier to run."

It's easier to run
Replacing this pain with something numb
It's so much easier to go
Than face all this pain here all alone

.Fin.

Constructive criticism in reviews will always be appreciated, and thank you for reading!