Title: Flight of the Sparrows
Rating: K
Genre: Drama
Summary: She's my mother; not anything else.
As a younger child, I grew up with seven fathers, one of whom is my biological fathers. People might think they had different attributes, that they acted different ways and had their own way of living, but I don't believe that for a second. All of them – arrogant, prideful, yet swallowed all this when they were in my mother's presence – then they would give me a phony and feign that maybe, just maybe, they'd pull this off, this whole vision of an ideal family that didn't seem so perfect.
Surely they pulled it off, but only for awhile. It's not because my mother saw through them; it's not because she chose my side and believed that maybe I should have a better role model as a father; it's because she was a lying, deceitful woman.
All her husbands died mysteriously; no one knew about their death. Many people say she slaughtered them, others said she turned them to the Dark Lord – even though she would never even converse any words with him. But even if nobody knew how those seven men died, there was still one thing that everybody did know: My mother was a murderer.
I never liked her, not a bit, but I at least had a morsel of respect for her. Loving her was extremely difficult, throughout all those fights, men, and accusations, but I loved her in the end. I loved her because I had to, not because I wanted to; she's my mother, not anything else. And sadly, because I was the one who disliked her the much, yet loved her because I had to, I remained faithful to her and knew that she didn't commit such a crime as destroying another's life. I stood by her side like a good son, stood by her side seven times when the Ministry of Magic ordered her for trial – and found her innocent six times, the seventh time finding her guilty. And when she ended up in jail, our aloof relationship shattered in two, like a lively, ornate vase shattering on the floor in seconds.
I wish I could say that I still write to her this very day, in that lonely chamber she lives in, full of dust and rats that she lives off of. A fool I am; I shall not lie and say I pray for her every night, hoping the heavenly Father would answer my prayers. No, I live on…barely. That guilt lies deep within my heart and soul, slowly building up over the days; it eats away my skin, gnaws at my heart, but I ignore it – just like I did with everything else in my life.
You see, I never did anything wrong, but that is the problem. I never did anything, but I don't regret it. I did what I had to do, and that was stand beside her until I could stand by her no longer.
Instead, I fled, like a sparrow with wings that has no choice but to fly.
And I'm happy for that, because if I didn't escape, then no one would believe me when I told them that the traits I inherited weren't from my mother. In a way I'd like to believe that my father passed on these great and magnificent traits that I have, not to be boastful or anything. I created myself the person I am now: a pureblood, a Slytherin, a loyal friend, the only one not to serve for the Dark Lord with a pureblood family, a son. That's what I am – it's what my mother is, too, except for the "son" part. But who I am? I'm cunning, ponderous, sometimes malicious, kind in rare cases, brilliant, charming in a way, brave, and a bit egotistical. My mother, however, is not cunning, a traitor, not thoughtful at all, and is very, very selfish.
There's only one thing we share, and that's the truth.
Truth is, my mother has never killed anyone…and I believe her…