The door opened with a soft squeak and closed again with an equally soft thud. The only sounds audible were the soft, combined breathing of the confessor and the priest and the occasional creak of a kneeler as one of the two shifted position. Father Walter said nothing, only waited with practiced patience for the man on the other side of the grate to begin speaking. Quite a few minutes went by before the confessor drew several deep pulls of breath, as if contemplating what he was about to say and gathering his resolve, and began to speak.
"Father, do you honestly believe that God will forgive every sinner?" he asked. There was something in his voice, resignation if you will, that for some reason stirred a sense of foreboding deep in the recesses of Father Walter's mind.
"Why yes son, I do believe that God will forgive anyone who offers up their sins to him. For God so loved the world that he gave his only son so that all who believe in him may not perish but have eternal life." Father Walter replied wisely.
The confessor chuckled slightly, wearily almost, and the Father could nearly see the wry smile that he was sure had formed on the man's lips. "Very wise Father. John 3:16. Funny, I used to tell them that. Just before they died."
When the Father spoke next, there was a controlled calm to his voice but the confessor could hear the masked waver in it. "Who is 'they' son?"
"The ones who got in his way. He ordered me to kill the people, so many people. Countless Muggles. The Order. My old professors. Potter. Weasley. Granger. My…my love. Every single one of them died at my hand. Do you know how that feels Father?"
"N-no. No I don't son." Father Walter stuttered, trying to regain his calm aura.
"Would you like to know what it feels like Father? What it feels like to kill someone? The Muggle serial killers, the ones you see on television, they all say that killing is exhilarating, invigorating, erotic even. But I'll let you in on a secret Father. It's not. The first time I killed, that useless little Muggle child, I felt like I was going to be sick. The second time I felt like I would be sick. Eventually I got used to it. Until the last time. The first time I thought I would be sick, the second the same, the next I was indifferent but the last, the last time I heard breath come from her lips, the last time I heard her heart beating, the last time I heard her say my name, the last time I saw her beautiful hazel eyes filled with emotion, just before the last traces of light left them, I didn't feel sick. I felt like I wanted to die. I wanted to die, like my beloved, laying limp in the arms of someone who cared deeply about me. But you know what Father? I can't ever have that, any of that. Because I killed my Ginny. He told me to kill her, the last and only person who ever cared about me, and I did. I killed her."
"Son, repent. Ask forgiveness of the Lord and you shall receive it." The Father said shakily.
"No." the confessor replied simply.
"But, why?"
The confessor leaned forward slightly before answering. "Because Father, I will not receive salvation. Nor do I ask for it. I do not deserve to be delivered from this world. I do not deserve to live for all eternity with my beloved Ginny. I don't deserve it and I don't want it. I will never again be able to look upon Ginevra Molly Weasley and not see the light leaving her eyes as I killed her or see her telling me that I should because she understood why I had to."
The confessor fell silent and stood, exiting the confessional and walking into the brisk English morning. He kept walking until he reached the Muggle bus that would take him to the seaside. He paid his fare and boarded, still silent, still fingering the small, cold, metal object in the pocket of his cloak as he had all through his confession.
Any who had looked up to that specific cliff overlooking the sea, the same one he had proposed to Ginny on, at exactly 12:01 pm, one minute before the time he proposed, they would have seen a broken man. At 12:02, they would have been just in time to see a pale but steady hand swipe the cold metal object across an equally pale neck, soon to be stained with crimson. And if they had looked up at 12:03, they would have seen Draco Malfoy plummeting over the cliff into the murky depths below, the cold embrace of the sea, so different from the one Ginny received, so similar to the one he wanted.
I started this while I was sitting in vigil yesterday and when I found the piece of paper in my purse this afternoon, I just started typing and this is what I got. It's completely different from what I expected butI'm reasonably happy with it; not thrilled, mind you, but tell me what you think. No flames please.