Disclaimer: Harry Potter and any related incendia belong to the goddess, J.K. Rowling. I am merely a hopeless fan molding the clay she has provided us with into worthless shapes.

A/N: Whoa! I had another wave of angst and this is its byproduct. Perhaps the muse for angst are exams...anyway, this is the companion piece to A Shattered Soul and I suggest you read that story before starting this one. Please enjoy.

She never liked the taste of Firewhiskey. She always preferred the sweet, subtle taste of butterbeer. I suppose butterbeer has its merits, considering the raw liquid of Firewhiskey feels like melted knives rolling down one's throat. I do not know how this intoxicant is going to lift my pains when my head already feels so heavy with anguish.

I have never been one to fear physical pain – my father had always reminded me, ironically, by inflicting physical pain, that pain of the body can be easily renounced. But even after years of practising the Crucio charm on me, Lucius had never told me how to alleviate emotional pain.

If there is one thing I have learnt over these past few years, it is that physical pain cannot hold a candle to emotional pain. Pain of the body can be treated and may or may not leave a scar. But pain of the heart can very rarely be treated and leaves a scar that forever bleeds.

This is bloody great…I am getting bloody emotional. On my wedding night to boot. My wife is waiting for me in the room next door, and I am in here drinking and talking to myself about emotional pain. I definitely need more Firewhiskey.

Today's Daily Prophet lies before my eyes, right beside my wand. In magnificent letters is the headline Wedding of the Year: Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. I skim through the article and catch various phrases: "most expensive wedding of the century" (That is to be expected when Lucius and that fool of a wizard – oops, my father-in-law – rake together their bank accounts for a pathetic wedding); "Parkison's figure worthy of a goddess" (Yeah, maybe the Goddess of Pies and Plump Bottoms); "everyone who's anyone attended the lavish ceremony, including Minister of Magic Neville Longbottom" (And this is what our world has come to). Then I finally come to the name that cannot go unmentioned in a single article the wretched newspaper publishes. "The Late Harry Potter, unfortunately, could not" –

Before thinking another thought, I grab the newspaper and hurl it across the room. I let out a cry, a cry of fury, hatred, tragedy, and above all, pain.

Not a cry for the The-Boy-Who-Finally-Died, but a desperate cry for the woman I love. Yes, the woman whom I love, who is not my wife, who I can never have, who loves me as well, and who is rotting in Azkaban for my sins.

I take my glass, throw it to the ground, seize the bottle of the richest Firewhiskey found in France, bring it to my lips unceremoniously, and finish the entire bottle without a single breath. There we go…my emotional pain is starting to go away.

To this day, I cannot believe she had done that. For me. It was I who had killed Harry Potter with a sole curse and it was her who had taken the blame for my actions. She had been sentenced to spend her entire life in Azkaban and I could do nothing to stop it. All I could do was sit back and watch her give herself up for me.

If only she knew that I was breaking apart inside to be – forced to feel – so helpless. If only she knew the reason for my helplessness.

I take my wand into my hand, twirling it with my fingers. I have always admired this wand. From my first spell at the age of eleven – Flameous Instanto, to practise the art of starting a fire – this wand has always assisted me in everything I have ever wished for. But it could not spare me from marrying Pansy, from confronting Lucius, from getting the Dark Mark, from telling the woman I love that I love her…

Tonight will be the last time I shall ever have to use it. My last spell cast by this wand will be the spell I have used many times, so I need not worry about it going astray.

I wonder if reading today's Daily Prophet has affected her…I wonder how tomorrow's Daily Prophet will affect her. I really hope she has not been hurt by my actions, and I hope what I am about to do tonight will be an act of testament as to how much I love her.

I wish she knew that by not professing she was innocent and I was Harry Potter's murderer, I had saved her life.

She had witnessed the murder, and while I stood there, my wand and I over Potter's dead body, she had just stared at me with an array of emotions battling to take control of her eyes. I opined that she would kill me, since she was clutching her wand with ferociousness. Instead, she walked over to us, fell to the ground beside Potter's limp body and began to cry.

I clearly remember wanting to drop down beside her and start crying as well. I remember wanting to take her in my arms, kiss her quivering lips, and whisper words of love and comfort into her ears. I remember wanting to tell her that I hadn't wanted to kill Potter…that I was forced by Lucius to…that I was a weak, weak man…

But I did none of that. Instead, I fled from the scene.

The next day the wizarding world was in an uproar, lamenting over the death of Harry Potter, the man who had killed The Dark Lord. The worst news, other than the death of our saviour, was that his best friend had killed him. At that news, I had completely lost it and was ready as hell to barge into the Ministry of Magic and hand myself over to the authorities. But then…Lucius had intervened. He had come to know of my feelings for, as he so kindly put, the Mudblood. He had threatened me. He said that if I were ever to tell anyone who Harry Potter's real killer was, he would kill her. I concluded that she would be safe in Azkaban…not happy, but at least she would be safe, away from Lucius, away from me. Once again, fear was in control as it has always been for the past twenty-three years.

But now, I have no fear. Fear is an emotion I can no longer feel. And tonight, it will all end.

The wand is still in my hand. My grip on it tightens and I bring it closer to my chest. I press the tip of the wand at the precise spot where my heart is presumed to lie.

I take in a deep breath, repeating the words that have become my mantra for the past few years. "I love you, Hermione Granger."

Then I close my eyes and say the spell that took the life of Harry Potter and many others before him. "Avada Kedavra."