Cross my heart, I don't want to die.
But heaven knows it seems like I try.
Lost in a labyrinth for weeks on end.
xXx
Because I'm staring at the devil and the truth of it is
He's a lot more familiar than I'd care to admit.
If only I could focus, maybe if I could see.
If I didn't know any better, I would say he looks just like me.
xXx
Crossed the line, so many times, that I don't even know what it stands for.
- Home Sweet Hole
Life was just another war; each day just another battle. The carnage took a different form, and the end goal was something vaguely different, but Draco was still just as sick of the fight.
He could remember the things he'd done—had to do, Severus would tell him. But Severus was ignorant, Severus was stupid, Severus was dead.
He could remember the things he'd done—for the glory of the Dark Lord, his father would once have told him. But his father had changed, his father had defected, his father was in Azkaban.
He could remember the things he'd done—to protect his family, to protect himself, his mother would say. But his mother was weak, his mother was broken, his mother was imprisoned, too.
He could remember the things he'd done—things to be condemned for, he knew. Because he'd done evil, he'd watched evil, he'd breathed, and heard, and felt, and dwelled in evil. Because he was no longer human—just an empty void filled with impotent cruelty. But the Wizarding World had offered him redemption, and so he had to bring judgment upon himself.
He remembered a girl, young—six, he thought, or maybe five—, beautiful blue eyes, confused, sad. She'd been crying, for her mother, he recalled, and clutching a stuffed bear as though it would protect her. He remembered picturing her in happier times innocently cowering beneath her sheets, believing them to be an impervious barrier to the monsters she undoubtedly feared were hiding in her closet.
He remembered a family. The tree dressed haphazardly—clearly aided by the children, with tragic care. Gifts beneath it, bright with promise. Extended family present, he was sure, for they numbered far too many to live in such a small house. He remembered counting them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen… But they'd screamed as one.
He remembered countless homes. Burned to the ground in a roaring blaze. He remembered the heat on his face, the smoke that coated his lungs, his throat, his tongue, that choked him only just less than the tortured frenzy behind the magically sealed windows. No escape. For them. For him.
He remembered each face, each scream, each plea, each curse. They whispered, always, in the back of his mind. They grew louder each day she was gone, as her silence reminded him that their indictments—their condemnations, their contempt, their loathing—were all justified, all warranted, all true. In her absence, they became a part of him. In her absence, he was drowning in an endless black pool of revulsion. In her absence, he was fading to a ghostly reflection of all his sins.