Dear Wonderful and Beautiful People that still Care,
I'm so very sorry it's taken me many months to upload a new chapter. I am forever your humble servant. Life got in the way including school, dance, plays, etc.
I love you all, thank you for being patient.
~Apple
Click Clack, Click Clack went heels against the tile.
He knew it was coming. He knew it was his judgment day. He did not try to kid himself because he was a Malfoy.
And Malfoys did not kid.
He lifted a brow as strong men took his arms to restrain him when the ginger-headed woman entered his cell. His face remained straight while she talked at him about how she knew this would come. How it was his fault he no longer lived.
But it was not young Malfoy that was to be blamed.
He knew it in his heart, though his feelings and thoughts were no longer worthy of anybody's attention, and never would again.
As the click-clacking continued beside him, he was brought to the deepest levels of the Ministry. They assume that if they hide their shame from the light of day, there was nothing to be shameful about.
They were wrong.
They were so very wrong.
And their blessed golden savior would cringe if he saw how they went about execution.
Even the Malfoy knew it was pitiful and cowardice.
They sat him in an old, warn, wooden chair and placed a cloth bag over his head, tightening it at the base of his neck; the squeeze snug, but not asphyxiating.
Though, they did not care of his comfort, so the small act of kindness was most likely accidental.
They thought it was his fault that he no longer lived, but they were so very wrong.
And as they lifted their oak, and hawthorn, and birch, and mahogany wands to cast that dreadful Unforgivable (of course they sentenced him to the one that would make him suffer the most), the only thing that he could think of to dull his inner suffering was: at least he would be reunited with those he loved. At least he would no longer have to suffer alone.
He also grazed upon how very wrong they all were.
For it was not he who drove the man to suicide, it was society and his ginger bride for not accepting him for who he was.
They blamed him because that was easier than fixing their ways of thinking.
They cast the spell and he was plunged into a world of pain and suffering.
His insides were a ball of mush being poked and prodded at, stabbed, punched, twisted. It was a relentless eternity of agony.
The world faded around him into black as the tears rolled down his cheeks.
Harry…my love. I'm so sorry I did this to us.
Because his secret was that…he blamed himself for Harry's death too.
He fell forward in the chair, motionless.