He Has Sinned

He Has Sinned

He's sitting in his cell, silently, not even daring to look up at me. His face is calm, reflecting someone of a serene and happy nature. But I know what he fears. I can see it in his eyes, even though he tries to hide it so well.

He's calling my name into the darkness; waiting, longing for me to answer. But my lips do not part and my words do not spring forth. For I know his crimes - I witnessed many of them first hand.

“Murderer,” they've hissed.

“Insane,” they've proclaimed.

And yet for people who never truly knew him, Lucius Malfoy was exactly that. An insane murderer, bent on power and prestige. His thirst for life - for death, was never quenched and his morbid sense of reality was one which he created simply to please himself.

Because in his mind, he had aquired the perfect life. The perfect son, who excelled in school and was hell bent on making life unbearable for that Potter boy. His wife was submissive and always obeyed his every order, command and wish. She was never the one who could walk away and she was hardly the type of woman who could take care of herself.

What does Narcissa have left? She no longer has any family. Or any family who would ever accept her back, to be precise. Her parents had died years ago. Bellatrix no longer lives free, but in a dark, bleak cell, awaiting the Dementors Kiss. Andromeda is married and living in the muggle world with her muggle-born husband, she would never accept back the sister who shunned her to begin with.

Narcissa doesn't weep for Lucius, for she is too busy trying to repair the family name to ever cry. He doesn't know though. He still believes that she's petitioning for his release, that any day now he'll once again see the harsh light of day. He believes a lie.

Sitting here, I watch as he begins whimpering; his madness consuming him as he spouts insane, nonsensical words and feverishly claws at his own hands. He doesn't belong with the dirt and dust, with the scum and the unruly. He was a man of power and eminence. He used to be so graceful and commended.

And now he is the low and scorned. He will never again be able to hold his head up high and judge people so harshly with those steely gray eyes. His opinion shall no longer be the final word and his gold shall no longer buy him whatever his heart desires.

All he desires now is freedom - and no man or woman on earth is insane enough to answer his plea. He hadn't had any visitors for months before I arrived. No doubt people have gotten over the shock that such a prominent wizarding figure could be one of Voldemort's strongest supporters.

He waited after his capture, during my fifth year at Hogwarts. He waited, forever believeing that his master would come and save him from this prison. He doesn't know of the Dark Lord's downfall, which occured three years ago. He still believes that one day he shall be freed, to once again oppress and be victorious in the eyes of his peers.

But he longer has peers. They're either dead or imprisoned, soon to be executed for their crimes against humanity. His imprisonment was the beginning of the Dark Lord's downfall. Believeing he would need his 'faithful Death Eaters', he attempted to free them. But it had been a stupid, predictable move, providing Azkaban with many more occupants. The Dementors, which had apparently fled to his side, returned soon after this victory - believeing that there was no longer anything to drain from the already insane.

I hear him whisper my name into the shadows once more. And I stand, only to walk forward to the bars surrounding his cell. I see him clearly now, as I have never seen him before. His devilish eyes bare the mark of a man betrayed, but he brought this upon himself.

'He chose this life,' I remind myself.

“Why do you choose now to visit me?” he asks, a small frown on his face. “You selfish brat.”

I don't move. I don't speak. I just stare at him and at the tranformation I have seen before me. Finally, I find the only words that can answer him.

“This is the end,” I say, “the end for you.”

Maniacal laughter rings through the cell, bringing a high pitched sound to echo and bounce off the walls. The prison sounds haunted, and perhaps it is. Those who had dwelled herein had been insane, blood thirsty and to sum it all up, evil.

“My end? Do you truly believe that these bars can contain me? That magic will be able to hold me? That my life will be no more when my soul is gone, but my body remains?”

“How can you live without your soul?” I ask, confused. I cross my arms and lazily lean against a wall. Brushing strands of hair out of my face, I watch him closely.

“I don't need to live to be alive,” he corrects me, like I'm still a child. “I've left my mark on the world, Draco.”

“Oh yes,” I say, cynically, “the mark of torture, rape and blood shed. That won't last for long.”

He shifts in his dark little corner, shuffling to stand up and approach the bars. He's been sitting for so long that have cramped up, causing him obvious discomfort with every step that he takes. His white-blonde hair is now layered so thickly with dust, that it looks gray.

He reaches the bars and wraps his claw-like fingers around them, his pale hands feeling the soothing ice cold touch that the metal offers.

“It is not the act that defines the crime,” my father says plainly, madness dancing in his eyes. “It's the victim who shall always be remembered.”

“Your victims are dead, their memories will be cherished, unlike yours,” I announce through gritted teeth.

He sneers, his face conforming into his damnable alter ego. He knows how displeased I am to see him, and yet he persists in proving our likeness. Every time he looks at me, everytime he speaks to me, he reminds me of what I would have become.

“There will be a time when the world will look back and say, 'there lived the Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort, and by his side were so and so purebloods who fought for their beliefs.' You see, Draco, immortality is not ones name, but the act which they performed. No one shall ever forget the crimes and atrocities that were commited. My history is sealed and there shall always be so and so purebloods who share my beliefs.”

Disgusted, I spit at his feet. He raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. I shake my head in pity and turn, heading for the door. Calling over my shoulder, I leave with him the last words he shall ever hear from a member of his family. The last words from someone who was supposed to treasure and envy him.

“And your mark will be remembered, but it will persist as an example of defeat. Nobody will forgive and love and you shall become nothing more than a failure.”

Without even bothering to say good-bye, I walk away from him into the long, narrow corridor. I pass two dementors, both of whom don't even notice my presence. I finally come upon Fudge and Dumbledore. They tip their hats and without waiting for them to speak, I tell them to go and collect my father.

There is barely anything left within his body now, and in a few minutes time, there will be nothing at all.

~Fin