Beyond the Grave

My story

I started my first year in the role of darkness. The son of a Death Eater, bound to follow in his steps. It was all I had known in my meaningless life. Hatred of muggles, mudbloods and traitors ran deep in my pure wizard blood.

What more can I say? The systematic persecution of all unworthy life, and the even more regular ostracization of 'scum' like the Weasleys was second nature to me. No, I suppose it was first nature. I was raised to scorn them, loathe muggles, and the name of Harry Potter in my household inspired the same fear and hatred that the name of Voldemort--our Dark Lord--inspired in the homes of most wizards.

When you are encouraged from birth to live according to a code, it is impossibly difficult to change. For my first three years at Hogwarts school, I was sure, so sure, that my way was right. Then, towards the end of my fourth year, "Lord" Voldemort returned. He killed, for no real reason, a boy named Cedric Diggory. My worlds began to spin.

I don't know if messages can reach beyond the grave. I know, after all, comparatively little about death. Funny, I never thought I would die young. I never thought it was possible. I was only seventeen. I had my whole life in front of me.

Lord Voldemort, for all his powers, knew little about death as well. Harry Potter once told me that, the night of Diggory's death, he openly admitted it. 'Bow to death, Harry...it will be quick...it might even be painless...I wouldn't know...I have never died."

Until I was seventeen, I didn't know either. Do you want to know? I can only tell you what death is for me...

I did not die of old age. I did not die of natural causes. I was not killed in any accident. I was murdered with an Unforgivable Curse.

When I died, I was in pain, but the death itself was painless. I was swept off to this--place. I am not the only one, but it is a small place. The people--or ghosts, all died under the same circumstances I did. They lost the great battle. Not all of them are wizards, but the greater parts are. Some of them were killed by such well-known wizards! I felt proud telling the more recent ones the name of my killer, and watching their horror at the deed in their eyes.

The worst part of death is this. I have no idea who is in charge, or what will happen, or when it will happen. And waiting is hell. I don't know how long it has been, or if my killer lives, or if his destined foe has one. So, as I write this, I may be seventeen, or I may be seventy. I may be fine dust by now.

To fully understand what struggling against the Malfoy name was like, I'll give you a brief account of my Hogwarts years.

The first three years were relatively uneventful. I did well at my work. I had an ongoing war with Harry Potter, the half-blooded whelp, I thought then. My friends, as I called them, were really lackeys. Though I had no knowledge of it, my early years were empty of all that mattered.

Fourth year was the same, until Diggory's death. It was unjust and I felt it. This shocked me--feeling sorrow at the death of a muggle-loving fool, who died by the hand of my father's master? I hid my confusion in even nastier comments than I might normally have made. This was not the life I had lived! I was not the boy I had been!

The Dark Lord kept hidden for a year. I tried to return to my old familiar self. And then he struck. All my uncertainty resurfaced, and I decided that I must change.