Freedom

Locked away, in one of the Slytherin bathrooms, I stare at my reflection. My hair is disheveled and there are bags growing under my eyes. It looks as if I've just gotten out of bed, when in truth, I've been up for hours, working on creating a map of Hogwarts.

A small, ridiculing voice in my head laughs at me. It tells me that it isn't 'my' reflection. But that it's his. His malicious voice draws out the 'S's, his tongue flicking out and tasting the saccharine violation of my mind.

My fists clench angrily, and he can sense my anger. He laughs even harder now, mocking my weakness. He makes the mark on my arm tingle

painfully, his amusement palpable. I see red, and in a moment of anger that is not my own, I deliver a hard punch to the mirror.

It shatters instantly, crashing loudly to the sink. The shrapnel flies everywhere, adorning my bare skin with lacerations. The voice and the tingling are gone for the moment, fleeing to leave me in my pain.

I rejoice and watch as the blood snakes down my arm, refreshingly warm on my freezing skin. I stare at it transfixed; my vision blurring slightly as my mind adjusts to familiar pain.

It is a welcome feeling.

The streams cross and merge at my elbow, and as one they pour to the white tiled floor. A puddle is growing; it will leave a stain.

There is a fleeting silence. My mind is blank, and I sigh gratefully. But the relief is only temporary.

His voice is back again, telling me how delicious I must look while covered in blood. I am annoyed, but I do not mourn. It can be solved easily enough. I grab a jagged piece of the former mirror and position it above my left shoulder.

With a sharp hiss of pleasure, I drag the piece over the pale white skin. It intersects with another scar and, with a note of satisfaction, I realize it will heal into a nicely shaped 'X'.

The keyword being "heal".

A sudden thought flits through my mind and I know it is my own. The Other has not returned yet.

I mull over this thought, considering, thinking it through.

Draco Malfoy, Prince of Slytherin, commits suicide?

Why, they'd be scandalized. They would have never seen it coming! Who would have guessed?

I let out a loud snort.

I stare at the mirror shards, gleaming enticingly. It is calling to me; it wants me to feel the sharp relief of broken skin. It wants the haunting voice in my mind to quiet. Not just to a dull roar, not just temporarily, but forever.

Carefully, I pick up a particularly vicious looking shard. I weigh it gingerly in my hands, imagining the looks on Goyle and Crabbe's faces when they find me, cold and lifeless. The look on his my father's face would be priceless. Everyone would gasp with surprise and wonder where they'd gone wrong.

Wasn't I the one who had everything?

A grim satisfaction settles over me. It sounds good to me, and the mirror splinters in my hand, sings its approval. His voice would be gone. This sick, sadistic mental rape will end. I will not let him triumph over me. In the end, it is I that will come out on top.

But there is just one small problem. I cannot die just anyway. It has to be special.

I will be the center of attention, as usual. I will give them something they cannot turn away from, something they cannot forget. It will be whispered in the hallways for years and years to come. This room would be cursed with my memory.

I sit down on the edge of the bathtub. I must think everything through.

It is going to be a work of art. It will be meaningful, a message to everyone. Something to make them realize just how wrong and petty their opinions are.

I will be a legend, as is my nature.

I sit there, planning my death calmly. As one might plan a birthday party, or a get together. I have certain standards; it must be disturbing, and it must leave a lasting image. My mind flits over hundreds of gruesome deaths, all impossible to carry out by myself.

By the time I've figured out what I want, the blood has crusted on over the many lacerations, and not a single drop escapes. I will not have much time before the he returns...

Half of life is made of pretenses, of other's impressions of you.

Placing the mirror shard onto the sink momentarily, I quickly strip out of my gray slacks.

I am too good to be under the Dark Lord's control.

My façade will last to the glorious end.

I grab my wand off the floor, and admire its sleek and powerful beauty for one last time. It is oak, 12 inches, it's core made from one strand of unicorn hair.

"Obtorpesco." I whisper, the sound breaking through the dull ringing in my ears. My voice is purely cold determination. And I know then, that I have matured.

The spell is an odd one, a little trinket I picked up after studying my Father's tomes. I am suddenly glad that I've done so much background study. For a total of 5 minutes, I will feel no pain. But after that, the spell will wear off.

No time to waste.

I quickly plug up the tub, and take a seat on the rather cold marble.

Shivering just slightly, I make sure that there will be no regrets. It would be dreadful to return as a ghost.

My mind comes up blank. There is none.

I grab the waiting shard. As my thumb runs across the smooth texture, I hear it's lulling call again. The anticipation runs thick in the air; we both know what is about to happen.

I twist my arm outwards, baring the large repulsive tattoo on my underarm. It is black, darker than the endless night. It swallows the light, and taints the skin. It is a skull. There is a feral looking snake slithering out of its mouth.

It is a constant, tingling void. Reminding me every second of my corruption, of the extent of my sin. It is the source of the dull roar in my mind, the nefarious desires. It is a brand, something that I cannot get rid of for the rest of my life.

Until now.

Quickly, because I've come to far too turn back now, I stab the cool glass into my feverish skin. With a meticulous precision, I maneuver the shard. It cuts through the tender white flesh like butter. A box of blood frames the Dark Mark.

I behold the sight with breath taken awe.

Digging a deft finger into liquid warmth and stringy muscles, I rip out the tuft of skin.

For a second I stare at the piece of bloody skin, held between my index finger and my thumb. It's slimy, it's disgusting, and it's finally gone!

I stare at it with a manic glee.

For the first time in years, I think freely, no longer plagued with dark urges and an overpowering bloodlust. I am alone in my mind.

My hands are trembling with joy; I can barely believe it! The blood-slicked shard slips from my hand, clattering forgotten to the already stained floor. I grab my wand, feeling light-headed and giddy.

With trouble, I perform a complicated charm on the dreadful piece of skin. Slowly it floats out of my fingers to hang ghostly on the wall.

Only powerful dark magic would remove it now. It is perfect, at approximately eye level and hanging there ominously.

I sigh, contented.

Now there's only one more thing to do.

With calm and steady movements, I cut my left wrist deeply. I can hear the knife scraping bone. Blood starts gushing out, like my own private crimson waterfall. Quickly, I slash at my other wrist. I can feel my fingers weakening and the grip on the mirror slipping. I tighten my grip on the cold, unrelenting glass and carefully slice the vein in my neck.

It is done!

I lay down, arranging myself in a peaceful looking position. My arms cross over my chest and my legs are positioned unnaturally straight. Only a Malfoy can call it peaceful.

This will be the way they find me, dead from blood loss, and drowned in a pool of it.

Soon enough my spell wears off, and I am hit with wave after wave of mind shattering pain. It is white-hot, a taste of heaven in hell. My mouth forms a silent scream of agony, but my voice is lost somewhere, in this mindless oblivion.

My vision flickers and the white dims to a mottled gray. The agony slowly ebbs away, until the feel is of the sweet vindictive reality that I am so familiar with. Taking comfort in the bitter taste, I smile, for I am finally free.

I am finally myself again.

I am numb; I feel nothing. My mind has been severed from my body. It becomes a fleeting memory. This is as normal to me as life is. The transition is smooth. My vision darkens further and I stare at the high ceiling, watching it slowly fade from view. I feel nothing.

As it is meant to be.

Draco Malfoy, the one who always knew the wrong thing to say, the obnoxious prat. The spoiled rich kid, who has everything he could want. More money than anyone in the country, hordes of both men and women who want him, a body to die for, sharp wits and power. Oh, the power. Enough to bring even grown wizards to their knees.

I laugh.

Draco Malfoy, the one who chose death.