If Walls Could Talk

If Walls Could Talk

Can you keep a secret? I suppose it matters little if you can. I am a marked man and my days are numbered, so it's only a matter of time before they come for me. I'll take my secret with me to the grave, if I'm so fortunate to even get one. And if you can't keep my secret, so much the better. I'd like for it to hang over the world, echoing through every dark corner of the earth, echoing through every dark shadow that casts itself over an innocent victim...

If walls could talk - these walls that are my sanctuary and guardian - they would tell you. They hold my secrets and will continue to honor them long after I am gone. They know what I know and hide what I have always tried to hide. My cowardice, my shame, my desperation, my determination...

Toujours pur.

I curse those words daily for making me the pathetic man I am right now. Those hideous words molded me, feeding my heart and ego. It was my mantra. It was our mantra. And I lived by it proudly...but now, if I could find a way to purge myself of this blue-blooded purity and let the real, true purity through...let it spread like an infection until it has consumed my entire being.

Yet those words that had imprisoned me had also come to liberate me. Toujours pur. Always pure. Behind closed doors, behind closed windows, my mantra freed me. It shook me up, instilled fear in me, and then it slowly began to purify and nurture me. Its meaning changed for me, it came to represent something that transcended physical purity, genetic purity... Yet even so, Toujours pur will always be synonymous with the noble house of Black, and for that I'll continue to loathe it.

It is often said that the youngest children are the backbone of their families - the strength and the glue that keep families together. I was an exception. I was not strong, and my family fell apart. I chose what was easy, and not what was right, so I lost. I listened to my parents, believed what they told me, and not only followed in their footsteps, but went above and beyond to prove that I was the better son by doing everything my parents said and more. I not only laughed at the mudblood jokes my parents made, but I took offense on my parents' behalf when my brother didn't laugh. I not only made sure to have pureblooded friends, but I told my parents when my brother befriended Remus Lupin, the half-blood, half-bred werewolf. I not only agreed with my parents' assertion that the Dark Lord was an asset to society, but I actually joined forces with him. I became a death eater. And I made my parents proud. And it estranged my brother.

My parents would like to think that they disowned him, but I know - and Sirius knows - he disowned them. And me. He left all of us because he was everything that I was not. He chose what was right and not easy, and he chose to be the strong one...but it was a different type of strong...not the type of strength I was supposed to have. I was supposed to have the strength to not only do what was right, but to keep our family together. Sirius's strength was different. He did what was right, but was strong enough to break away from us and go on his own, not keep us together. Oldest children tend to be like that. Independence runs through their veins; it certainly ran through Sirius's veins.

If these walls could talk, they would tell you that I miss him. They would tell you that our story is incomplete. We never got along with one another, and we always hated each other, but I miss him. I'd like to tell him I was wrong, and he was right. I'd like to tell him that I wanted to make up for all the years we lost. But I can't. My days are numbered. These walls around me know all of this...but they're just walls. They'll hold secrets, but they won't spill them...even if you want them to.

If these walls could see, they could bear witness that the mark is still burned into my skin, and it will be there for the rest of my life, which I know won't be long. They'll have found me soon enough. I remember being frightened the night I received this mark - I was trembling inside my robes. But I was fascinated and excited at the same time. The Dark Lord appealed to me. I was brought up to admire him and fear him. I know now that no human - however great in powers - should command such feelings from another human being. But I was young then. I'm still young - only a couple of years have passed since my induction into the Dark Lord's circle - but I'm only young in years. My exposure to the dark arts has aged me more than a drop of the strongest aging potion could have done. But at the time I was young and immature. I was eager to please and prosper, and the opportunity of a lifetime was before me. I took it enthusiastically, ready to rise amongst my equals and be distinguished as one of the most loyal servants to the Dark Lord...for I know now that has always been my forte - serving the purposes of others to please them.

If walls could hear, they could listen to the sound of a man crying in shame. I killed a woman one night. I didn't know her...I didn't even know her name. If she had been passing by me on the streets, I would have kept walking - maybe I would've smiled at her, nodded at her and said hello to her and continue on my way without giving her a second thought. But on that night she was a muggle, and for that she had to die. I remember being eager to do the job when it was assigned to me. I remember swelling up with pride when Lucius Malfoy came to my house and told me, "The Dark Lord wishes for you to accompany me tonight on our incursion. He feels that you have proven yourself. You are ready to join us."

I had proven myself to the Dark Lord. He thought I was ready. In our circle, no higher praise could be bestowed. I was raring to go, and we went. Lucius, myself and a few others went. I will not pretend that I did not have fun. We all had fun. We tore apart buildings and set fires to them, we broke a large bridge...and we did it with relish. It was almost like a sport. But then we came to the woman's house. She was outside, coming out of her muggle vehicle that was parked in front of her house. She didn't see us across the street, so she went inside. Lucius's face was covered by his mask, but his mouth peaked underneath it, and we saw him smile. He crossed the street an headed towards the woman's house. We followed.

We broke into the house and began tearing through it, burning and destroying anything that came in our way. I remember hearing shouting...a lot of it. The woman had been a wife as well as a mother to five children. None of them survived, of course. Lucius and the others took care of the husband and children. It was I who cornered the woman. She had been trying to get to one of her children's rooms, but I had blocked the way, forcing her to take off in the other direction, locking herself up in her bedroom. I entered easily enough, and within moments, she was cowering at my feet, begging me to spare her life, begging that my friends and I spare her family. She was screaming and crying, shaking hysterically on the floor. For an instant, I think I went soft. But the Dark Lord's face appeared in my mind, and a moment later, I had killed her.

She fell backwards, and I got a clear view of her face: Eyes wide open, rimmed with tears, and a face paler than the moon. I stared at her until Macnair burst into the room, shouting at me to go. I hurriedly followed Macnair out. As we ran down the stairs, we stepped over a child that lay motionless at the foot of the steps. She must have been about a year old...barely older than my nephew Draco Malfoy.

"For what crime did this girl die?" This question has rung through these walls since that fateful night. If the walls could hear...if they could see...they would know I asked myself that question over and over that night, and for many nights after that. I asked this question for all of our victims - yes, I say 'our' victims...plural victims. I only killed one, but I was one of them, so I must bear the responsibility with them, and live with this reality for the rest of my life. It won't be long, I know, but it will remain with me for as long as I am capable of holding onto it.

I became scared. I couldn't sleep at night. I was afraid to sleep, afraid of seeing the little girl, afraid of seeing her mother, afraid of hearing her beg for mercy. She feared me and I realized I did not want to be feared. But the Dark Lord wanted to be feared. He wanted everyone to fear him, including me, including his death eaters, and he wanted us to emulate him as much as possible with our own victims. I realized I couldn't do it. It became too much to bear. I was never a tyrannical person...I never craved power, only recognition did I seek...and when I finally received it, it became evident that I had no use for it. I could not become like the Dark Lord...I could not command authority from others the way he always had...and so I saw no reason or justification for submitting myself to that brand of power. I left it. His power frightened me, and the powers I had under his authority frightened me, so I left the circle without any intention of returning.

My time is short, and my days are numbered, so I have little time to redeem myself. I have tried to overcome my weaknesses: my belief in my so-called superiority...toujours pur is something I have disregarded for what it has always represented, but it is also something I now embrace in its real, absolute meaning: purity of the heart.

One grievance that I still have and will continue to have for my remaining days is my failure to overcome my desire to be recognized, to make those whom I serve proud. Let these walls attest to one of my remaining desires. I would like nothing more than for my brother to know that upon my demise, he and I were on the same side.