For Want of Better Aim

For Want of Better Aim

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I stared at my wand, turning it over in my hands.

I'd gone to Dumbledore at last. Told him everything I knew about my father. It had all spilled out: his meetings, his secrets, his lies; everything I'd ever heard, everything I'd ever seen. Everything that had been done to me.

Everything he had done to me.

It all added up. The tab was too big. I turned my wand over in my hands.

I knew how to do it. My father had taught me. I'd done it to another, just never to myself.

Did I want to do it? Yes.

Should I do it? I didn't know.

A twisted body; a life lying shattered on the ground.

It'd take away a danger when the Battle finally came. One Death Eater. I wasn't fool enough to think I'd stand against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I hadn't even been able to stand against my father. I'd gone running to Dumbledore when he finally put me to the test.

"It's time you joined with the rest of us, Draco," he'd said. "You're seventeen; an adult. It is past time you received your Mark."

Weak. That's what I was. Weak.

I convulsively clutched my left arm. I pulled back the sleeve of my robe.

Nothing. There's nothing there.

Weak. Stupid. You wanted to be the big man, Draco, but you couldn't do it. You're worthless. You're nothing to anyone. Less than a Flobberworm You don't matter at all. She mattered How could you do it?. I closed my eyes, but I couldn't shut out my own voice in my head. Couldn't shut out the image in my mind.

The wand rolled in my fingers again. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Her hand reached out, begging. I had no mercy.

I could receive the Mark. Pass information to Dumbledore. I might save my past enemy's life. The Battle was beginning. They needed people on the inside of the Dark Lord's force. Right?

The Dark Lord. He's been your hero for too long. He won't give you power. And he won't let you betray him. He'll destroy you.

He's already destroyed you, another voice argued.

I said two terrible words, and she died, unmarked. I caught her as she fell.

I couldn't take it. I'd given in once. I wouldn't give in again. If I received the Dark Mark, I would never be free to change. If I didn't -

I knew who would do it. He'd ask to. I knew.

A woman I'd never liked lay dead, cradled in my arms.

He wouldn't take anything else from me. My father would have nothing else from me.

My grip on the wand shifted. I raised my hand, pointed it at myself.

Brown, curly hair fell over my wrists; brown, intelligent eyes stared at my face, devoid.

I'd killed her. I killed her.

Hermione Granger lay dead in my arms.

I tightened my fingers, checked my aim.

Would that I had missed the first time.

I was not going to miss the second.

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