Choices

Choices

Chapter Two: Never Poke A Sleeping Dragon In the Eye

2029 - Malfoy Manor, Attic

Well, Potter. 20^th Anniversary of your death. Are you weeping in joy? I sure hope so, 'cause I imagine there's quite a shortage of water in Hell.

Hah, hah. I don't even crack myself up anymore. Must be getting senile. Mind you, I'm not even old yet. Just tired. Very, very tired.

Damn you. This is all your fault. Can't even die correctly and leave me in peace, can you. You have to go out with a bang, firecrackers and all, and leave us to have endless nightmares about it for the rest of our unnatural existence.

I can still smell the fear and doubt, clanging to them like a second skin. The Mudblood, the Weasel, and I. Welcome to the freak show. They wanted to save the hero from himself. I just wanted to kill you. To win, just once. We were sure that we couldn't succeed, not when it starts to turn hostile. After all, even the Dark Lord couldn't stand up to you, in the end. But you smiled, and invited us to polite conversation, debating the finer points of Democracy and Dictatorships with that smart-ass Granger. I remember thinking that you were spending too much time with your nose in a book.

When the time came, you just stood there, holding your stupid wand, arms moving gracefully like a conductor, orchestrating a symphony of Chaos only you could hear. Eyes closed, thank Merlin, so I don't have to see Slytherin green sharp knives filled with screaming. You smiled, and let me have my victory. My first, and last.

But you were never going to just leave, were you? Oh, no. Nothing so simple for the Boy Who Lived. Made sure I couldn't do anything, like becoming you, or worse, Voldemort. That horrible noble streak they so fancy in Gryffindors made you use your damned power on me. Or maybe it was just spite. However, I highly doubt that you were ever that petty.

Well, I can't even summon a cup of tea now. Are you happy? I sure aren't. I still hate you. That's probably supposed to be comforting. That these things never change. Of course I hate you. It's because of you that I am locked in my own manor, with only the house elves for company. It's because of you that Father is dead and Mother has been exiled. It's because of you that I'm a mere Squib.

I rather wanted to tell someone. Sell the story to some tabloid rag, maybe, because the Prophet would never print it. The Ministry controls it now. But no. That Mudblood - oh, so sorry, the Minister put spells on me, to make sure that I stuck to their story. I have to. Other wise I'll have thousands lining up for my blood. I am, after all, the one who murdered the Boy Who Lived. The killer of a benevolent ruler, who they still believe died in a sudden heart attack. I wonder at the mass's gullibility. I wish I could forget that day myself.

Nothing lasts forever, Potter. You never learned that. Those Muggles you love so much will destroy the peace and stability that you murdered Pureblood-activists and would-be Death Eaters to maintain. They have bred so much that they are invading every corner of the earth for living space. We will be found out soon. And then, they will annihilate us.

I wish you could open your surgical bright eyes and have a good look at what you've created now. A beautiful, perfect world that no one will survive to enjoy. I know why you choose me to kill you. I also know why you took my powers away from me. For once I agree with you. If you and Voldemort couldn't cheat Destiny, then maybe it took someone with no ambition and will to change the world to break the chains. I'll fight to the death. All Malfoys do.