Pure Blood

He ran the razor blade down his thin, pale wrist. He traced old scars, drawing fresh blood. He watched as his blood dripped down mixing with the snow. Pure blood, Malfoy blood, mixing with the slush and mud. It was beautiful in a sick sort of way.

He thought how easy it would be to let all of his blood drain out of his body onto the ground, to watch his life flow away taking with it all of his problems. It would be so simple. There would be no death eaters, no Voldemort, no father. All of these things would simply be carried away with his blood.

If he died then he wouldn't have to deal with the everyday misery that was his life. Take classes, pretend to care, hang out in the common room, pretend to be a good Slytherin, go to quidditch, pretend to hate Potter, write to his father, pretend to be on his side, go to bed, pretend to sleep. He was tired of pretending. How he wished he could be like the other students. They never had to pretend anything. Everyone thought their lives were hard. They were all afraid of being killed. Draco hoped and prayed every day that he would die in the line of duty. He knew he couldn't kill himself because of the work he was doing.

It was hatred of his father that had made him turn. His father who abused him, who made him do awful things, who had never had a kind word for Draco, who his mother feared. He had been willing to do anything as long as it was against his father. He now recognized that he was doing the hardest job of all. He had to take the pain and the horror of being Voldemort's servant and he couldn't even feel that he was safe from Voldemort's wrath. The worst part was that a traitor is a traitor. The people you pass information along to are wary of you because if you betray the other side, couldn't you just as easily betray them? So now he was trapped in limbo between good and evil.

He didn't really want his life to be over. He just wanted the pain to be over. He wanted the suffering to be over. He wanted to finally feel free and easy without all of his problems weighing down on him. If he knew another way out he would take it. But he didn't and death seemed like a good enough way. He thought of the easy end to his problems, of how simple it would be to end it all then and there, to let it go, let it all go into the snow. To watch his pure blood mix with the dirt. The irony of it was wonderful. It could all be over with just one slice of the razor. Just one and everything would be solved.

He knew he couldn't. He was an important member of the resistance. There was only one thing in this world he wanted more than to die. That was to take Voldemort and his father with him.

He bandaged the cut on his arm, for you cannot magically heal self-inflicted wounds. He snuffed out the fire, stamping out the ashes into the dust. Soon, he knew, he too would be ashes and dust. He welcomed the thought.

Ashes to ashes....

Dust to dust....