Harry Potter Fic: I can't do it

[fathomlessspite]

Title: I can't do it
Author: fathomlessspite
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Warnings: none
Rating: G or PG ish
Summary: Draco's thoughts as he points his wand at Dumbledore in the Lightening Struck Tower chapter of Half Blood Prince. The ruminations of a sixteen year old boy forced into a kill or be killed situation.
A/N: This was written as a piece of transitional coursework for my A levels a year or two ago. 

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The climax. The culmination of months and months of planning, plotting and preparation. The great and powerful headmaster is practically on his knees, and the Dark Mark is blazing proudly and brightly in the sky.

He tells me to get on with it. Get on with it? Does the old man even realise what he is telling me to get on with? Has he finally lost the last precious remnants of his sanity? His next statement tells me he clearly hasn’t; he most certainly knows what he is talking about. His softly uttered words make me realise that he is right. I cannot do it. A voice that sounds suspiciously like my father’s whispers conspiratorially in my ear, urging me on. How many would give their right arm for this opportunity?

What if I don’t wish to be a murderer? What if I do not desire to become the carbon copy of my father?

No one asked me what I wished to do, they all made their assumptions - thrust me into a role I did not choose. I wasn’t given a choice. And I don’t have one now either. I must follow in the footsteps of my father, or loose him, along with my mother. I do not have a choice, I will do it. I have to.

I am not naïve, I know I was expected to fail. It was the Dark Lord’s way of punishing my father without losing his valuable service. I was not chosen for my skill at all, but my seeming lack of it. I was expected to fail, but have succeeded; truimphed Will I be rewarded, or punished? After all I have prevented the Dark Lord’s vengeance for my fathers mistakes.

It does not matter either way, I decide, I must do this to save my father, to restore respect to my family name. I am choiceless.

What does Dumbledore know about it? Everyone has a choice in the rose tinted world of Albus Dumbledore. But I discover he knows much more than he should as he continues, much more than anyone should. He’s known all along.

I listen as he praises my intelligence, my cunning, my plan, me. I am a Malfoy after all, how could he suspect anything less?

He’s delaying the inevitable. I just cannot fathom why; to the outside observer he looks as if he’s about to meet his maker, pay the piper, start pushing up daisies here and there. But it doesn’t matter; I let him do it. The longer he waits, the part of me my father has yet to gain command of whispers, the longer it is until I become a killer; a cold hearted monster like him. A tremor runs through me at these thoughts and my hand trembles slightly. I desperately try to steady it, keeping my wand aimed at his heart as I respond to his inane questions. Why do I respond? Why ever not? He will be dead soon anyway.

But he points out exactly what I am trying to ignore; the fact that I could have killed him a million times by now if I had wanted to. I can feel my hand shudder again and I fight the almost overwhelming urge to lower my wand. I draw my attention back to his fast fading voice, he wishes to discuss my options? Now? It is unmistakably clear that I have none and I tell him so, but he persists in talking, and reluctantly I listen. How can he protect mother, even father and me? Why would he want to after everything we have done?

I try to argue with him, to reason with him. I am strong. I can do this.

But . . . to be able to be safe, and not have to kill? He is giving me the choice. Not one person has ever granted me the right to choose my own path before now.

I begin to lower my wand but stop when I hear footsteps approaching. I watch as four of my fellow Death Eaters intrude upon us, as they effectively snatch the opportunity of choice from my outstretched fingertips. They taunt him, and encourage me to do it. Order me to do it. But I can’t. Ironically, I am shaking so violently now that I doubt I could, even if I tried.

They are screaming at me now, but I cannot do it. I don’t even look at them. I can’t tear my eyes away from Dumbledore. He is on the floor, he could be in excruciating pain and I wouldn’t know. He looks as calm as ever. The only thing that betrays his state of well being is the fact that he isn’t standing eye to eye with his foes. Our eyes meet for the briefest of seconds and his twinkle reassuringly at me.

I drag my gaze away as the strident coercing stops, to see Professor Snape’s dark figure occupying the doorway. Immense relief wells up inside me as Snape sweeps onto the tower. I observe silently as Dumbledore pleads with him. Why would Dumbledore plead for his life? It seems unlikely. Surely he would assume Snape would help him, why would he plead?

My thoughts are jarred to a halt as deadly green light strikes Dumbledore squarely in the chest, propelling him over the castle walls. I watch as he disappears from view. I let myself be coerced down the stairs and away from the surreal scene.

Dumbledore is dead. My plan succeeded and Dumbledore is dead. Snape may have uttered the words, but I did it, I killed him. My parents are safe. I am safe. So why does it feel like I’ve just condemned myself? Why do I feel so cold?

Because, a small part of me whispers, you’ve sold your soul to Voldemort, and doomed yourself to a life of hell in his service.

I gaze through the battling wizards as Snape leads me across the school grounds, to the spot where Dumbledore must lay. Dead. And the realisation dawns upon me that my last hope of freedom died with him.

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