Entombed

I wish I’d have been braver. I wish I’d done more to keep her close to me. But I chose this. I chose Hermione’s security and my mother’s safety over Harry’s stupid fucking Order. And it’s likely, if I’m being realistic, that one of us, whether it be me or Hermione, won’t come out of this war alive. Fuck, I thought I was guaranteed dead last year.

I don’t know what options I have. I’ve barely done anything during my time of being a Death Eater–all I’ve managed to do is construct a mediocre piece of furniture. No, not even construct, simply fix, and I could hardly do that. What if they ask me to hurt people? Test my loyalty in a more than uncouth way? I can’t do it. I just don’t think I’m one of them; and neither is my mother.

I’ve been raised to be one of them, I come from one of them, so why is it that I’m not? It doesn’t make sense; but I’m so glad I’m not like they are. I’m so glad I don’t understand or feel the desire to hurt people like they do. It’s not something to be proud of, it really isn’t; most people don’t enjoy hurting others, but it means I beat my father. And I am proud of that. Because he didn’t beat his father, and his father didn’t beat his father. For possibly the first time in the Malfoy's history; I’ve beaten my father. The abused becomes the abuser, usually, but I won and I didn’t. He hit me, he beat me, he hurt people in front of me–badly. He did the same to my mother, probably worse, and guess what all that did to me? Nothing. I don’t want to be made up of all the things he did to me. And, yes, of course, it’s affected me. I can’t go in the spare room opposite the downstairs bathroom. I can’t go anywhere near his fucking walking stick. Walking stick? Cane? I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is–I will not let all that happened with me and him change me. Change my behaviour. I understand I haven’t been the nicest person, but that was nothing compared to what I could’ve been under his influence.

I lift myself stiffly off my bed and reach for this odd contraption my mother bought me a few weeks ago. I told her how much I like muggle music, in confidence, and she bought me a music player that goes on my head. I went out and bought David Bowie Greatest Hits and Depeche Mode: Music for the Masses. I am very pleased with my purchases. The very first Depeche Mode song that comes on is Never Let Me Down Again and I think it may be my favourite song ever. I don’t think I can talk much about what I like and don’t like with people. Most of the things I do like are from muggles; and I definitely can’t talk about those things here.

Since I’ve been here, Hermione’s written two letters. I asked her not to. Well, really, I begged her not to. I told her how it’s likely they’ll never trust me and open as many letters addressed to me as they can. She just ordered Hedwig to bring them directly to my window. I then had to tell her that they often search my room. She hasn’t sent any since. It surprised me when she wrote to me because the last time we spoke I yelled at her and called her the worst word I could possibly call her. I didn’t mean it. I was trying to push her away so she wouldn’t have to be involved in all this Death Eater shit I’m stuck in the middle of. But looking back I wish I’d have just told her nicely. I wish I’d been nicer to her. I didn’t mean it. I told her that in the single letter I sent her. I’m sorry, I said. I should’ve been kinder, I said.

I told her I didn’t love her. That she didn’t mean anything to me. It was all a handful of lies; of course I fucking love her. I hate her for believing all the things I said.

I hear a faint knock on my door. My head snaps up. I pace myself to the door, one step at a time, taking slow deep breaths. I open it.

Thank fuck it’s just my mother.

I’ve never been afraid of Antonin Dolohov. I’ve watched him torture and murder, and I’ve watched him enjoy it; god only knows what he does when no one’s watching. I’ve seen him eyeing me from across the room–as if I were a bug he were contempt on squashing. I think he’s given up on trying to catch me out and mount my head on his wall.

I think it may be obvious by the melancholic, disgusted look on my face that I truly despise every Death Eater meeting I'm dragged into. Every time it’s the same; my father sneering at me; my mother looking at me with pity; and Dolohov glaring at me with some inexplicable evil lingering in his eyes. But not this time. My father’s sneer is undeniably colder and harder. My mother’s pity is amplified, in fact, she looks more in mourning than pitiful. And Dolohov is perfectly calm. Controlled. Even happy. As Voldemort declares his plans with a discreet malicious smirk growing bolder by the minute, I wonder, do they know?

I’ve been working with Harry Potter and the Order for at least a month now. I tell them where the next raids will be; lives are saved. I tell them who they’re looking to capture; lives are saved. But the longer I keep this up, the more danger I am placing my mother and myself in. Hermione insisted I come to Grimmauld Place and leave everything here behind. I blatantly refused. Just Snape alone is not enough to keep the Order informed, no, because if one of us is discovered; the order will be destroyed. I do not have nearly enough confidence in the Order’s capability to work without at least one informant, and there is a high chance one of us will be caught and eradicated.

I can’t say I don’t desperately want to run away. I’ve wanted to flee since I was ordered to murder Dumbledore. And considering I’ve been given the choice to run away by the only woman I’ve ever, dare I say, loved; it was a hard refusal. But nonetheless, I’d never forgive myself for leaving my mother alone with a crowd of vermin, my father included. I will fight. Though it is not like me, I will. For my mother and for Hermione, I will give everything.

Before I am able to adjust to being addressed, I see Voldemort position himself to face me, and I am struck with the evilest pair of eyes I have ever seen. Piecing and hot. Not cold, not chilling. Burning. It feels as though scorching cigars have been firmly pressed into my eye sockets. I start to panic.

“Young Malfoy, are you aware that all our attacks are being predicted?” It is as if a plethora of knives have been launched in my direction, and I feel all the pain, but my heart is still beating and I am still breathing. I start sweating, panting, shaking.

“No, My Lord, I was not aware.” I am aware. I am perfectly aware. Too aware. I hope and I pray that he will finish terrifying me and move on to someone else swiftly before I have a seizure or a panic attack or something of the sort.

“That’s a shame. I should hope you’re listening during these meetings, considering we were just discussing the matter.” My eyes widen and I accept he won’t go away easily. I have a feeling this isn’t about me not listening. I have a massive, gaping, horrifying feeling this is about something entirely different.

“I–I didn’t think I should involve myself in matters that may not concern me.” I attempt.

“You’re at this table. Why else could you possibly think you’re at this table? Everything we discuss concerns you.” I try.

“I understand, My Lord, in the future I will listen to every word.” I avoid.

“Every word? So you will listen intently, Malfoy?” I quiver.

“Yes, My Lord.” I evade.

“Enough to report?” I lose.

“I–yes? I must confess I don’t understand the question. Report to who?” I lose. I lose. I lose. There is nothing left that I can say or do, I have lost. I can see it in his eyes. I can see it in Dolohov’s golly grin. I don’t know what to do. My palms are sweating as much as they possibly can. I melt like the muggle version of a witch making contact with water, I melt until there is nothing but a black suit lounging on the floor, I melt until I lose, I lose, I lose, consciousness.
“The Order, perhaps?” My mother looks my way. I can see her shaking. I can feel myself shivering, as if there were a chilly breeze coming from a slightly ajar window. But there is no window. I am certain I can see the white hot anger seeping out of every crevice Voldemort displays. I am certain I can see blind panic gaping out of every pore, gland and outlet I possess. “Or maybe Harry Potter himself?” I’m a rotting corpse at the age of seventeen.

It feels like hours, weeks, months before anybody speaks. I think about nothing. Within these few seconds where nobody takes action, that unlimited amount of time I had to think about anything at all, I thought about absolutely nothing. I stare blankly at the pristine wood table, the cotton tablecloth, the gold candlestick holders, and feel nothing but distance between myself and everything that currently exists.

“Lucius, Antonin; take him.” And everything falls back into place.

They grab me roughly by each arm and drag. They drag and they drag and they drag until I’m not sure whether I have the capacity to stay conscious for much longer. But I still fight–I wail and I flail my arms around in the hopes that they might drop me and I’d be able to get free. Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t work. I yell for my father to let go. To have some sympathy. To feel. But he does no such thing as he grips me tighter and scowls at my struggling. I yell for my mother. I call her mum. She doesn’t respond.

It was never made obvious to me that when your life falls apart and you lose everything–it all happens at once.