Prompt 90 - Colorless - "Choices"- ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spikespetslayer - HP
Apr. 12th, 2008 11:46 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
dedra.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
tamingthemuseTitle: Choices
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Summary: The choices of our lives make us what we are.
The liquid in the vial was more than clear, it was completely colorless and void of scent, flavor, or any other identifying marks. He swirled it in its decorative bottle and considered the situations that had brought him to this juncture of his life.
He was alone in the world now. His family name that once meant something was destroyed, shattered and smeared by his father’s actions and choices. He had let him lead him into the same downward spiral, let his father make his choices without questioning their sanity.
Hindsight being twenty-twenty, he was able to look back and see what wrong turns that they had made, what choices could have been more intelligently made. He could see where the inane thoughts and prejudices of the past had forced the whole world to view them as insane and insular. He could see so much more clearly now than he had ever before and it frightened him.
In truth, he was terrified. Terrified of the choices that he made and terrified of the choices that were yet to come.
He wondered in the back of his mind if there was anyone that would miss him. There wasn’t one person that he could think of that he could truly call friend. His cronies, thugs, whatever you wanted to call them, they would probably not even notice that he was gone. They only were friendly with him because of their fathers, not because he was a truly likeable person. In fact, had it not been for their fathers and their misguided loyalties, they might not have been friends at all.
Even Pansy—she wouldn’t miss him either. Her only reason for being his paramour was because of his ruined name and the riches that came with them, nothing more. All that was gone now, devoured by the Ministry of Magic and the fines and reparations for the deeds that weren’t even of his own making.
If he decided to stay in the Wizarding world, he imagined that he wouldn’t have an easy time of it. As of right now, with his father dead, his mother missing, and he himself on house arrest, there was no recourse except trying him for his father’s crimes along with his own. Laws and regulations in the Wizarding world seemed to differ from those in the Muggle courts; he had heard Granger blather on about the judicial differences once and now wished that he had paid closer attention.
In fact, he wished that he had her brains here right now, giving him the advice that he so desperately needed instead of the choice that swirled hypnotically in the clinch of his fingertips.
It was an old Malfoy tradition, taking one’s life if disgraced. It was an old family formula that his great-great-great uncle had introduced, distilled from wolfsbane and hemlock and filtered through belladonna leaves to induce instant death. Locked away in a charmed book in the family archives were the potion’s instructions; when the last Malfoy died, the contents of the book would be magically erased, lost for all time.
Somehow, he didn’t care. He didn’t care about the knowledge that would be lost, the artifacts that would never be seen again, the heirlooms that had no heir to take them over. He didn’t care about anything more than what was inside him and inside the bottle.
There was darkness inside him. Darkness that hid the real man from the caricature that he had built. He wanted to let the real man out but the fear of ridicule and rejection had pushed him deeper and deeper into that never-ending dark.
He was just as cowardly as the world thought he was.
With a sigh and a shuttered glance, he uncapped the bottle and upended it, pouring the contents on the floor. It smoldered for a moment, scorching the marble and discoloring the flagstones on the hearth. It would be a constant reminder to him—he’d tell the house elves not to clean it up.
He tossed the bottle to the side and turned in the chair, readying himself for the task of rebuilding his life. If not here, then somewhere fresh and new. He really didn’t want to die. It wasn’t in his best interest, after all.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Summary: The choices of our lives make us what we are.
The liquid in the vial was more than clear, it was completely colorless and void of scent, flavor, or any other identifying marks. He swirled it in its decorative bottle and considered the situations that had brought him to this juncture of his life.
He was alone in the world now. His family name that once meant something was destroyed, shattered and smeared by his father’s actions and choices. He had let him lead him into the same downward spiral, let his father make his choices without questioning their sanity.
Hindsight being twenty-twenty, he was able to look back and see what wrong turns that they had made, what choices could have been more intelligently made. He could see where the inane thoughts and prejudices of the past had forced the whole world to view them as insane and insular. He could see so much more clearly now than he had ever before and it frightened him.
In truth, he was terrified. Terrified of the choices that he made and terrified of the choices that were yet to come.
He wondered in the back of his mind if there was anyone that would miss him. There wasn’t one person that he could think of that he could truly call friend. His cronies, thugs, whatever you wanted to call them, they would probably not even notice that he was gone. They only were friendly with him because of their fathers, not because he was a truly likeable person. In fact, had it not been for their fathers and their misguided loyalties, they might not have been friends at all.
Even Pansy—she wouldn’t miss him either. Her only reason for being his paramour was because of his ruined name and the riches that came with them, nothing more. All that was gone now, devoured by the Ministry of Magic and the fines and reparations for the deeds that weren’t even of his own making.
If he decided to stay in the Wizarding world, he imagined that he wouldn’t have an easy time of it. As of right now, with his father dead, his mother missing, and he himself on house arrest, there was no recourse except trying him for his father’s crimes along with his own. Laws and regulations in the Wizarding world seemed to differ from those in the Muggle courts; he had heard Granger blather on about the judicial differences once and now wished that he had paid closer attention.
In fact, he wished that he had her brains here right now, giving him the advice that he so desperately needed instead of the choice that swirled hypnotically in the clinch of his fingertips.
It was an old Malfoy tradition, taking one’s life if disgraced. It was an old family formula that his great-great-great uncle had introduced, distilled from wolfsbane and hemlock and filtered through belladonna leaves to induce instant death. Locked away in a charmed book in the family archives were the potion’s instructions; when the last Malfoy died, the contents of the book would be magically erased, lost for all time.
Somehow, he didn’t care. He didn’t care about the knowledge that would be lost, the artifacts that would never be seen again, the heirlooms that had no heir to take them over. He didn’t care about anything more than what was inside him and inside the bottle.
There was darkness inside him. Darkness that hid the real man from the caricature that he had built. He wanted to let the real man out but the fear of ridicule and rejection had pushed him deeper and deeper into that never-ending dark.
He was just as cowardly as the world thought he was.
With a sigh and a shuttered glance, he uncapped the bottle and upended it, pouring the contents on the floor. It smoldered for a moment, scorching the marble and discoloring the flagstones on the hearth. It would be a constant reminder to him—he’d tell the house elves not to clean it up.
He tossed the bottle to the side and turned in the chair, readying himself for the task of rebuilding his life. If not here, then somewhere fresh and new. He really didn’t want to die. It wasn’t in his best interest, after all.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-13 06:34 pm (UTC)Just wanted to leave a comment and say that I read and enjoyed your work
no subject
Date: 2008-04-14 12:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-13 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-14 12:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-15 02:38 am (UTC)