Prologue
He would come to rue the day he ever listened to her. He wished, years later, that she had never given him that terrible realization and hope. What might have been something to sustain him in his misery had only shown him would could have been, not what could still be.
Reflections upon himself and his life embittered him further. He so wanted what she had had- serenity, unquestioning acceptance, and the knowledge of having fulfilled her purpose.
She’d taught him to see and value all this even as her days were numbered, but Draco knew that the chance to escape she’d given him was gone. The life he desired above all else was as impossible as the sun at night. To think, at one point it had even been within his reach…It grieved him all the more, knowing that such a life existed and yet he could not have it. He had never questioned the life he was born into, not until he was asked to do the unthinkable. But ever since he started to question it, and especially since she came into the picture, he had felt a gnawing envy for those born with a chance to be good, a chance to be saved. He never had, and would never have that same opportunity. He had inherited centuries of pride and hatred, a legacy that denied him salvation.
What was it like, he wondered, to wake up without fear? Not a day had gone by since the age of sixteen when he did not have the shadow of death looming over him- the chilling realization that he might not live to see another day. And the guilt and horror that ate away at him every time he was ordered to turn his wand on someone- would he ever be free of that terrible, choking guilt? The wretchedness he felt as he watched them thrash in unthinkable agony because of his own cowardice, his reluctance to face the Dark Lord’s wrath, was torture enough. The sight of it remained imprinted upon his vision for weeks, haunting him.
If only he had listened to Dumbledore- hadn’t he promised him protection of some sort? But Dumbledore was dead and could not help him anymore. Who would believe him, anyway, if went to the Order? It would be humiliating, to say the least. The idea alone of groveling to Potter was revolting. The hatred he had for him now was a different kind- in earlier years, he was bitter about the unmerited attention the boy had, he felt, stolen from him, the sole heir of pureblood nobility. Lately, it was an anguished jealousy of the life Potter had, an ache that could not be quelled, an eternally hemorrhaging wound that would not heal…
But perhaps he was fated to be here, sulking in some dark corner of Malfoy Manor, wondering why he hadn’t saved himself from this. Sometimes he missed her, missed her quiet, unassuming companionship. It was more than just her company, though: she’d given him hope, feeble, but hope all the same. She’d given him a raison d’être. But even as he felt horribly indebted to her, he felt bitter- she had shown him a world apart from his own, and now he wanted nothing more than that simple, inherent goodness that would never be his. Sometimes he hated her for it, that she had shown him the truth. Just now he missed her in spite of himself.
He missed Luna.