All of us have read the stories of the heroes. Of Harry Potter, of Hermione Granger, of the Weasleys, of Remus Lupin and of Albus Dumbledore.
But, history has always been written by the winners. What if there was more to the story than we know? Wha...
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Draco Malfoy was tired. There was no other word to describe it. He was tired of being the subject of the Dark Lord's experiments merely because he had failed him, he was tired of Crabbe and Goyle demanding more and more from him, he was tired of Pansy hounding him and expecting him to be all that she wanted him to be.
He was exhausted.
He only cared about three things in the world. Himself, his mother and getting the both of them out of it all alive. His father had not been there for him, so he would not help his father.
He had been born with an innate sense of self-preservation, a feeling that meant that the first thing he wished to do in any sort of situation was save himself. His safety and his mother's safety were the only two things he could bring himself to care about and he would do anything to ensure that both of them were alive at the end of the war that was sure to come.
He did not feel anything more than that. He was too tired to even feel.
He felt like one of those Muggle machines. The kind that worked and worked and felt nothing. He felt nothing. When the Dark Lord asked him to torture and kill, he complied with no emotion, the emotion having been driven out of him a long time ago. His hands had shook and he had been unable to do it at first but now, he was getting better at it. He was regaining some small semblance of the respect that his father had lost them. But, none of it was something to be proud of.
During his short stays at the school was when he felt something. He felt hate, complete and utter loathing that was directed towards himself. The younger students were afraid of him, the old teachers seemed disgusted by the very sight of him, his peers in other Houses looked at him with plain hatred and his fellow members of Slytherin looked upon him with a thin layer of respect and admiration in their eyes, as a result of his service to the Dark Lord, the master that so many of them foolishly wished to serve. All of this made him hate himself.
Pansy was the worst of them. She showered him with affection and declarations of love without understanding him, the one she apparently loved. She didn't know the first thing about him. She loved the idea of him, the handsome, popular, rich pure-blooded Slytherin boy who found amusement in bullying and destroying people and had an unfailing belief in the Dark Lord.
In reality, he was nothing but a tired coward who didn't believe in anything. He didn't believe that purebloods were better than Muggleborns. He didn't know how to believe, didn't know what to believe. If she knew, then she wouldn't love him. He would tell her, if he didn't know of the repercussions that would come from not believing in the cause.
The cause was what they referred to it as. As if bestowing it with a name that made it seem like they were doing something wonderful for society as they believed they were would change the fact that all they were was a group of murderers and monsters headed by a ruthless autocrat who was worse than them all combined. Draco was one of them and nothing would ever change that, not even the fact that he had learnt his lesson, the lesson that had begun kicking in the moment Dumbledore offered him help, even while Draco had had a wand pointed at him, poised and ready to kill him.
