Measured
by Kay

You underestimated me, Potter.

And now you're at my mercy. Isn't it unfortunate for you that I don't have any?

I'm flooded by a sense of profound triumph as I look down at your broken body, lying supine on the dirty ground of the cell. I see the light of defiance still burning bright in your eyes, but it doesn't affect my satisfaction. You've been broken physically, and it's only a matter of time before your mental state follows, dissolving under the lash of my vengeance. Too bad I'll never get a chance to see that, as we simply don't have the time to wait.

I watch with almost detached interest as you attempt to lift yourself from the ground. It won't work; you and I both know it, but far be it from Harry Potter to give up without a fight. The exhaustion of your effort leaves you gasping for breath, and the shock of dark hair that usually covers your forehead falls away to reveal the lightning-shaped scar that stands out in sharp contrast to your pale skin.

Ah, that famed scar...You bear the mark of defiance, of good overcoming evil, innocence triumphing over worldliness.

Did you know, Potter, that I have scars, too? Not just the antithesis of your mark--the deep, ugly brand of a Death Eater forever burned into my flesh. No, that's readily apparent. My scars are the thousand blemishes of a mutilated soul. Hate, envy, greed, anger, bitterness, and a slew of other dark emotions that you would never understand. You may have seen a lot in your life, but none of it ever changed you. You're still Mr. Goodness-and-Light, elevated above anyone else. When you defeated Voldemort and almost all of his followers just last year, you became an even bigger hero, worshipped by everyone.

Well, not quite everyone. You killed my parents, and just as surely, you destroyed my chance at the fame I'd always dreamed of. Mulling over the events, it's at least comforting to realize that I'll be famous for something, and not just something of little consequence. I'll rob the world of its revered hero. It doesn't matter what happens to me after this, I'll live on in history as the man who killed the almost-invincible Harry Potter.

When I look back down at you, you're gazing up at me, clearly entreating me with your eyes. "Please, Draco," you manage, a ghost of a whisper. Even coming from your mouth at perhaps the most vulnerable point in your life, it's not begging. No, the great Harry Potter will never beg. I recognize your words as a reminder, prodding me to look back through the years and recall...a stolen kiss, a forbidden secret, a tentative friendship-that-might-be-more-than-friendship.

How curious.

You actually hope that some foolishly sentimental memories might divert me from my task. Instead, it makes me smile, though not unkindly. Your trademark goodness and belief in the possibility of human redemption has remained with you until the end. Anyone else would dedicate his last moments to personal absolution, or at the very least, hurling insults and anything else that his tormentor would not soon forget. It won't work with me, though.

But would you like to know what I won't soon forget? The expression of disappointment that crosses your face as I raise my wand, knowing that I won't redeem myself. The flicker of fear that you quickly extinguish as you prepare yourself for the pain. The surge of power I feel knowing that I hold the delicate flame of your life in my hands, ready to be blotted out on my whim.

Such an inconvenient time, but another shadow of a memory is flitting about the edges of my mind. I think I remember...

Some old English play written by a muggle; I know there's a prince who is about to be killed in a duel. Ah, that's it! Hamlet, the play we had to read for some inane reason in our seventh year at Hogwarts. It's the closing scene when Laertes holds an unbated and poison-tipped foil, ready to kill Hamlet in order to avenge his father's murder.

I feel the ridiculous urge to quote Laertes: "I'll hit him now...And yet it is almost against my conscience." Were I to have a conscience, I'm sure it would be true. It is a pity to see such a great amount of potential wasted. I once tried to convince you to join me. You would've made an amazing dark wizard; ten times stronger than Voldemort ever was. We could have made a great team. But your moral standards wouldn't allow it. Alas, it's too late for that now.

I tear my mind back to the present. That's quite enough contemplation. I've become impatient, and the time for your death has come. I start to utter the curse: "Avada--"

But a sudden burst of blue light cuts me short, and I don't know what you've done or how you've managed it (I broke your wand after all), but I feel myself fading away, blinded by an unbearable pain.

Seems I was wrong about just who underestimated whom.

END