The Last Thing
Mood; Sleepy.

Passion.

Desire. Passion is desire, perhaps one of the strongest, truest forms of it - the form that consumes, the form that burns. But, long ago, the word meant something else, something equally powerful, but sadder; something equally there, but not equally wanted.

Long ago, passion was suffering.

My suffering.



*

“Albus –”

Dumbledore raised a hand, and I knew it was of no use, that I had to follow his orders, do as he commanded me to do – do as he commanded me to do because, years ago, I had pledged myself to a cause, a – no, the – cause of redemption.

– My redemption, in my own eyes.

Killing Albus Dumbledore would be a hard task for me.
-- A task I knew I had to, and would, carry out.



*

As desire, passion consumes.
– As suffering, it kills continuously.

Nagini rose, Nagini stroke. My hands were cold, my feet were numb – or perhaps it was the other way around. For years now, my life had been empty, a living death made bearable only by the thought that I was working to make up for my mistakes. – Working, perhaps, to assure myself that I was not the cause of Lily Evans’s death.

But I was.

I was!

Seventeen years. Seventeen years of living death, seventeen years of regret. Seventeen years of working to undo what I had caused, seventeen years of longing. Seventeen years – – Seventeen years of replacing cowardice with a courage that, once, I had only dreamt of!


The last thing I saw was Lily’s eyes.