april 1978. sixth year. quidditch pitch, hogwarts.

It was almost pathetic the way his body sank into the Earth, the grass serving as an outline for his slender frame as he laid unmoving in the mud. The sky was dark and cloudy, and the rain freezing as it poured from the dark starless canopy and landed hard on his body, on his face, washing away the sweat that had matted his dark hair to his forehead almost an hour ago. His clothes were soaked and dirty, the back of his robes soiled brown from the mud. Next to him laid his broom, his lithe fingers were still enclosed around the dark wood as he stared upwards into the night.

 The Quidditch Pitch was empty, all except him, and it was just the way he liked it. Flying was the best way to take his mind off of things. He could release the golden snitch and fly around the pitch seeking it at his leisure. Granted, it never took him too long to find it but by time he did he was usually put back in a right state. It didn’t work this time, however. His thoughts were as loud as the scream still ringing in his ears, and every time he saw a glimpse of the snitch’s golden wings fluttering tauntingly at him, he could only see a pair of dark lashes fluttering, before their owner’s amber eyes turned lifeless.

 He had killed last night on the orders of Lord Voldemort. A task he was given specifically because he knew he had yet to prove himself to his Lord after eight months of service. Eight months of being a Death Eater, and seven of them were spent regretting it. He was only sixteen years old, but under Voldemort’s control he had seen too much disturbing and unnecessary violence, too much pain and suffering and heard way too many cries, and pleas and promises strung together in exchange for lives. Sometimes the Dark Lord was forgiving, other times he was merciless. Last night, for example…