Upon his shoulders, the weight of the world
Oppresses, smothers him under a filthy blanket
Of expectation until he cannot breathe.
The task, too great for even the best of men,
Is charged without remorse to the boy
Whose soul is to die for the sake of another.

So try and try again, he does,
His conviction ever-dwindling
And the taste of it rotten in his mouth.
Yet the drum beats no softer,
Nor his opportunities greater;
The dwindling days prey greedily upon him.

He does not understand, the boy,
Why his nemesis thrives
While he succeeds in nothing but failure.
It squeezes and wrenches at his gut.
Bile threatens and his weakness tattoos
Shameful rivers down his face.

Then he is there, that wretched orphan
Who spies upon the boy’s despair,
A housebreaker stealing into his deepest grief.
Curses fly, some true and some amiss.
Only one finds its mark, a perfect hit,
And the boy falls to the floor.

As plumes of scarlet leach onto the stone,
The smell of rust and raw flesh overwhelm the boy.
The room is quietly spinning away.
For a moment, one shining second,
He thinks he can finally be freed
From his ghastly bond and sleep
In the arms of silence and apathy.

A firm grip and a soft chant yank him back,
Ripping the boy from his haven,
Thrusting him into scorching consciousness.
The Boy Who Cannot Kill,
The Boy Who Cannot Die Correctly —
Draco doesn’t miss the irony.