For Ari -- with loads of love and Hakuna Matata.

So many people say that they were pushed off that cliff; that they fell, or never saw it coming. I've been sitting here my entire life, taking pictures of the rocks I could hit on the way down. I suppose it's always been a choice and I've just been teetering here, waiting to decide. Turn around or jump?

The first time you stood on the edge of the cliff. The memory still comes vividly to you, every detail painfully sharp. As the wind whips your face, and the rain pounds a steady tattoo around you, you cast your mind back, wondering if you are making the right decision.

*

'Draco, please!' Your mother is crying, begging.

You are standing upright, shaking slightly. 'Mother, the Dark Lord has chosen me. Don't you understand what this means? You and Father have nearly lost his favour, but I could regain it! I could do great things!

'Draco, you are just sixteen! What can you do? Tell me, what will you do?'

You smile. Looking back, you realise that it is not the cold, demented smile that is later all you have-- you are young, so young and foolish.

'The Dark Lord has given me a job-- a job of so much importance and secrecy that if I succeed... Mother, we will never have to fear the wrath of the Dark Lord again. Don't you see that this is my chance to prove myself, to right our wrongs? Do you think that the Dark Lord is a fool, to give me such a task if he does not believe me to be capable? If I do what I have to do, I may even be able to get Father out of Azkaban!'

'And what is this job?'

'Mother, I can't tell you that! The Dark Lord has forbidden me from talking about it to anyone.'

Her mouth turns down. 'The Dark Lord wants you to murder Albus Dumbledore, doesn't he?' You turn on her.

'How did you know that?' you ask, your voice rising.

'I am not stupid,' she says, 'whatever you may think. I hear things. But murdering Dumbledore? Draco, isn't it clear that the Dark Lord expects you to fail? How does he suppose a sixteen year old is to kill one of the greatest living wizards?'

'Dumbledore is a fool, a pathetic fool! He believes in the best of everyone, and that is his weakness. He will never suspect me, the blood traitor.'

'No, my darling, the Dark Lord knows you will fail. This is his revenge on us!’ She takes in a ragged breath. “I cannot lose you!'

'That's enough,' you say. 'The Dark Lord has eyes and ears everywhere. Do you want to lose what favour you have, do you want to die? Tell me, what do you expect me to do? Refuse him? Turn his offer down? Mother—' You pull your sleeve up and thrust your arm in her face. 'I have the Dark Mark!'

And as you look at the tear-stained face of your mother that so obviously displays shock, and as you look at the black ink so permanently etched in your hand, you see the cliff around you.

You take a step forward, curious.

*

Malfoy Manor. It does not exist as much as it sprawls-- a vulgar, ostentatious display of affluence and power. It is now covered by a thick layer of snow, for this year it is a white Christmas. In the grounds, where in other homes there would be snowmen and forts, there are two shivering albino peacocks, almost invisible in the silvery coldness of the snow. Where in other homes there would be warm smells of pudding and cake, there is nothing, an all pervading, imposing, suffocating nothing. Where in other homes happy families are spending a warm Christmas together, it seems colder inside Malfoy Manor than out.

You walk up the great hall, to the armchair that stands at the end. You are shivering in fear, you are trembling, you are dreading every step that you are taking. You know who is sitting in the far end of the room, and you know what he is going to do to you for failing in your task.

It had been a stroke of pure genius, the plan. It had been difficult, definitely—right from getting the necklace to casting an Imperius curse on Rosmerta. It isn't your fault that the whole thing turned out to be such a fiasco. And even though you know you oughtn't not to be thinking this, you think it: even the Dark Lord's plans have failed spectacularly in the past, so he can not possible blame you.

But you know he will.

You reach the end of the hall, and you fall on your knees, your head bowed. You close your eyes tightly.

'Rise, Draco,' he says, and each word makes your heart thud that much harder, like a massive drum beating inside of your chest.

'Master,' you murmur, having seen countless Death Eaters do the same before-- grovelling in front of their Lord.

'Is Dumbledore still alive?' he asks, knowing the answer. His eyes bore into yours; you resist the urge to turn, you stop yourself from using any of the tricks that Bella taught you. It would be futile, and it would only increase the Dark Lord's suspicions.

'Yes', you whisper, looking down.

'Why?' he asks.

You continue looking at the floor, and mumble, 'It was a mistake, my Lord. Katie Bell—'

'You can not afford to make mistakes, Draco. You can not afford to betray the trust I've placed in you. There may be something to remind you of this. A punishment, perhaps?' A pale hand extends a wand.

You take a step back. 'Please, master...'

'Crucio.'

You close your eyes, you grit your teeth, you scream, all at the same time, but it does nothing to lessen the pain that courses through your body—through your every bone, your every nerve. It is worse every time, as your body twitches and writhes on the ground.

After what seems like an eternity, the pain ebbs to a dull ache. Your body slumps, and you hear the Dark Lord's voice dimly. You open your eyes, your vision blurred by tears and your mouth filled with the metallic tang of blood and sweat.

'Do not fail me again, Draco.'

As you push yourself up, the ground seems to be covered with and and stones-- things that have never graced the floors of Malfoy Manor.

You are on that cliff once again. You take another step forward, moving away from the darkness and unknown horrors behind.

*

'That’s my wand you’re holding, Potter,'* you say, pointing at him between the two hulking bodies of Crabbe and Goyle. You know that you are safe behind them, that they would do anything for you. They aren't friends, you don't call them by their first names, but they're people who are useful, people who intimidate other people, and that is always useful.

'Not any more,'* he says, panting.

You look at him, trying as hard as possible to hide your emotions. Everything is confusing, so confusing.

'Winners, keepers, Malfoy. Who’s lent you theirs?'*

'My mother,'* you say, and you regret those words as soon as they escape your lips. They are not the words of a brave hero; they are the words of a coward who hides behind his mother.

The next few seconds seem to blur.

Crabbe nearly destroys the room, and you grab hold of his beefy arm and scream, 'No! If you wreck the room you might bury this diadem thing!'*

Crabbe pulls himself free and looks you in the eye. 'What’s that matter? It’s Potter the Dark Lord wants, who cares about a die-dum?'*

'Potter came in here to get it,'* you say, not attempting to disguise your impatience and irritation. 'So that must mean—'

'Must mean?’* Crabbe rounds on you, astonishingly fierce. He hardly ever dared to talk in front of you, and now he is practically screaming in your face, 'Who cares what you think? I don’t take your orders no more, Draco. You an’ your dad are finished.'*

You stand there for a second, still not able to grasp the entire implications of his words. You scream, you run, but what Crabbe said echoes over and over in your mind, refusing to stop.

'Who cares what you think? I don’t take your orders no more, Draco. You an’ your dad are finished.'*

And all of a sudden, you are aware of a surge in the heat, and fire rears behind you, You try to pull Goyle's stunned body, with Crabbe running behind you. He seems to have no control over what he had done, the fool. Potter and his sidekicks don't appear to be around any more, and you search desperately, trying to find a way out of the growing fire. Crabbe runs through a path between the flames, which closes up, being devoured by the beasts formed of the fire.

You pull Goyle between the flames, and with a huge effort, hoist him on a pile of charred desks, which you scrabble onto as well. The heat seems to be ever-rising, and the tongues of fire all-consuming. You start to despair of ever getting out of here alive, when you spot Potter on a broomstick, and you wave wildly to him, hoping against hope that his infamous hero's instinct acts in your favour.

As Potter flies close, you climb on, hating that you owe your life to him. The Mudblood pulls Goyle onto her broomstick; it veers dangerously for a second, but then she steadies herself. The entire room is engulfed by flame now; you can hardly see anything in the billowing smoke.

'The door, get to the door, the door!'* you scream, but Potter swerves, and flies forward. Without realising it, you are clutching on to him, as he catches a diadem around his wrist. Dragons and chimaeras amd serpents and raptors lunge at you, with teeth and claws and beaks of flame, but turning around, cutting through the smoke, the three broomsticks fly out of the Room of Requirement, out of the smoke, out of the fire.

You roll off the broomstick and fall on the broom, coughing, retching. Slowly, you sit up and look around. Potter. Mudblood. Weasley. Goyle.

Crabbe?

You try to speak and wheeze instead. Bending over, you wait for a second.

'C-Crabbe,*' you choke out, as soon as you can speak. 'C-Crabbe.'*

Weasley turns to you. 'He's dead,'* he says.

And Hogwarts seems to melt away from around you, and you are on that cliff again, and now you're at the end, you can see the rocks below and the sea spreading out, as far as you can see, and behind you, you can see the darkness and the troubles and . . . .

*

The first time you stood on the edge of the cliff. The memory still comes vividly to you, every detail painfully sharp. As the wind whips your face, and the rain pounds a steady tattoo around you, you cast your mind back, wondering if you are making the right decision.

You take a deep breath, and compose yourself. You think. You think of everything, and you make your decision. There is said to be a point for every person, a point after which they cannot stretch.

You prepare yourself. You look down from the top of the building that you are standing on the cliff you are standing on and look down at the dark streets of England the stormy ocean, churned by a storm so severe and then . . . .

And then you jump.

You jump.

And you float, float, and fly away.