Desperate times call for desperate measure.
War had ripped everything from him. That was his thought as he was standing in front of his childhood house, clenching the porch’s gate. He’d lost almost everything, and he was about to erase what was left of his life.
First it had been his brother. Liam, so fascinated with wizards, eventually it turned out he was one as well, received his Hogwarts letter at his eleventh birthday, just like him. He’d been there when the Sorting Hat put him in Slytherin, he hadn’t thought much of it, not one to care about the wars between houses. Turns out, he should have worried, he should have seen it coming, the bad frequentations, the interest for forbidden arts, the corruption. How ironic for a muggleborn, a mudblood like they call them, to end up as a Death Eater, as the very ones that were chasing them, exterminating them. How ironic indeed. Too young, not skilled enough, it had only taken one auror to take him down. 1 year, 2 months, 5 days ago. He still remembered the date, the wound still gaping, hurting, he should have seen it, should have stopped it. He should have…
Then it had been Seth. Of course he had chosen Donoven, it had been his plan since the beginning, it was bound to happen. Yet he still couldn’t wrap his head around it. He still visited, sure, stealth, that was what they were reduced to, hiding. The timespan between visits was increasing every time, now it was mostly words sneaked under his pillow, sometimes owls came by, meanwhile his ones were never answered, too dangerous he was told. Did he mind being arrested for treason? No. Not anymore. Not for Seth. Never for Seth. In the end, one way or another, they were losing each other, no matter who won.
Eventually, he had lost Quidditch too. No one had time for it during a war. No one really cared. Maybe after… Maybe if they won. Could they even win? Hell, he wasn’t even sure he could still play, that dark scar did not seem to fade with months, his fingers were still sore most of the time. Some days he would take his quaffle out of his bags, for old times’ sake. He had lost contact with his team, after all, he was still a mudblood, dangerous for anyone who talked to him.
Gripping the handle under his hand he sighed, they had lost a son to this war, the other one had disappeared, it was only easing their suffering. Saving them. The less they knew, the safer they were. The door still creaked, his dad was never able to fix that, no matter how much oil he had poured on the hinge. That drew a faint chuckle from him, some things never changed. Climbing the stairs slowly he clutched his wand, it was just one spell. Just that one spell. Funny enough, he had finally become ridiculously better at them, so much better, well, war brought necessities, skills were one of those, at least if you wanted to live.
They say desperate times call for desperate measures; he had never been one to believe this, always finding another way, a shortcut that would not hurt anyone. He used to be so naïve. There they were, sleeping, it was better this way, it was going to be better for them, this war had marked them, their face worn out even in their sleep. And they were not even part of it, not directly, they didn’t deserve any of its outcomes. Shutting his eyes he raised his wand swiftly, visualizing the motion in his head, preparing himself. Just one swift flick of the wrist and the words that came with it. “Obliviate”.
Loose ends were tied up.
Figures. Bad guys only lose in movies.