Underneath The Maple Tree...

The powers that be have a twisted sense of humor. They take as 
often as the give, leaving trails of shock and wonderment in 
their wake. Or bodies, as the case may be.

As it was, a bit of all three came into play one summer evening 
in a small English rural community, just south of London. 

The event was the murder of Draco Malfoy. 

The rich aristocrat, God knows what he was doing on the English countryside, 
was found face down beneath a maple tree, a shocked look plastered on 
his pale face, a liquor bottle broken in his hand, and a bullet lodged 
firmly in his brain. 

The boy never saw it coming.

Well, that's a bit open-ended. Of course he saw it coming, hence the 
expression so tense you could bounce a knut on his face like a trampoline. 
But he obviously didn't go out to that town with the intention of dying. 
And why would he have gone if he knew he was in danger? 

Honestly, I don't know what to make of it. To think like a death eater, 
you really have to be one. Probably why I can't do it so well. 

He wasn't wearing the standard black robes and mask, though. Nor his 
school uniform, nor any muggle clothing. He left no clue to his intentions, 
nor his destination. All he left behind were questions to remain unanswered 
in the public mind. And a faint stench of alcohol.

The bullet eliminated nothing. Guns, especially pistols, were popular 
with muggle and wizard alike, usually just for show. Besides, there were 
no suspects to eliminate in the first place. 

And the look on his face? I'd like to think that it was the realization 
that he wasn't immortal. That money couldn't buy happiness or a longer 
life. But I do know Draco Malfoy. His arrogance overwhelmed his 
common sense. It's more likely that his last thoughts were focused on wondering 
how the hell someone got the best of him.

How did they, Draco?

How did it come to be that you had to die that way?

...

But there will be no answers. 

The tears shed will be minimal. The press will die down in week's time. 
Draco Malfoy was simply destined to become another face that the public 
could weep for and thank the lord that it wasn't their child. And then 
he'll be forgotten.

It’s just crazy, the way the world works. One Saturday night, a young boy 
with a future ahead of him, for better or for worse, fell beneath a maple 
tree and drown in a pool of blood that needn't be shed and liquor that needn't 
be spilled. The scent of gunsmoke clung to the air and to the leaves of 
that gnarled maple tree as the shadows of dusk fell upon them. 
A picture of demonic bliss. 

His future was killed. And so were any actions, satanic or redeeming, 
that he would have performed in his lifetime. 

That's what kills me. He never got a chance to redeem himself. He was 
raised to be hateful. He was still a child. How was he to know otherwise, 
when such powerful discrimination raged around him? 

But that's how it goes.

And I am the public. So I'll drink my coffee and read my paper and thank the 
lord that it wasn't my child found beneath that tree. And along with the 
rest of the world, I will forget him. Just another name, just another 
face, killed before his life had even truly started.

And the clincher is, this sort of thing happens every day. 

The gods must be crazy.