It reminded him of joining the Death Eaters, how begrudgingly he’d taken the mark, with every moment thereafter a fight of self-preservation. He was in too far, that was clear. It was his own cowardice that he was caught in. His fear of what Hermione would think, once she knew. He’d spent so long waiting to have her, he couldn’t imagine what he would do with himself if he ruined it. He feared too, the retaliation from the King that surely would be swift, should he leave. He had spent eight years hating his life, but now that it was actually genuinely at risk, he couldn’t help but think that he did want it. It was overthinking, and second guessing, and cursing whatever gods that dropped him into this body that never got to choose for itself. A pureblood, a Malfoy, a Death Eater, an Unspeakable, a Vythízomai. 