Page of Swords FIC
Title: Desires of the Damned (1/2)
Author: lotrwariorgodss
Type: Fiction
Length: 12,300
Main character or Pairing: Draco-centric, Harry/Draco
Card: Page of Swords
Card Interpretation (from various sources):
---"He is passing over rugged land, and about his way the clouds are collocated wildly. He is alert and lithe, looking this way and that, as if an expected enemy might appear at any moment."
---"A person who believes in himself/his
objective, but is driven by desires or fears." (RW)
---An alert, inquiring mind; Vigilance; Secret activities - spying; Learning (or trying to learn) from conflicts and difficult situations; a sense of detachment from your problems
---Pages represent news. A new perspective and a new way of doing things are approaching. Joy will replace pessimism, so don't give up. Your search will have a successful conclusion, and everything will turn out just fine.
---This card represents a person under the age of 25 who is an air sign (Draco - Gemini)
Rating: soft R
Disclaimer: Anything recognizable isn't mine, it belongs to Jo and WB and whoever else has a legal claim.
Warnings: Violence/torture, (minor) character death, self-mutilation/suicide attempt, language, inferred sexual activity (non-graphic)
Summary: Draco learns that being a man means more than following in his father's footsteps. He thinks he's found his salvation, but is that really what he needs?
Author Notes: This story starts about a week after the events of Half-Blood Prince and follows all canon up until then. It is written in a much different style than anything else I've done, but it begged to be done this way. A big thank you to my beta confiteor_3 who did an excellent job in record time. There's a rather extensive post about all the inspiration for this story and other little bits here if anyone's interested.
It's raining. Hard. Has kept up for days at least.
It's summer but the rain makes it cold, makes him cold.
It's night, but Draco has lost the ability to tell the difference between night and day, so it doesn't really matter. Time is an illusion for the living, and though his heart is beating, he is far from alive.
The blond has been slouching on the edge of his dishevelled bed for hours; he seems lost to the world. He looks the part of a statue: still, his cold grey eyes dull with thought. He has a glazed over aspect about his face as though his soul has fled his body - as lonely as death. His left arm is raised up, the back of his hand level with his eyes.
Fat, cold raindrops have been leaking through the rotting ceiling and they fall on the smooth back of his hand. He watches them splash, but only watches in the sense that his eyes seem to rest upon them; he doesn't actually see them. Some of them roll off quickly and land on the wooden floor with a gentle drip, but most battle over skin and collide against each other, sending microscopic droplets splashing over Draco's nose. They look like freckles at first, more like tears when they start to drip down his face. He's been sitting here long enough that a small pool of water is numbing a circle onto the back of his hand.
A crash of thunder breaks the fragility of his reverie and his eyes reclaim their steely, calculating glint, signalling that his mind has returned home. He wrinkles his nose and frowns at the collective raindrops on his hand. A quick flexing of his fingers into a fist, and the pool morphs into a thin river and winds down and across the inside of his wrist. He watches as the water trails quickly and gently over the death-black lines of ink that mar the once-innocent skin of his inner forearm. The dying child inside him folds his little hands and prays that maybe this rain will wash it clean, like a bit of mud that has yet to meet the bath. But the man inside him knows this is a fool's wish, a coward's wish - a child's wish. So when the mark of his sins remains once all the water has soaked into his blankets, Draco is not surprised and he does not mourn.
He wipes the back of his hand on his already damp trousers and turns his head, giving his single pillow a longing glance. He turns away after a moment, resisting the overwhelming urge to sink his head into that lumpy pillow and sleep. He can't really sleep, not anymore. Ironically, he is reminded of something his mother read to him long ago - 'For in that sleep of death what dreams may come…'.
Draco knows it is the forgotten character's fear of death that makes him say this, and he finds it strangely comforting that he is now more afraid of sleep than death because he knows the dreams that haunt said sleep will be full of death. He scoffs at nothing, staving off his emotions for when he is stronger. In his haze of apathy, however, he fails to realize that his eyes are closing, and his body is curling around itself on the bed. Another clap of thunder rattles the glass in the window, and Draco's body slips into a desperately needed rest while his mind whispers to him…
Sleep. Death.
Mother.
**************************************
It's dark still, and raining just as hard, as a sole shadow tumbles into existence just outside the hut. The shadow is a man, and the closest he will ever come to being a father is putting the boy inside this ruin through hell. He does it so that the boy will become a man, but he knows that doesn't justify what he's done or what he will do.
Still, Severus owes this to Draco. Owes it to Albus too, but he's promised himself he won't think about that damned old fool today. He takes the locking charm off the front door once he's sure the boy is asleep.
Testament to Draco's exhaustion are the circles under his eyes, so dark they're like bruises, and the fact that he doesn't stir awake when Severus sits next to him on the bed. He remembers how Draco's little steel-grey eyes always stared back at him from under silk sheets; how he could never watch the boy sleep because as soon as he laid eyes on him, those little lashes would flutter open, even when he was yet in his cradle.
Now those pale blonde lashes don't even twitch and the boy's raspy breathing remains shallow and slow. Caught in the clutches of some nightmare, Draco winces and whimpers in his sleep. God (if He still exists after all this, or if He ever existed at all) knows the boy has enough horror etched into his memory to have nightmares for the rest of his life.
Severus lays a cool hand on the boy's forehead and brushes a sweaty lock of hair to the side. He presses his thumb into the skin he's just exposed and watches it glow a sickly green before he removes it. "I'm so sorry, Draco," he whispers, as if they are the last words he'll ever say to the boy. And then, at the rate they're both going, he realizes they just might be; but as far as final words go, Severus figures those are fairly decent, so he rises from the bed and makes his way towards the door.
He pauses and turns his head to steal one last glance at the boy. For a brief and horrible moment he looks so like Lucius that Severus almost draws his wand. But the moment passes and Severus knows Draco still has a choice, a chance. He is not his father yet, and Severus will be damned if he ever lives to see the day he lets Draco become Lucius.
The shove Severus is giving him now will put the boy at a crossroads - one path will stretch out long and rough and lead to the Light, the other won't really be a path at all but a sweet looking glade where death is the rule and there are no exceptions. The path leading to the Dark does not exist at this way-station, nor will it exist again for the boy; Severus will see to that. Death or salvation - that is all.
Severus knows that even murderers are not beyond such salvation, and that thought comforts him as his eyes leave Draco's form. They are kindred spirits now, both remorseful killers; the only difference is that Severus has found his saving grace, while Draco is just entering the wasteland of guilt and hopelessness that he himself had walked through. And survived.
He replaces the wards, closes and locks the door and pulls his cloak tighter around himself to fend off the rain. He has things to do, none of which involves brooding over Draco's future. If he is to save the boy, he must first save himself, clear his name, and resume his work so that he has something with which to barter for Draco's life. With a thought - Romania, Romania, Romania - he Disapparates and leaves the rain behind with a fading echo.
**************************************
At the sound of wood slamming against the stone wall of the dungeon, Draco winced, the echo sending pounding waves of pain throughout his skull. Even if he had the strength to lift his head, he wouldn’t dare raise it to see who had entered.
"My Lord, we've brought her," a rough voice said from the other side of the chamber.
"Ah yes; remove her blindfold, Amycus, she must be desperate to see her little boy."
The Dark Lord's words had barely registered when an agonized shriek rang out in the chamber and confirmed Draco's worst fears - they had found his mother. He kept his forehead pressed into the floor, his only acknowledgement of his terror were his hands curling into white-knuckled fists next to his head. He could hear his mother's frantic, terrified pleas over his racing heartbeat and silently begged her to be quiet for both their sakes.
As her pleas turned into sobs, some of the Death Eaters present snickered under their breath, taking a sick amusement at the fact that she was behaving just as so many Muggle matriarchs had when they realized their children were about to be deprived of any innocence they had left, either through rape or torture or death. Draco felt an uneasy sickness take hold in his gut when he realized his mother had every right to act the way she was; his immediate fate was sure to include at least one of those horrors.
"Enough of this!" the Dark Lord hissed from his throne, snapping his fingers in her direction and cutting off her unsettling cries. "Lady Malfoy, in your haste to advocate for your cowardly, snivelling baby, you have failed to greet your newly liberated husband." He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "You should command more respect from your possessions, Lucius."
His father. Draco had seen him in the crowd when they'd brought him in and thrown him at the Dark Lord's feet. He'd escaped, or more likely been set free, from Azkaban, and Draco couldn't help but feel the slightest bit of resentment towards him now that he was here in the flesh. How could you have been so careless? To leave me here to deal with mother and the Dark Lord and all your failures by myself. You abandoned us, and I've been so scared…
This is what Draco had wanted all those months ago when he had agreed to the Dark Lord's request - his family, safe and together. The reunion was turning sour very quickly. The background noise faded again, and Draco tuned in on the Dark Lord's voice.
"I am feeling merciful tonight, young Malfoy, so I will give you a choice: you can either choose the path of the coward and refuse me, which will lead to a great deal of suffering for both you and your traitorous mother. Or, you can do as I order you and you will live. Think of the glory you could have if you follow in your father's footsteps - you are far too young and pretty to die, little Malfoy, and I assure you we will take advantage of that should you choose to be a coward."
Draco's mind was reeling. He wanted to follow this…thing just about as much as he wanted to be beaten senseless by the rest of the Death Eaters, but his mother…
He couldn't abandon her now, not after he'd worked so hard all year to keep her safe. And he was being given a second chance after his failure on the Tower; nobody got a second chance from the Dark Lord. Nobody. Had the shame of failure and the shock of seeing his father been held at bay for a little while longer, he might have been more suspicious. As it was, Draco was sure the only thing between him and a panic attack was the continuous supply of adrenaline flowing through his veins, and he had barely enough wit left to ask the question he needed answered.
"What about my mother, my Lord?"
"You have my word, Malfoy, that I will not kill her. Bring her forward, Amycus." The Death Eater obeyed and tossed Narcissa at the Dark Lord's feet, still too far away for Draco to touch. "It's up to you now. Serve me, and you and your mother will be spared unspeakable torture. Refuse, and I promise you'll be begging for nightmares to escape what will be done to you."
Draco briefly glanced at his father, but he was making no move to protect them from this maniac, just looking on with disapproving eyes. Even if his father had forgotten his duty, Draco would not - he had to protect his mother.
"I will serve you, my Lord."
"You promised the same last time and yet you disobeyed me; why should I believe you this time?"
Draco looked up into those red-tinged eyes, grateful that his abject terror suppressed his shudder. "I will not disobey you again, my Lord; I know the consequences for my failure."
"Rise, boy."
Draco obeyed, legs aching, knees screaming with pain, leaving him unsteady on his feet when he finally stood. He felt small nudges at his mind and he pushed against them on instinct with his strongest emotion. The evil wizard's mouth twisted in a wicked smile.
"Such fear in you, little Malfoy. Are you afraid of me?"
"Yes," Draco stated, clearly not giving his response a thought. The Dark Lord chuckled, a kind of choking, hissing sound one would expect from a dying man.
"Very well, Draco - I accept your oath, even if it is one made out of fear." He didn't even pause to dismiss Draco before turning his gaze on Narcissa. "That's one Malfoy dealt with, now what to do with the other?" His mouth twisted up in thought for a moment before glancing back and forth between the bewildered gazes of both Draco and his mother. "Lady Malfoy, your disloyalty runs deeper than your son knows, does it not?"
Draco stood expressionless, watching his mother's eyes widen for a brief moment, then harden, as if preparing herself for a fatal blow.
"I know you were in contact with that old fool before his death; something about providing protection for you and your son I believe it was. This is grave treachery, and I expected more from someone with such a strong lineage." The Dark Lord's red-tinged eyes flickered toward Draco. "No matter. Little Draco needs to prove his devotion, and I believe you have provided an ideal situation for him to do so."
Draco's stomach sunk. They couldn't…
"Draco, you have sworn your obedience - will you perform whatever task I require of you?"
Panic-driven, he answered, "I will, my Lord."
"Indeed, you will. I need someone to show this foolish woman what happens to traitors."
Draco's heart skipped a beat. "You…you want me to…"
"Kill your mother, Draco."
Narcissa sobbed quietly on her knees as she looked up into the Dark Lord's unmerciful gaze.
"Don't do this to him; he's just a boy!"
A crack like the sound of a thick whip striking flesh rang throughout the chamber and Draco's mother screamed in agony as she convulsed and fell prone on the floor.
"I take orders from no one, woman! This is your own doing, and your son's punishment for his pitiful failure!"
The crack sounded again, but Draco didn't quite hear it - he had moved beyond the room, to someplace he could think, someplace he could be rational.
But Draco couldn't think, not even Outside. This couldn't actually be happening. He'd wake up, his father would still be in prison, his mother would be asleep across the house, and he would still care about things like grades and clothes and where he'd catch his next shag. But it seemed so real - his mother's screams so piercing, his father's glares so menacing, the amusement and curiosity in the eyes of the Dark Lord so sickening. How could it have come down to this?
They had finally, for the last time, fucked his life beyond measure. If his father hadn't been such a blundering, arrogant fool, he would never have got caught in the first place, and if his mother had had one ounce of faith in him, she would never be in this kind of trouble. Where his blinding fear once resided, Draco began to feel a startling anger rising up, the kind that only comes when everything is too overwhelming to take. The kind that reminded him that he might be a Malfoy, but he still had the instincts of an animal.
He felt a hand close around his ankle and looked down to see his mother there at his feet, looking into his eyes, tears streaming down her face, pleading with him desperately.
"Please, Draco, you must do this!"
He aimed his wand at the neckline of her shredded dress and she sat back on her heels, head tilted back, giving him a clean shot. She wanted him to do this. If he didn't, they would both be killed. She begged him to do this. So why couldn't he still say the words?
Anger. He had to mean it. He called back all his emotions from the past few weeks. Abandonment, failure, despair, terror, fury, pain all filled his heart and swelled as he looked at his mother. He wondered why his father hadn't interceded in this nightmare, if not for Draco, then at least for his mother, whom Lucius claimed to love and cherish beyond life itself. His father was too lost, too deep in the Dark Lord's clutches to see what he was doing to his family. None of them would ever be the same again.
Fear and anger racing through his veins, he took one look into his mother's tearful eyes and spoke those two little words to end her. Rage shot out the tip of his wand and hit her square in the chest. She slumped from her kneeling position and fell face-down on the floor at Draco's feet.
"Well, that took longer than expected, but at least it is done. Now, everyone, we have work to do. Draco, you are excused to go work with Severus."
Within moments, the chamber was deserted, save Draco, his father, and his mother. Draco couldn't tear his eyes away from the blonde hair laid over stone and his feet until his father came and laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned, panic in his eyes, to look at his father, preparing for a slap, a disappointed lecture, a promise of torture, any sign of pain in those familiar eyes. None of them came.
He got a little smile and a pat on the shoulder instead.
"Your mother was weak, Draco, but you and I - we are strong. You have made me proud today, my son."
The words Draco had been waiting to hear all his life were empty vibrations running through the air. They meant nothing, he felt nothing when he understood them, and when he looked back at his mother's unnaturally bent body sprawled on the floor, he could feel each beat of his heart in every single nerve he possessed - I killed her I killed her I killed her I killedher IkilledherIkilledherIkilledherIkilledher - And just because he could, he screamed.
**************************************
Draco wakes to the sound of shattering glass, a racing heart, and a sticky-wet face. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to dream again without that memory taking part. And he supposes that is fitting, since his thoughts are always there anyway, in that chamber with his parents and a monster.
An achingly cold feeling fills his gut and for the first time in his rapidly deteriorating life, Draco realizes he is lost. It doesn't feel like anything he's ever been through before - not rage, not desperation, not fear, not loneliness.
Once when he was still chubby-cheeked and believed every wish he made on a star would come true, he had got lost in the Manor and had sat down in the middle of some forgotten corridor and screamed and screamed and screamed until the house elves came running. Since then, Draco has learned the Manor better than the elves, vowing that he'd never be lost again.
But now here he lies, more alone and afraid and with no one to scream for, and he knows his vow is broken.
A wave of nausea rushes over him and he turns his head to the side to fight it off when he sees the source of the shattering that had woken him. He sits up in his cold bed and watches the rain pour in through the former window, now just a frame of wood accented with shards of glass. He slips out of bed to sit on the floor. He doesn't mind the cold anymore.
Draco crawls over to the broken window. The smaller shards of glass dig and cut into his knees. It hurts, and he's glad it hurts. He needs it to hurt. It's so quiet but for the fall of the rain; he wonders if he is the only thing alive in this forest. Even the branch that had shattered his window is blackened, jutting from its frame of shards and broken wood. It seems a waste, that out of everything that could have been alive in the forest, the place has to squander its life on him.
He sighs and sits with his back against the wall, legs bent and spread with his arms atop them. He stares down into his lap and his Dark Mark stares back at him with its hollow skull-eyes. Usually when he sees it, he turns his face away, but this time he doesn't.
Draco realizes that since he was Marked, he hasn't really looked at the condemning thing. He hadn't been fascinated by it as the others had been. There hadn't been a day, even a questionably sane minute that he'd been grateful it was there. He traces his fingers up his forearm, passing over the permanent black ink again and again. He doesn't make any foolish wishes about removing it, and thinks how proud his father would be.
But unlike his father, Draco doesn't consider this an honour. He deserves to be marked by darkness for what he's done. His fingers falter a bit at that thought, but they quickly steady and press hard into his skin, resuming the contemplative tic.
If it were anything but what it is, Draco thinks, it would be beautiful. The magic in the lines makes it seem like a separate entity, its own twisted form of life that just happens to be anchored to his flesh by some unhappy circumstance. Each embellishment makes it more like a work of art and less like the reality.
Draco hates it. Any possible words he could use to describe it would be weak and hardly worth their own effort. He hates its beauty, the obscenity of it thrown in his face every time he thinks back on his sins. It should be as ugly and as wretched as he feels.
Draco moves his hand down to the floor next to him where the window shards lay, clean and still glistening with rainwater. He picks the biggest one he can feel and clutches it tightly to his chest. His mouth sets in a determined line and he lays his arm, Dark Mark up, on his knee, brings the glass to it and listens to the thunder roll in through the window. Draco takes the jagged tip and traces the lines he hates, so softly that he shudders with pleasure and chill.
The first line he runs from the top of the skill to his bony wrist does nothing - a fading white mark against the darker one and it's gone in a second or two. He traces the same line again, but this time a red pinstripe bubbles up from the skin that the glass has touched and finally the Mark is less beautiful and more as it should be.
Again, and a thicker line of blood follows the glass.
Again, and the now raw and frayed edges of his nerves are starting to protest, but Draco just winces and does it
Again, and one line of blood has become seven, running off the sides of his arm and dripping onto the floor, thicker and darker than the rainwater.
Again, and he's shaking, the pain bringing tears falling fast and hard. But the beauty is fading from the profane symbol so he does it
Again, and now the blood is thick and dark and spilling in wide ribbons over his skin, and he knows he shouldn't go this far, because this far might be too far. He makes a deal with himself -
Again, one last time, and it's done. The bloodied glass falls from his shaking hand to lay with its brothers on the floor. His Dark Mark is split, torn and ragged, and, ignoring the agonized screams of his nerves, he smiles.
He feels and sees his blood spilling over the sides of his arm to pool on the floor and he knows he went too far, but that knowledge doesn't bring the sort of abject fear he always thought it would. He'll be dead in a few minutes, so why should he waste them on fear?
Draco thinks of his mother. If there's an afterlife, perhaps he'll see her again and have a chance to explain. If not…well then, all this will have been for nothing and it won't matter much, will it?
Everything is colder now than it was just a few minutes ago. Draco had just woken up, but he feels tired again. He keeps his eyes open for as long as he can. For all the aggravation this world has given him recently, he doesn't want to leave it so quickly. He lifts his right arm slowly, and lets it rest on his limp left hand. It's still throbbing in pain, but it doesn't prevent him from slipping the ring of the Malfoy crest off his finger and letting it fall to the floor like a sinking anchor in his blood.
He can't fight it anymore. His eyes are closing, leading him into darkness, and his last thought is that he will die a murderer.
**********************************
"So, Severus Snape really does have a soul."
There is no malice or anger behind those words, and Severus's answering glare is equally enmity-free. Strange, considering the speaker of the words, but then if Potter could surprise him with the use of Severus's own Dark curse, he should not be surprised by much of anything that Potter does. Or says, in this case.
Severus's mind drifts back to an hour earlier and what Potter had told him. "I've already paid too big a price for not trusting you. Dumbledore was ten times the wizard I am and he trusted you - I have no right not to do the same. And frankly, Snape, I think without you we're fucked." Severus had stood in the doorway, completely stunned until Potter pushed the door open wider and turned, disappearing into the house.
Now he sits at a table with the boy…the man, and for once, Potter is listening instead of shouting. Severus realizes how much easier it is to transfer some of his respect and trust for Albus to this one that the man had dedicated his final years to protecting.
Potter no longer reminds him of James; he has become a product of the men who raised him - Albus, Lupin, and yes, even Severus himself. Severus does not overlook the fact that he has helped create this truly powerful ally. And weapon.
Without warning, a red-hot pain sears through a patch of skin just above his right elbow and it's time to go. Draco. He tells Potter where he's going in less than five words, and while he wishes he could marvel over the way Potter nods without any further explanation, there is no time. He Disapparates and throws down the wards knowing that he may already be too late.
Severus peers in the window before he enters and watched those ever-vigilant eyelids flutter a few times, then close. Blood flows in steady streams over the thick and ugly black lines on Draco's forearm and he thinks it should be revolting, but it isn't.
Severus is finding it difficult to just stand outside and watch the boy die, but he had promised himself that if Draco made this choice, he wouldn't interfere. That, however, had been before he knew the boy would have a safe haven if he wanted to live. It doesn't make a significant difference, Severus tells himself, as he works on convincing his heart to let go. He knows he's failing at that when he takes his first breath since he saw Draco's body and finds it nearly impossible because of the constriction in his throat.
An ache begins growing deep within his chest, pulls and tugs at his heart until he feels as though the cavity left over when Draco is dead will act as a black hole and make his body collapse on itself. 'How maudlin, Severus,' he thinks, eyes still fixed on the crimson-washed forearm. It's only when Draco's arm gives an involuntary twitch and the brand on Severus's arm sends another intense burn from his skin through to his bone that he realizes he can't stand here and watch his godson's life bleed out and pool on the wooden floor.
He inhales deeply and presses his forehead to the cold glass, closing his eyes as he heaves a heavy sigh. In only a few quick movements, he is kneeling at Draco's side, ignoring the warmth seeping into the knees of his trousers. They are black, and he is used to washing blood out of his clothes.
Severus reaches down and cradles Draco's cold arm to his chest, runs a thumb down the long gash as if it could close on will alone. It doesn't, and he pulls out his wand.
Healing spells are exhausting, requiring utmost concentration, stamina, and precise incantations of course. Severus has never been more careful or focused as he stops the blood flow, knits the vessels back together, then the skin over top of them, grateful the glass hadn't been sharp enough to cut through muscle.
He almost feels he's doing the boy an injustice, stitching his Dark Mark back together, but if Draco's going to do his part before war's end, he'll need that Mark and he'll need it intact. He purposefully does a shoddy job on the scar diminishing spell. Severus is a firm believer in the importance of keeping scars, and he hopes that Draco will remember this one for the rest of his life. However short it may be.
Finally healed, pulse and breath faint but existent, Severus takes two vials from his trousers pocket and pours their contents down Draco's throat. Blood replenisher and Dreamless Sleep. There is no cure for suicide, but this is the next best thing.
He turns Draco's wrist over and back in his hand while he rubs the boy's throat with the other. Satisfactory. He slides one arm under the bend in Draco's knees, the other across his back, and lifts. The boy is like skin and bone in his arms; Severus would have scoffed at anyone who said he was over nine stone.
Draco is laid out peacefully on the bed, breathing more deeply now, the deathly-grey pallor gone from his cheeks. Severus has stripped him, cleaned his clothes, and redressed him and now it's time the boy was left alone again. He takes a box transfigured from the branch that broke through the window and places it at the foot of the bed. He hesitates when again he comes to Draco's side, but his resolve is stronger this time. If he wants Draco to become a man, Severus must treat him like a man and let him make his own decisions.
A hypodermic needle is clenched in his hand when he removes it from his robes, and without hesitation, he finds his best vein and plunges it in. Not even a trace of a flinch crosses his face. He draws a good measure of his own blood into the syringe, and, knowing that Draco's body will not attack his blood, he finds the vein on the boy's inner elbow and gently slides it through the skin.
He curses himself for having to do the poison transfer through his own blood, but he's not accustomed to carrying the potion around with him - it is generally reserved for Unspeakables and high security clearance Aurors, but he and Lupin and a few of the other spies have harboured it in their bloodstream for years. When subjected to the kind of torture the Dark Lord has the power to inflict, there's no limit to what a spy might say. Unless, of course, he's dead. The potion will work just as well for Draco.
He pauses at the threshold, just as he has done on his previous visits, and rubs the small brand of a dragon above his right elbow that has been there for just over seventeen years. The wards are reset, the poison lies in wait, the activator and a Portkey nestled together in the little box, and he feels certain that though he is not ready to see Draco's death, this is as close as he will ever get to that readiness.
Severus shuts and locks the door, considers Apparating back to Grimmauld Place, but decides against it. Dealing with anyone right now would mean the end of his sanity, and no matter how much Potter's attitude has improved, he can't face another living soul until he knows Draco's fate. Spinner's End is but a thought away, complete numbing of the senses just a vial beyond that, so he thinks of his home, downs the potion, and crawls in bed, too fast, he thinks, for his conscience to catch up with him.
He is wrong.
**************************************
Draco awakes with a pounding headache and a throb in his arm and despite what he remembers, he doesn't feel dead.
He is warm, for perhaps the first time in weeks, and he wonder why that is if he's been sitting by that shattered window in the rain. When he realizes the surface under him is soft and his face is buried in a pillow, he slows his breathing and tries not to panic.
Someone else has been here.
Slowly, barely, he opens his eyes to narrow little slits. The now familiar rotting walls of the hut stare back at him. At least he knows where he is.
He listens for any clue that the outsider is still there, but all he hears is the pounding of the rain and his own heartbeat racing in his ears.
Draco lays there, quiet and still, until he loses count of the seconds gone by. He opens his eyes completely and rolls to his other side, doing a full scan of the room. Realizing he's alone again, he takes a deep breath and sits up. Whoever was here doesn't seem to care that he's awoken, but clearly, they also mean him no harm.
The adrenaline starts to fade and the throbbing in his head and arm return with a vengeance. He winces in pain and presses his right palm to his forehead as he inspects his left forearm.
He had wanted to destroy the beauty of the Dark Mark and he has done a good job of that at least. Whoever had healed him (as if he didn't already know who) had not deemed it important to minimize the scarring and a thick, jagged rise of flesh now distorts the lines there, twisting them to show their truer nature. He flexes the muscles in that arm, and the pain that shoots through it tells him he won't be doing that again for quite a while.
When he stretches his other muscles to make sure he can still function, his feet hit something solid at the end of his bed and he's amazed he didn't notice it before. It's a small wooden box, too wonky not to be transfigured, with who-knows-what inside it.
Odd.
Draco knows his curiosity won't last long against that box, but he remembers a story about a rash girl who had once felt the same, so he tries to think of something else for a while.
His window has been fixed, and the place where his blood had soaked the floor is dry now. His clothes have been cleaned and he actually notices a bit of warmth in the hut, where previously there had been nothing but cold. He sits on the edge of his bed with nothing more to distract him.
He tried, but the box at the end of his bed begs to be opened, so he relents and gently lifts the wooden lid. There's a note inside, just a scrap of parchment, but he recognizes the handwriting and realizes he hasn't been abandoned after all.
'Draco,
If you truly wish death for yourself, hold the coin in this box in the palm of your hand. It will be painless and quick and I'll come up with a story to tell your father when he lays you in the Malfoy catacombs.
If, however, as I hope, you are willing to stay alive after all you have been through, take the key in your hand to activate it. It will lead you to someone who can help you - this key will be very important to him and will provide you with an adequate bargaining chip, though I don't believe you'll need it.
Whichever you choose, Draco, know that everything you have suffered and will suffer is no less important than any of your good memories. You do not have to be a slave to this event - you can be forgiven and redeemed, and you can survive.
-- S'
Draco sits staring at the box for a long time. He doesn't know what he wants.
If he's honest with himself, he knows he doesn't really want to die. But does he really want to go through everything he'll need to do to be able to look in a mirror without cringing? Severus said he could be saved, but Draco isn't sure that he believes him. What could he possibly do that would ever make up for killing his mother and destroying his family?
But then, if anyone would know how to help him and clean up his messes, it would be Severus. Maybe if he had trusted Severus in his last year he wouldn't be in this mess now. The man had watched over him since he took his first breath, and was clearly willing to keep doing so as long as either of them lived. He deserves some trust from Draco after all the disappointment he must have suffered because of him.
Draco owes him.
Everything.
With only a slight hesitation, he picks up the key, and after a few seconds of curious examination, he feels the familiar pull in his gut of a Portkey and he is swirling up and out of his wooden prison and going somewhere new.
The key drops him in the middle of a street running with rainwater and it seems like all the sky has done since his mother died is pour and pour and pour. A piece of parchment fades into existence on a string around the edge of the key. Draco tucks his wet hair behind his ears and looks at it. 12 Grimmauld Place is the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix.
He doesn't have time to be confused by the message. A wicked dark house spreads out like ooze between the two existing houses in front of him, and suddenly Draco isn't so sure he should trust Severus after all.
After the full house comes into view and shows a few warm lights spilling out of the windows, he finds his resolve again and tucks the key and parchment into his pocket. He doesn't know who he's expecting to answer when he knocks on the front door, but when the answer comes and he sees who stands proud and defiant in the doorway, Draco doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
He does both.
Part Two
Author: lotrwariorgodss
Type: Fiction
Length: 12,300
Main character or Pairing: Draco-centric, Harry/Draco
Card: Page of Swords
Card Interpretation (from various sources):
---"He is passing over rugged land, and about his way the clouds are collocated wildly. He is alert and lithe, looking this way and that, as if an expected enemy might appear at any moment."
---"A person who believes in himself/his
objective, but is driven by desires or fears." (RW)
---An alert, inquiring mind; Vigilance; Secret activities - spying; Learning (or trying to learn) from conflicts and difficult situations; a sense of detachment from your problems
---Pages represent news. A new perspective and a new way of doing things are approaching. Joy will replace pessimism, so don't give up. Your search will have a successful conclusion, and everything will turn out just fine.
---This card represents a person under the age of 25 who is an air sign (Draco - Gemini)
Rating: soft R
Disclaimer: Anything recognizable isn't mine, it belongs to Jo and WB and whoever else has a legal claim.
Warnings: Violence/torture, (minor) character death, self-mutilation/suicide attempt, language, inferred sexual activity (non-graphic)
Summary: Draco learns that being a man means more than following in his father's footsteps. He thinks he's found his salvation, but is that really what he needs?
Author Notes: This story starts about a week after the events of Half-Blood Prince and follows all canon up until then. It is written in a much different style than anything else I've done, but it begged to be done this way. A big thank you to my beta confiteor_3 who did an excellent job in record time. There's a rather extensive post about all the inspiration for this story and other little bits here if anyone's interested.
It's raining. Hard. Has kept up for days at least.
It's summer but the rain makes it cold, makes him cold.
It's night, but Draco has lost the ability to tell the difference between night and day, so it doesn't really matter. Time is an illusion for the living, and though his heart is beating, he is far from alive.
The blond has been slouching on the edge of his dishevelled bed for hours; he seems lost to the world. He looks the part of a statue: still, his cold grey eyes dull with thought. He has a glazed over aspect about his face as though his soul has fled his body - as lonely as death. His left arm is raised up, the back of his hand level with his eyes.
Fat, cold raindrops have been leaking through the rotting ceiling and they fall on the smooth back of his hand. He watches them splash, but only watches in the sense that his eyes seem to rest upon them; he doesn't actually see them. Some of them roll off quickly and land on the wooden floor with a gentle drip, but most battle over skin and collide against each other, sending microscopic droplets splashing over Draco's nose. They look like freckles at first, more like tears when they start to drip down his face. He's been sitting here long enough that a small pool of water is numbing a circle onto the back of his hand.
A crash of thunder breaks the fragility of his reverie and his eyes reclaim their steely, calculating glint, signalling that his mind has returned home. He wrinkles his nose and frowns at the collective raindrops on his hand. A quick flexing of his fingers into a fist, and the pool morphs into a thin river and winds down and across the inside of his wrist. He watches as the water trails quickly and gently over the death-black lines of ink that mar the once-innocent skin of his inner forearm. The dying child inside him folds his little hands and prays that maybe this rain will wash it clean, like a bit of mud that has yet to meet the bath. But the man inside him knows this is a fool's wish, a coward's wish - a child's wish. So when the mark of his sins remains once all the water has soaked into his blankets, Draco is not surprised and he does not mourn.
He wipes the back of his hand on his already damp trousers and turns his head, giving his single pillow a longing glance. He turns away after a moment, resisting the overwhelming urge to sink his head into that lumpy pillow and sleep. He can't really sleep, not anymore. Ironically, he is reminded of something his mother read to him long ago - 'For in that sleep of death what dreams may come…'.
Draco knows it is the forgotten character's fear of death that makes him say this, and he finds it strangely comforting that he is now more afraid of sleep than death because he knows the dreams that haunt said sleep will be full of death. He scoffs at nothing, staving off his emotions for when he is stronger. In his haze of apathy, however, he fails to realize that his eyes are closing, and his body is curling around itself on the bed. Another clap of thunder rattles the glass in the window, and Draco's body slips into a desperately needed rest while his mind whispers to him…
Sleep. Death.
Mother.
**************************************
It's dark still, and raining just as hard, as a sole shadow tumbles into existence just outside the hut. The shadow is a man, and the closest he will ever come to being a father is putting the boy inside this ruin through hell. He does it so that the boy will become a man, but he knows that doesn't justify what he's done or what he will do.
Still, Severus owes this to Draco. Owes it to Albus too, but he's promised himself he won't think about that damned old fool today. He takes the locking charm off the front door once he's sure the boy is asleep.
Testament to Draco's exhaustion are the circles under his eyes, so dark they're like bruises, and the fact that he doesn't stir awake when Severus sits next to him on the bed. He remembers how Draco's little steel-grey eyes always stared back at him from under silk sheets; how he could never watch the boy sleep because as soon as he laid eyes on him, those little lashes would flutter open, even when he was yet in his cradle.
Now those pale blonde lashes don't even twitch and the boy's raspy breathing remains shallow and slow. Caught in the clutches of some nightmare, Draco winces and whimpers in his sleep. God (if He still exists after all this, or if He ever existed at all) knows the boy has enough horror etched into his memory to have nightmares for the rest of his life.
Severus lays a cool hand on the boy's forehead and brushes a sweaty lock of hair to the side. He presses his thumb into the skin he's just exposed and watches it glow a sickly green before he removes it. "I'm so sorry, Draco," he whispers, as if they are the last words he'll ever say to the boy. And then, at the rate they're both going, he realizes they just might be; but as far as final words go, Severus figures those are fairly decent, so he rises from the bed and makes his way towards the door.
He pauses and turns his head to steal one last glance at the boy. For a brief and horrible moment he looks so like Lucius that Severus almost draws his wand. But the moment passes and Severus knows Draco still has a choice, a chance. He is not his father yet, and Severus will be damned if he ever lives to see the day he lets Draco become Lucius.
The shove Severus is giving him now will put the boy at a crossroads - one path will stretch out long and rough and lead to the Light, the other won't really be a path at all but a sweet looking glade where death is the rule and there are no exceptions. The path leading to the Dark does not exist at this way-station, nor will it exist again for the boy; Severus will see to that. Death or salvation - that is all.
Severus knows that even murderers are not beyond such salvation, and that thought comforts him as his eyes leave Draco's form. They are kindred spirits now, both remorseful killers; the only difference is that Severus has found his saving grace, while Draco is just entering the wasteland of guilt and hopelessness that he himself had walked through. And survived.
He replaces the wards, closes and locks the door and pulls his cloak tighter around himself to fend off the rain. He has things to do, none of which involves brooding over Draco's future. If he is to save the boy, he must first save himself, clear his name, and resume his work so that he has something with which to barter for Draco's life. With a thought - Romania, Romania, Romania - he Disapparates and leaves the rain behind with a fading echo.
**************************************
At the sound of wood slamming against the stone wall of the dungeon, Draco winced, the echo sending pounding waves of pain throughout his skull. Even if he had the strength to lift his head, he wouldn’t dare raise it to see who had entered.
"My Lord, we've brought her," a rough voice said from the other side of the chamber.
"Ah yes; remove her blindfold, Amycus, she must be desperate to see her little boy."
The Dark Lord's words had barely registered when an agonized shriek rang out in the chamber and confirmed Draco's worst fears - they had found his mother. He kept his forehead pressed into the floor, his only acknowledgement of his terror were his hands curling into white-knuckled fists next to his head. He could hear his mother's frantic, terrified pleas over his racing heartbeat and silently begged her to be quiet for both their sakes.
As her pleas turned into sobs, some of the Death Eaters present snickered under their breath, taking a sick amusement at the fact that she was behaving just as so many Muggle matriarchs had when they realized their children were about to be deprived of any innocence they had left, either through rape or torture or death. Draco felt an uneasy sickness take hold in his gut when he realized his mother had every right to act the way she was; his immediate fate was sure to include at least one of those horrors.
"Enough of this!" the Dark Lord hissed from his throne, snapping his fingers in her direction and cutting off her unsettling cries. "Lady Malfoy, in your haste to advocate for your cowardly, snivelling baby, you have failed to greet your newly liberated husband." He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "You should command more respect from your possessions, Lucius."
His father. Draco had seen him in the crowd when they'd brought him in and thrown him at the Dark Lord's feet. He'd escaped, or more likely been set free, from Azkaban, and Draco couldn't help but feel the slightest bit of resentment towards him now that he was here in the flesh. How could you have been so careless? To leave me here to deal with mother and the Dark Lord and all your failures by myself. You abandoned us, and I've been so scared…
This is what Draco had wanted all those months ago when he had agreed to the Dark Lord's request - his family, safe and together. The reunion was turning sour very quickly. The background noise faded again, and Draco tuned in on the Dark Lord's voice.
"I am feeling merciful tonight, young Malfoy, so I will give you a choice: you can either choose the path of the coward and refuse me, which will lead to a great deal of suffering for both you and your traitorous mother. Or, you can do as I order you and you will live. Think of the glory you could have if you follow in your father's footsteps - you are far too young and pretty to die, little Malfoy, and I assure you we will take advantage of that should you choose to be a coward."
Draco's mind was reeling. He wanted to follow this…thing just about as much as he wanted to be beaten senseless by the rest of the Death Eaters, but his mother…
He couldn't abandon her now, not after he'd worked so hard all year to keep her safe. And he was being given a second chance after his failure on the Tower; nobody got a second chance from the Dark Lord. Nobody. Had the shame of failure and the shock of seeing his father been held at bay for a little while longer, he might have been more suspicious. As it was, Draco was sure the only thing between him and a panic attack was the continuous supply of adrenaline flowing through his veins, and he had barely enough wit left to ask the question he needed answered.
"What about my mother, my Lord?"
"You have my word, Malfoy, that I will not kill her. Bring her forward, Amycus." The Death Eater obeyed and tossed Narcissa at the Dark Lord's feet, still too far away for Draco to touch. "It's up to you now. Serve me, and you and your mother will be spared unspeakable torture. Refuse, and I promise you'll be begging for nightmares to escape what will be done to you."
Draco briefly glanced at his father, but he was making no move to protect them from this maniac, just looking on with disapproving eyes. Even if his father had forgotten his duty, Draco would not - he had to protect his mother.
"I will serve you, my Lord."
"You promised the same last time and yet you disobeyed me; why should I believe you this time?"
Draco looked up into those red-tinged eyes, grateful that his abject terror suppressed his shudder. "I will not disobey you again, my Lord; I know the consequences for my failure."
"Rise, boy."
Draco obeyed, legs aching, knees screaming with pain, leaving him unsteady on his feet when he finally stood. He felt small nudges at his mind and he pushed against them on instinct with his strongest emotion. The evil wizard's mouth twisted in a wicked smile.
"Such fear in you, little Malfoy. Are you afraid of me?"
"Yes," Draco stated, clearly not giving his response a thought. The Dark Lord chuckled, a kind of choking, hissing sound one would expect from a dying man.
"Very well, Draco - I accept your oath, even if it is one made out of fear." He didn't even pause to dismiss Draco before turning his gaze on Narcissa. "That's one Malfoy dealt with, now what to do with the other?" His mouth twisted up in thought for a moment before glancing back and forth between the bewildered gazes of both Draco and his mother. "Lady Malfoy, your disloyalty runs deeper than your son knows, does it not?"
Draco stood expressionless, watching his mother's eyes widen for a brief moment, then harden, as if preparing herself for a fatal blow.
"I know you were in contact with that old fool before his death; something about providing protection for you and your son I believe it was. This is grave treachery, and I expected more from someone with such a strong lineage." The Dark Lord's red-tinged eyes flickered toward Draco. "No matter. Little Draco needs to prove his devotion, and I believe you have provided an ideal situation for him to do so."
Draco's stomach sunk. They couldn't…
"Draco, you have sworn your obedience - will you perform whatever task I require of you?"
Panic-driven, he answered, "I will, my Lord."
"Indeed, you will. I need someone to show this foolish woman what happens to traitors."
Draco's heart skipped a beat. "You…you want me to…"
"Kill your mother, Draco."
Narcissa sobbed quietly on her knees as she looked up into the Dark Lord's unmerciful gaze.
"Don't do this to him; he's just a boy!"
A crack like the sound of a thick whip striking flesh rang throughout the chamber and Draco's mother screamed in agony as she convulsed and fell prone on the floor.
"I take orders from no one, woman! This is your own doing, and your son's punishment for his pitiful failure!"
The crack sounded again, but Draco didn't quite hear it - he had moved beyond the room, to someplace he could think, someplace he could be rational.
But Draco couldn't think, not even Outside. This couldn't actually be happening. He'd wake up, his father would still be in prison, his mother would be asleep across the house, and he would still care about things like grades and clothes and where he'd catch his next shag. But it seemed so real - his mother's screams so piercing, his father's glares so menacing, the amusement and curiosity in the eyes of the Dark Lord so sickening. How could it have come down to this?
They had finally, for the last time, fucked his life beyond measure. If his father hadn't been such a blundering, arrogant fool, he would never have got caught in the first place, and if his mother had had one ounce of faith in him, she would never be in this kind of trouble. Where his blinding fear once resided, Draco began to feel a startling anger rising up, the kind that only comes when everything is too overwhelming to take. The kind that reminded him that he might be a Malfoy, but he still had the instincts of an animal.
He felt a hand close around his ankle and looked down to see his mother there at his feet, looking into his eyes, tears streaming down her face, pleading with him desperately.
"Please, Draco, you must do this!"
He aimed his wand at the neckline of her shredded dress and she sat back on her heels, head tilted back, giving him a clean shot. She wanted him to do this. If he didn't, they would both be killed. She begged him to do this. So why couldn't he still say the words?
Anger. He had to mean it. He called back all his emotions from the past few weeks. Abandonment, failure, despair, terror, fury, pain all filled his heart and swelled as he looked at his mother. He wondered why his father hadn't interceded in this nightmare, if not for Draco, then at least for his mother, whom Lucius claimed to love and cherish beyond life itself. His father was too lost, too deep in the Dark Lord's clutches to see what he was doing to his family. None of them would ever be the same again.
Fear and anger racing through his veins, he took one look into his mother's tearful eyes and spoke those two little words to end her. Rage shot out the tip of his wand and hit her square in the chest. She slumped from her kneeling position and fell face-down on the floor at Draco's feet.
"Well, that took longer than expected, but at least it is done. Now, everyone, we have work to do. Draco, you are excused to go work with Severus."
Within moments, the chamber was deserted, save Draco, his father, and his mother. Draco couldn't tear his eyes away from the blonde hair laid over stone and his feet until his father came and laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned, panic in his eyes, to look at his father, preparing for a slap, a disappointed lecture, a promise of torture, any sign of pain in those familiar eyes. None of them came.
He got a little smile and a pat on the shoulder instead.
"Your mother was weak, Draco, but you and I - we are strong. You have made me proud today, my son."
The words Draco had been waiting to hear all his life were empty vibrations running through the air. They meant nothing, he felt nothing when he understood them, and when he looked back at his mother's unnaturally bent body sprawled on the floor, he could feel each beat of his heart in every single nerve he possessed - I killed her I killed her I killed her I killedher IkilledherIkilledherIkilledherIkilledher - And just because he could, he screamed.
**************************************
Draco wakes to the sound of shattering glass, a racing heart, and a sticky-wet face. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to dream again without that memory taking part. And he supposes that is fitting, since his thoughts are always there anyway, in that chamber with his parents and a monster.
An achingly cold feeling fills his gut and for the first time in his rapidly deteriorating life, Draco realizes he is lost. It doesn't feel like anything he's ever been through before - not rage, not desperation, not fear, not loneliness.
Once when he was still chubby-cheeked and believed every wish he made on a star would come true, he had got lost in the Manor and had sat down in the middle of some forgotten corridor and screamed and screamed and screamed until the house elves came running. Since then, Draco has learned the Manor better than the elves, vowing that he'd never be lost again.
But now here he lies, more alone and afraid and with no one to scream for, and he knows his vow is broken.
A wave of nausea rushes over him and he turns his head to the side to fight it off when he sees the source of the shattering that had woken him. He sits up in his cold bed and watches the rain pour in through the former window, now just a frame of wood accented with shards of glass. He slips out of bed to sit on the floor. He doesn't mind the cold anymore.
Draco crawls over to the broken window. The smaller shards of glass dig and cut into his knees. It hurts, and he's glad it hurts. He needs it to hurt. It's so quiet but for the fall of the rain; he wonders if he is the only thing alive in this forest. Even the branch that had shattered his window is blackened, jutting from its frame of shards and broken wood. It seems a waste, that out of everything that could have been alive in the forest, the place has to squander its life on him.
He sighs and sits with his back against the wall, legs bent and spread with his arms atop them. He stares down into his lap and his Dark Mark stares back at him with its hollow skull-eyes. Usually when he sees it, he turns his face away, but this time he doesn't.
Draco realizes that since he was Marked, he hasn't really looked at the condemning thing. He hadn't been fascinated by it as the others had been. There hadn't been a day, even a questionably sane minute that he'd been grateful it was there. He traces his fingers up his forearm, passing over the permanent black ink again and again. He doesn't make any foolish wishes about removing it, and thinks how proud his father would be.
But unlike his father, Draco doesn't consider this an honour. He deserves to be marked by darkness for what he's done. His fingers falter a bit at that thought, but they quickly steady and press hard into his skin, resuming the contemplative tic.
If it were anything but what it is, Draco thinks, it would be beautiful. The magic in the lines makes it seem like a separate entity, its own twisted form of life that just happens to be anchored to his flesh by some unhappy circumstance. Each embellishment makes it more like a work of art and less like the reality.
Draco hates it. Any possible words he could use to describe it would be weak and hardly worth their own effort. He hates its beauty, the obscenity of it thrown in his face every time he thinks back on his sins. It should be as ugly and as wretched as he feels.
Draco moves his hand down to the floor next to him where the window shards lay, clean and still glistening with rainwater. He picks the biggest one he can feel and clutches it tightly to his chest. His mouth sets in a determined line and he lays his arm, Dark Mark up, on his knee, brings the glass to it and listens to the thunder roll in through the window. Draco takes the jagged tip and traces the lines he hates, so softly that he shudders with pleasure and chill.
The first line he runs from the top of the skill to his bony wrist does nothing - a fading white mark against the darker one and it's gone in a second or two. He traces the same line again, but this time a red pinstripe bubbles up from the skin that the glass has touched and finally the Mark is less beautiful and more as it should be.
Again, and a thicker line of blood follows the glass.
Again, and the now raw and frayed edges of his nerves are starting to protest, but Draco just winces and does it
Again, and one line of blood has become seven, running off the sides of his arm and dripping onto the floor, thicker and darker than the rainwater.
Again, and he's shaking, the pain bringing tears falling fast and hard. But the beauty is fading from the profane symbol so he does it
Again, and now the blood is thick and dark and spilling in wide ribbons over his skin, and he knows he shouldn't go this far, because this far might be too far. He makes a deal with himself -
Again, one last time, and it's done. The bloodied glass falls from his shaking hand to lay with its brothers on the floor. His Dark Mark is split, torn and ragged, and, ignoring the agonized screams of his nerves, he smiles.
He feels and sees his blood spilling over the sides of his arm to pool on the floor and he knows he went too far, but that knowledge doesn't bring the sort of abject fear he always thought it would. He'll be dead in a few minutes, so why should he waste them on fear?
Draco thinks of his mother. If there's an afterlife, perhaps he'll see her again and have a chance to explain. If not…well then, all this will have been for nothing and it won't matter much, will it?
Everything is colder now than it was just a few minutes ago. Draco had just woken up, but he feels tired again. He keeps his eyes open for as long as he can. For all the aggravation this world has given him recently, he doesn't want to leave it so quickly. He lifts his right arm slowly, and lets it rest on his limp left hand. It's still throbbing in pain, but it doesn't prevent him from slipping the ring of the Malfoy crest off his finger and letting it fall to the floor like a sinking anchor in his blood.
He can't fight it anymore. His eyes are closing, leading him into darkness, and his last thought is that he will die a murderer.
**********************************
"So, Severus Snape really does have a soul."
There is no malice or anger behind those words, and Severus's answering glare is equally enmity-free. Strange, considering the speaker of the words, but then if Potter could surprise him with the use of Severus's own Dark curse, he should not be surprised by much of anything that Potter does. Or says, in this case.
Severus's mind drifts back to an hour earlier and what Potter had told him. "I've already paid too big a price for not trusting you. Dumbledore was ten times the wizard I am and he trusted you - I have no right not to do the same. And frankly, Snape, I think without you we're fucked." Severus had stood in the doorway, completely stunned until Potter pushed the door open wider and turned, disappearing into the house.
Now he sits at a table with the boy…the man, and for once, Potter is listening instead of shouting. Severus realizes how much easier it is to transfer some of his respect and trust for Albus to this one that the man had dedicated his final years to protecting.
Potter no longer reminds him of James; he has become a product of the men who raised him - Albus, Lupin, and yes, even Severus himself. Severus does not overlook the fact that he has helped create this truly powerful ally. And weapon.
Without warning, a red-hot pain sears through a patch of skin just above his right elbow and it's time to go. Draco. He tells Potter where he's going in less than five words, and while he wishes he could marvel over the way Potter nods without any further explanation, there is no time. He Disapparates and throws down the wards knowing that he may already be too late.
Severus peers in the window before he enters and watched those ever-vigilant eyelids flutter a few times, then close. Blood flows in steady streams over the thick and ugly black lines on Draco's forearm and he thinks it should be revolting, but it isn't.
Severus is finding it difficult to just stand outside and watch the boy die, but he had promised himself that if Draco made this choice, he wouldn't interfere. That, however, had been before he knew the boy would have a safe haven if he wanted to live. It doesn't make a significant difference, Severus tells himself, as he works on convincing his heart to let go. He knows he's failing at that when he takes his first breath since he saw Draco's body and finds it nearly impossible because of the constriction in his throat.
An ache begins growing deep within his chest, pulls and tugs at his heart until he feels as though the cavity left over when Draco is dead will act as a black hole and make his body collapse on itself. 'How maudlin, Severus,' he thinks, eyes still fixed on the crimson-washed forearm. It's only when Draco's arm gives an involuntary twitch and the brand on Severus's arm sends another intense burn from his skin through to his bone that he realizes he can't stand here and watch his godson's life bleed out and pool on the wooden floor.
He inhales deeply and presses his forehead to the cold glass, closing his eyes as he heaves a heavy sigh. In only a few quick movements, he is kneeling at Draco's side, ignoring the warmth seeping into the knees of his trousers. They are black, and he is used to washing blood out of his clothes.
Severus reaches down and cradles Draco's cold arm to his chest, runs a thumb down the long gash as if it could close on will alone. It doesn't, and he pulls out his wand.
Healing spells are exhausting, requiring utmost concentration, stamina, and precise incantations of course. Severus has never been more careful or focused as he stops the blood flow, knits the vessels back together, then the skin over top of them, grateful the glass hadn't been sharp enough to cut through muscle.
He almost feels he's doing the boy an injustice, stitching his Dark Mark back together, but if Draco's going to do his part before war's end, he'll need that Mark and he'll need it intact. He purposefully does a shoddy job on the scar diminishing spell. Severus is a firm believer in the importance of keeping scars, and he hopes that Draco will remember this one for the rest of his life. However short it may be.
Finally healed, pulse and breath faint but existent, Severus takes two vials from his trousers pocket and pours their contents down Draco's throat. Blood replenisher and Dreamless Sleep. There is no cure for suicide, but this is the next best thing.
He turns Draco's wrist over and back in his hand while he rubs the boy's throat with the other. Satisfactory. He slides one arm under the bend in Draco's knees, the other across his back, and lifts. The boy is like skin and bone in his arms; Severus would have scoffed at anyone who said he was over nine stone.
Draco is laid out peacefully on the bed, breathing more deeply now, the deathly-grey pallor gone from his cheeks. Severus has stripped him, cleaned his clothes, and redressed him and now it's time the boy was left alone again. He takes a box transfigured from the branch that broke through the window and places it at the foot of the bed. He hesitates when again he comes to Draco's side, but his resolve is stronger this time. If he wants Draco to become a man, Severus must treat him like a man and let him make his own decisions.
A hypodermic needle is clenched in his hand when he removes it from his robes, and without hesitation, he finds his best vein and plunges it in. Not even a trace of a flinch crosses his face. He draws a good measure of his own blood into the syringe, and, knowing that Draco's body will not attack his blood, he finds the vein on the boy's inner elbow and gently slides it through the skin.
He curses himself for having to do the poison transfer through his own blood, but he's not accustomed to carrying the potion around with him - it is generally reserved for Unspeakables and high security clearance Aurors, but he and Lupin and a few of the other spies have harboured it in their bloodstream for years. When subjected to the kind of torture the Dark Lord has the power to inflict, there's no limit to what a spy might say. Unless, of course, he's dead. The potion will work just as well for Draco.
He pauses at the threshold, just as he has done on his previous visits, and rubs the small brand of a dragon above his right elbow that has been there for just over seventeen years. The wards are reset, the poison lies in wait, the activator and a Portkey nestled together in the little box, and he feels certain that though he is not ready to see Draco's death, this is as close as he will ever get to that readiness.
Severus shuts and locks the door, considers Apparating back to Grimmauld Place, but decides against it. Dealing with anyone right now would mean the end of his sanity, and no matter how much Potter's attitude has improved, he can't face another living soul until he knows Draco's fate. Spinner's End is but a thought away, complete numbing of the senses just a vial beyond that, so he thinks of his home, downs the potion, and crawls in bed, too fast, he thinks, for his conscience to catch up with him.
He is wrong.
**************************************
Draco awakes with a pounding headache and a throb in his arm and despite what he remembers, he doesn't feel dead.
He is warm, for perhaps the first time in weeks, and he wonder why that is if he's been sitting by that shattered window in the rain. When he realizes the surface under him is soft and his face is buried in a pillow, he slows his breathing and tries not to panic.
Someone else has been here.
Slowly, barely, he opens his eyes to narrow little slits. The now familiar rotting walls of the hut stare back at him. At least he knows where he is.
He listens for any clue that the outsider is still there, but all he hears is the pounding of the rain and his own heartbeat racing in his ears.
Draco lays there, quiet and still, until he loses count of the seconds gone by. He opens his eyes completely and rolls to his other side, doing a full scan of the room. Realizing he's alone again, he takes a deep breath and sits up. Whoever was here doesn't seem to care that he's awoken, but clearly, they also mean him no harm.
The adrenaline starts to fade and the throbbing in his head and arm return with a vengeance. He winces in pain and presses his right palm to his forehead as he inspects his left forearm.
He had wanted to destroy the beauty of the Dark Mark and he has done a good job of that at least. Whoever had healed him (as if he didn't already know who) had not deemed it important to minimize the scarring and a thick, jagged rise of flesh now distorts the lines there, twisting them to show their truer nature. He flexes the muscles in that arm, and the pain that shoots through it tells him he won't be doing that again for quite a while.
When he stretches his other muscles to make sure he can still function, his feet hit something solid at the end of his bed and he's amazed he didn't notice it before. It's a small wooden box, too wonky not to be transfigured, with who-knows-what inside it.
Odd.
Draco knows his curiosity won't last long against that box, but he remembers a story about a rash girl who had once felt the same, so he tries to think of something else for a while.
His window has been fixed, and the place where his blood had soaked the floor is dry now. His clothes have been cleaned and he actually notices a bit of warmth in the hut, where previously there had been nothing but cold. He sits on the edge of his bed with nothing more to distract him.
He tried, but the box at the end of his bed begs to be opened, so he relents and gently lifts the wooden lid. There's a note inside, just a scrap of parchment, but he recognizes the handwriting and realizes he hasn't been abandoned after all.
'Draco,
If you truly wish death for yourself, hold the coin in this box in the palm of your hand. It will be painless and quick and I'll come up with a story to tell your father when he lays you in the Malfoy catacombs.
If, however, as I hope, you are willing to stay alive after all you have been through, take the key in your hand to activate it. It will lead you to someone who can help you - this key will be very important to him and will provide you with an adequate bargaining chip, though I don't believe you'll need it.
Whichever you choose, Draco, know that everything you have suffered and will suffer is no less important than any of your good memories. You do not have to be a slave to this event - you can be forgiven and redeemed, and you can survive.
-- S'
Draco sits staring at the box for a long time. He doesn't know what he wants.
If he's honest with himself, he knows he doesn't really want to die. But does he really want to go through everything he'll need to do to be able to look in a mirror without cringing? Severus said he could be saved, but Draco isn't sure that he believes him. What could he possibly do that would ever make up for killing his mother and destroying his family?
But then, if anyone would know how to help him and clean up his messes, it would be Severus. Maybe if he had trusted Severus in his last year he wouldn't be in this mess now. The man had watched over him since he took his first breath, and was clearly willing to keep doing so as long as either of them lived. He deserves some trust from Draco after all the disappointment he must have suffered because of him.
Draco owes him.
Everything.
With only a slight hesitation, he picks up the key, and after a few seconds of curious examination, he feels the familiar pull in his gut of a Portkey and he is swirling up and out of his wooden prison and going somewhere new.
The key drops him in the middle of a street running with rainwater and it seems like all the sky has done since his mother died is pour and pour and pour. A piece of parchment fades into existence on a string around the edge of the key. Draco tucks his wet hair behind his ears and looks at it. 12 Grimmauld Place is the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix.
He doesn't have time to be confused by the message. A wicked dark house spreads out like ooze between the two existing houses in front of him, and suddenly Draco isn't so sure he should trust Severus after all.
After the full house comes into view and shows a few warm lights spilling out of the windows, he finds his resolve again and tucks the key and parchment into his pocket. He doesn't know who he's expecting to answer when he knocks on the front door, but when the answer comes and he sees who stands proud and defiant in the doorway, Draco doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
He does both.
Part Two