Summary:

It's said that every scar tells a tale. You may think I have many tales to tell then. In fact it is only one. One long story, dark, and with no end.

Rating: T

Warning:

mentions of (and more or less graphic): child abuse, self-harm, suicide (attempt), torture

spoilers for HBP and DH

Author's Note:

Please note that English is not my native language.

I never wrote Severus in first-person before. Feels strange to do so now...

Flashbacks/memories in italics, as usual.

Disclaimer:

Everything, that in some way sounds like JK Rowling (Characters, plot, dialogues etc.) belongs to her.

The mistakes (spelling, grammar, whatever) are mine, though. So, if you find some which escaped me, please send them back. I'll care for them.

Map of pain

It's said that every scar tells a tale. You may think I have many tales to tell then. In fact it is only one. One long story, dark, and with no end.

My back bears the most scars, and the oldest. My own father did them to me. He started to beat me when I was no older than six years.

Then there are those scars on my feet. I got them after I ran away.

I managed to hide for two days. Then I thought of my mother. My absence would cause her pain. I knew she loved me, though she never stood up for me. Whenever my father beat me, she was watching, tears in her eyes.

Now, with me gone, it was here lying on the ground, helplessly exposed to her husbands wrath. And no one was there crying for her.

I had expected my father to be angry when I came back home. I had expected to be beaten. I wasn't disappointed, to say the least. But this time he didn't use his belt to hit me, he used a cane.

After he was done with my back, he told me to never run away again. To make sure I remembered this he whipped my bare feet.

On my wrist you can see two more scars. I did them myself, trying to end my life, to stop my pain. Yet destiny denied me this mercy. The first time happened in my childhood.

I lay in my room, my back bleeding and hurting as so often when my father was drunk. But this time it was too much for me to endure. I took a shard, a piece of a broken bear bottle most likely, and opened my veins.

My mother found me just in time. A few minutes later and I would have been dead. She never lost a word about it, not to me, not to my father.

There are scars on my arm as well. Scars from other cuts I've done to myself, though these ones were not lethal.

My left forearm shows another mark. It's not a scar, but it tells a story nonetheless.

I was seventeen, only a few weeks out of school and had no place to go. The dark side was my only option, at least I thought so. Proud, in those days, I offered my service, my life, to the Dark Lord.

He tested me first, wanted to know if I'm worthy of being his servant. He tortured me, cast the Cruciatus Curse upon me, many times.

My father had taught me that screaming was a weakness. So I remained quiet, despite the excruciating agony. The Dark Lord didn't seem to be happy about it, though. Yet he granted me the Dark Mark.

The hot metal of the brand was painful. Tears came to my eyes, but I managed to hold them back. If I started to cry in front of the Dark Lord, I could have screamed earlier as well.

Since that day I'm marked for my entire life. Today I regret my decision, but now it is too late.

But the most painful scars are the ones you cannot see. They lie upon my soul, made of sorrow, and guilt. Pushing away every happiness, every ray of light.

The first was left there when I was fifteen. By then I had only one true friend. I tried everything to impress her. Today I know I chose the wrong path to do so. In the end she left me.

It seems I didn't suffer enough, though. After I joined the Dark Lord I overheard a prophecy. Not knowing who would be affected by it I told my master everything I heard. He went after her and her family. I killed my only friend. Another scar was left on my soul that night. And on my wrist.

During my time as a Death Eater I murdered a lot of people. Innocent people, helpless people. No matter if I did it myself or if a potion of mine killed them. Their deaths left scars behind, haunting me forever.

Only one person saw the guilt that was lying upon me. He gave me a second chance after the Dark Lord's downfall. A chance that no one else would give me. He tried to show me that people can be kind, that the world is not only made of darkness. But I couldn't believe him after a lifetime full of suffering. I rejected his help.

And now he is gone. I murdered him, added another scar to my soul. The first for many years. But this time, no one can ease the agony. The Death Eaters celebrate me for killing one of the greatest wizards of all time. My colleagues hate me for what I've done. They don't know I followed his own orders, saved him from a painful death.

With no one left to fight back, the Dark Lord is gaining more and more power by the day. I have to watch children being tortured by fellow Death Eaters. Though the school is officially under my command now, my hands are bound. There is nothing I can do to help them.

My soul cannot bear the pain any longer. The knife leaves a new cut on my skin. It will leave another scar.

A scar on my map of pain.