Redemption
She doesn't believe in war. She looks past the blood on his shirt and doesn't see the murderer, see the hands that killed a man just an hour prior, because she believes the best in people (him). Redemption for all and he just smirks at her, the smirk he uses when he wants to laugh and cry and can't do either, because he knows that she'll never understand that some souls are too damaged to redeem themselves and he's glad that she doesn't.
Because he's one of those souls. At night, he leaves her and their son, wearing his mask, the mask of Death and the mark of Satan on his arm. He deals with the Devil and dances with Death, for them. At least, he does it mostly for them. He can't ignore the sense of ecstasy Dark Magic gives him, nor the thrill of seeing worthless scum screaming under him, crying and sobbing and pleading as though he can be swayed (their screams haunt his sleep but he can't decide whether they're beautiful nightmares or horrible dreams [he wishes he could say the latter, but it's not that simple anymore]). He marches with the elite, dressed in robes darker than midnight, hated and feared and oh-so-powerful, and tries to ignore his conscience screaming at him.
It's morbidly beautiful and it's wrong and still, somehow, it's right. He both hates it and loves it. He hates the way he has to give away his soul – to turn himself into a murderer, a rapist, a torturer – to create a world where magic is safe from the muggles. But he's willing. When he goes home, all can be forgotten with Narcissca's sweet words and when she says that it'll be okay, he feels like it just might be.
He won't tell her about the times when he staggers in, drenched in blood and goes straight to the bathroom, strips off and burns his clothes. He doesn't mention the hours he spends in the shower, watching the water fade from pinky-red as the gore from a battle is washed away (he knows it's not there, so why does he still feel blood on his hands even after he washes them again and again?). He'll never say that he stares at his hands, hands that have killed and still look the same as they did before, even though everything's changed.
He doesn't want to be a murderer. He doesn't want to know, with unflinching certainty, that he can't be redeemed. And he really doesn't want to admit that he enjoys the Darkness, even though he thrives within it and later hates himself for, once again, being so weak.
When it gets too much, when he begins to consider just ending it (why bother anymore? Fuck it all!), he goes to see Narcissca and wonders why an angel has been blessed to a monster like him. Redemption seems possible in those moments, when he basks in her glorious innocence, but the illusion is shattered when he looks in the mirror and a murderer stares back.
La Finis.