Author: Leila
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any related characters. They belong to JK Rowling. I do own the plot. "Ave Maria" translates to "Hail Mary," a traditional Catholic prayer thing.
Ave Maria
Gratia plena
Dominus tecum
Benedicta tu
In mulieribus
Et benedictus
Fructus ventri
Tui Jesus
Sancta Maria
Sancta Maria
Maria
Ora Pronobis
Nobis pecca toribus
Nunc et in hora
In hora mortis nostrae
It was quiet within the cathedral, the silence broken only by the soft murmurings of a few supplicants and the faint sounds of a choir practicing in the distance. The ceilings and walls were bathed in shadow, except where a stand of sputtering candles stood proof against the encroaching darkness.
The doors at the far end swung open, admitting a slight young man. He nodded to the sleepy priest standing by the door and made his way to a pew just outside the ring of candlelight. There he knelt and removed a rosary of smooth stones from his pocket. He raised haunted grey eyes to the figure of Christ on the cross, surrounded by flowers and candles, and swallowed convulsively.
"Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven..."
And in this manner he continued for some time; eyes closed and fingers moving over the beads of his rosary, as his lips formed the words of prayer so often used by the lost and weary. The pews emptied of people and the candles burned down, but still the young man continued his prayers, his eyes glinting with feverish intensity when he opened them to gaze at the altar. At last even the priest retreated from the door and the strange patron was left alone in the vast expanses of the church with only the click of his rosary for comfort.
Each bead had its own sin, and each recitation of the Lord's Prayer brought its own absolution. His fingers closed around another of the stones as he called up the next sin.
Click.
His father lies wounded on the ground, pleading with him to stop, as he stands with his wand outstretched and whispers the words that seal the poor man's fate.
Our father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done...
Click.
His mother, clutching his robes as she sobs for him to run, but too late - the mullioned windows of the drawing room crash in, a familiar voice, the glint of moonlight on a wand - terror in her eyes, fear for the life of her only son. He's shoved backward, hears shouts, and then a scream - a high piercing scream - and silence. He sees, but he can't see clearly through the tears, a blur of white and a spill of golden hair. He crawls to her on hands and knees, a last caress of her hand and a glimpse of eyes that will see no more - because of his actions.
On earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses...
Click.
His home of 18 years - burning. The flames lick up the stone façade, enchanted to burn through even steel, should the need arise. Screams float up to his vantage point, Ministry folk, all, and none shall escape this night. And he's crying, for the loss of his mother, for the loss of his home, and for the loss of the one person who might have loved him...
As we forgive our trespassers.
Click.
He presses his lips, his hips, to those of the other boy, tangles his fingers in the coal black hair. His partner moans and writhes against him, and he finds himself pressed against a wall as his pants puddle around his ankles and a hot mouth begins to tease him until he can barely think and he draws the mouth back up to his own. Now his legs are encircling the waist of the other boy and he's engaged in the rhythmic motions of rise and fall that encompass his world. And he knows he shouldn't, but he opens his eyes and finds the emerald green ones of his lover and whispers three words into the space between them...
And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.
Click.
But he couldn't go on. Tears fell and wet the front of his Muggle clothes as his rosary clattered to the floor. He rested his head against the upholstered back of the bench and let his dry sobs fill the chapel.
No matter how he sought forgiveness, no matter where, he could never confess this final sin; for all that it could be defined by a single word -
Pride.
No, he couldn't confess it, not to the God that he secretly believed to be more like the harsh God in the Old Testament than the forgiving God in the New. So it simmered inside of him; a boil he hadn't the strength to lance.
As he moved to rise, he glimpsed a statue of the Virgin Mary set in an alcove at the very edge of the candlelight. The flickering light seemed to lend life to her serene face, giving her eyes a wise gaze and her mouth a slight twist, as if she found something amusing. But it was her hands that captivated him, her outstretched hands, welcoming him into her forgiveness, if he would but step into the light – both literally and figuratively.
Without thought, he moved into the sphere of her radiance. He fixed broken eyes upon her plaster face and began to whisper his failings to her, pouring out the contents of his soul to her saintly countenance.
Of all the sins of his pride - forcing away the one person who had truly understood him, who might, even, have loved him – this was his greatest transgression. He understood, now, too late, what it had meant to hurt his lover, to break his heart and then grind it to dust with a few words or a casual glance.
And he told the Blessed Virgin things he had thought long forgotten; dark, secret things that she heard and cleansed him of along with other, more trivial matters. He whispered to her until the last of the candles had long since burned down to a stub in a puddle of wax and his voice issued from his sore throat with a dry rasp like leaves on the sidewalk.
At last he could speak no more. He was cleansed of his sins; his vessel was empty. And as he stepped back out into the chill air of the street he began to feel, along with the cold, the first stirrings of animation as it crept back into his veins. He began to think that perhaps he could go on with life, if not as it had been then as it would be, as he would make it.
In the barren heart of winter, when even the hardiest of trees loses its leaves, hope was born again in the heart of Draco Malfoy.
***
A/N: This is about as sentimental as I get. I'm not Catholic, but I think it's a beautiful religion and I imagine that if Draco Malfoy belonged to any denomination, he would be Catholic. So there.
Also, I apologize for the changing tenses, I felt it was necessary at the time, but now I'm wondering if it's not just really confusing... Anyway, what are you waiting for? Review!!!