Disclaimer: FANfiction. 'Nuff said.
A/N
The proper title of this fic is "Fuck," but I censored it because of the site's rule about the title and summary of all fics being rated K. This chapter was actually read over by a friend. I would have had her read over the second chapter, as well, but I'm impatient and my internet access is kind of shoddy, right now (and by "shoddy" I mean 'nonexistent unless I carry my laptop about half a mile to sit on a bench on a public median thing in my neighborhood'). It's a two-shot and both chapters are already written and typed. I should be able to get the second part up right after I post this one, but it's always possible that something will happen to my internet connection and prevent that from happening, so if the second chapter isn't up, it will be soon.
Fuck.
The exact same word ran through my head for what had to be the millionth time in the last two hours. When I told the Old Fool about the Mark burning, he told me to wait until after the third task was over before answering the Dark Lord's call. I disagreed with his logic, but I had no choice but to comply with his order. If I had gone right away, it would have been easier. There wouldn't have been time for the panic to set in and I wouldn't have had to struggle with the Occlumency. If I couldn't get myself in check soon, I would have to take a Calming Draught, and the Dark Lord would certainly notice that something was off, then.
Fuck.
I have known this was coming for almost a year, now, and I had thought I was prepared. But now that the moment had arrived, I was being plagued by the inevitable self-doubt. It had been nearly thirteen years since I had last felt Cruciatus, and the Dark Lord would certainly be using it. Both to test my loyalty, and to punish me for my tardiness. What if I had lost the ability to maintain Occlumency under Cruciatus in the years I had gone without using it? What if my body no longer had the strength to survive extended periods of torture? What if he didn't believe the lies I was going to tell him, even if my Occlumency was flawless? Did I even have a chance at living through this?
Fuck.
I had never had so much trouble getting control of myself, before. Why was it so difficult, this time? Had thirteen years of relative safety caused me to go soft? Had I lost the skills I needed to be an effective spy—to stay alive? Has some part of me believed, against all logic and the Old Fool's assurances, that the Dark Lord was really gone for good? I had known the Mark had been coming back for months, and both the Old Fool and the Potter Brat had been telling anyone who would listen that he would return. I had definitely expected this; so why, then, was I so surprised that it had happened? Why was this event, not unexpected or unforeseen, causing a panic in me the kind of which I had not experienced in thirteen years?
Fuck.
I closed my eyes and sat down in my favorite armchair. The Old Fool had at least allowed me to wait for the end of the third task in my office instead of watching it with the rest of the school. I took some deep breaths and tried to clear my mind, but thoughts of death and pain kept floating across the surface of my brain, like leaves blown across water by a gentle breeze. No, more forceful than that; it was more like a sudden gust of wind during a storm that knocks trees to the ground, and, try as I might, I couldn't keep them from crashing down and crushing me.
Fuck.
If I never manage to calmdown, would there really be any point in going back to the Dark Lord's side? Why should I even return, if all that awaited me was a slow, painful death? Sure, if I didn't return, I would be hunted down and killed like a wild animal, but what was stopping me from killing myself? It would save them the trouble, and save me the pain and humiliation. Not returning would be suicide, but if I returned without controlling this blind panic, I would be killed, all the same. Was there really any reason not to just kill myself, right here and now?
Fuck.
Of course, that's when I remembered my fucking promise to the fucking Old Fool that I would protect the fucking Potter Brat from the fucking Dark Lord because fucking Lily gave her fucking life to fucking protect him. Suicide wasn't a fuckingoption. I had to at least fucking try to fucking trick my fucking 'master' into fucking thinking I was still his fucking faithful fucking slave, so that I could at least try to fulfill my fucking promise. Not even my fucking death was under my fucking control.
Fuck.
Even more than a decade after her death, Lily Evans still had me wrapped around her little finger, as did the Old Fool, the Potter Brat, and the Dark Lord. Between the four of them, they owned nearly every part of me: my heart, my body, my life, and my soul. The only part of me that was still in my own possession was my mind, and I couldn't even get control of that. I needed to hurry up and clearmymind, or I would be as good as dead. I knew I had the ability to do it; I was just lacking the determination. I was allowing myself to be ruled by my emotions. I was being weak.
Fuck.
If I returned to the Dark Lord in this state, I would be betraying them more than I would be if I were to just kill myself, right here and now. If the Dark Lord decided to probe my mind for information, everything the Old Fool had ever told me would be divulged. That would have actually been a serious concern if he had actually told me anythingatall. The Old Fool has always known exactly what he needs to do to keep me around to do his bidding. It's like I'm a marionette, and he's holding the strings; he dangles me over the fire and gives me scissors, but not before making sure I know I'm not the only one who will die if I cut myself free. He's always so careful not to give me the slightest excuse to end it, because he knows I will at the first chance I get, but he never bothers trying to give me a reason to want to stay alive.
Fuck.
I opened my eyes and realized that I had been sitting there for more than twenty minutes. If anything, I was even more panicked now than I had been when I had first sat down, and somehow I had added anger and grief to the mix. The question had changed from, 'Should I risk taking a Calming Draught?' to 'Will a Calming Draught be strong enough?'
Fuck.
I walked to the storeroom and mindlessly grabbed a small phial of Calming Draught, afraid to take anything stronger. As I drank the entire phial in one gulp, I heard the distant sound of a cheering crowd, signaling the end of the third task. Someone (most likely the Potter Brat) had emerged from the maze. The tournament was over; it was time for me to go.
Fuck.
The Calming Draught had not had time to take effect, yet, and I knew I couldn't leave until it did. I walked back into my office, closed the door behind me, and sat back down in the armchair. I tried much more seriously to clear my mind, then. Even though the potion had yet to kick in, the mere knowledge that it would dampen my fears made it easier to banish my worries. I took some deep breaths and focused solely on my breathing. I knew the Old Fool would come and get me when the time came for me to leave. I thought about the story I would tell the Dark Lord, so that I would be sure not to falter in it. The thought of once again living a life forged by nothing but layers upon layers of a million lies, stories, and half-truths caused a fresh wave of panic to wash over me.
Fuck.
This time, instead of attempting to push the panic away, I accepted it completely, until it ceased to be an emotion and, instead, became a part of my very being; it was still present, but it would no longer hinder my Occlumency. That was good; the Dark Lord would be suspicious if he didn't sense fear. I repeated the process with my anger, but pushed the grief away. It would do more harm than good to allow the Dark Lord to know I still mourned Lily's death. Pushing the grief away was far more difficult than it should have been.
Fuck.
Once I finally finished dealing with each of my emotions, I concentrated on my story. IremainedatHogwartsbecausetheOldFooltrustedme,andItookadvantageofthattrust. I thought the same sentence again and again, until it became the absolute truth, and then moved on to the next one. I'mwillingtogiveyoualltheinformationI'vecollectedoverthelastthirteenyears. After that, Myloyaltyhasneverwavered. IneverlookedforyoubecauseIwasconfidentyoucouldreturnwithoutmyhelp,itwasmoreimportanttoretaintheOldFool'strust. I'meagertostartkilling,again. IwillkillthePotterBrat,ifyouwouldlikemeto. IwanttocleartheschooloftheMudbloodstheOldFoolhasletin. Idon'tcareaboutthered-hairedMudblood,anymore…
Fuck.
Once I fought down the fresh wave of grief, I began focusing on the half-truths; they were easier to 'believe,' so I only had to think them a few times each before they became true. Ineverdenouncedyou;IjustallowedtheOldFooldoitforme. IwouldhaveaidedyouinobtainingthePhilosopher'sStoneifIhadknownitwasyouandnotmerelyQuirreltryingtogetit. IhatethePotterBratandtheOldFool. Iwilldoanythingforyou. IhavehelpedraisetheYoungMalfoyinawaythatwillmakehimloyaltoyou…
Fuck.
I was a bit worried that the last one was quite a bit more than merely half-true. I pushed the worry away until it no longer existed, but not before writing the single word, "Draco," on a piece of spare parchment to remind myself to deal with the issue, at a later time. I could keep the worry at bay, temporarily, but the problem would not resolve itself.
Fuck.
I began reminding myself of the truths that I needed to reveal, but before I even finished thinking the first one, there was a knock on my office door.
Fuck.
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