Do you ever stop to smell the roses?
No, I'm not talking about the saying. I'm talking about actually stopping, picking a rose from a bush, and smelling it, you stupid git.
You see, not long ago, my father took me to a garden of roses. It was filled with roses, all red and in full bloom. The scent would have driven you mad alone. There, he stopped by the nearest bush and asked me,
"Do you know what the rose is to us, Draco?"
I had said no.
"Every rose has its thorns, that you know?" He asked again.
This time, I nodded yes.
"The roses represent what we are, Draco."
I was confused, and so I stood silent beside him and listened.
"We are labeled as evil, ruthless monstrosities who kill and injure the innocent for the Devil. People think of us as the thorns, you might say, of the rose. But we each have our reasons to serve who they think is wrong. And there is no Devil, Draco, that's just a silly Christian myth."
He plucked a rose from the bush, lifting it to his nose and smelling it. He exhaled with an "Aaah." before continuing.
"We are not the thorns, Draco. We are merely the petals that make the rose beautiful. We simply lure them into the thorns. We don't kill, we do the killer's bidding. And so we are what make the rose dangerous. We hide the injury or death the thorns cause, and draw the prey into being pricked.
This garden represents all who we have deceived. And the smell," He again paused, but this time shoving the rose to my nostrils and dictating me to inhale the soothing fragrance. Once I had done so, Father dropped the flower onto the ground, and revealed his bloody, thornpricked finger.
"The smell merely hides the scent of their deaths."