Warnings: I don't write darkfic. I don't write self-mutilation. But times change; be warned.
Marked
The scars merely cover up the pain. Down below, where no one sees, it lurks, sinking, diving deep to where nothing else should touch. It lingers with every fresh touch, every cut, every crime.
Unaware the boy sleeps (trusting the company of a killer) on the collapsible bed across the small room. It smells of sex; we must not be the only two refugees trying to cover our tracks. But our plight proves to be much worse than that of two lovers flying from the detection of souls passing judgment without understanding. Death sears our past, our future, the dark magic that binds us together. Draco knows I swore to protect him, but there is no hint of an unbreakable vow. He would not believe me.
And so I stand, unable to ignore the small, innocent, naive sounds of sleep from a boy turned black before his time. One might think I would understand. We are on the run; our destination, unknown. Neither of my masters gave me an end, and I do not believe in fate, so again the lives of two (though I hardly count the same as him) resting in my murderous hands. I reek of death; every scar grins with its own story. I take a moment, and in the dusk, reach down, under my robes to my chest, feeling, touching the newly created scar that runs across my ribs. A beauty that one is. Newly created. Sharp. Dull. Shining. I remember its creation nights ago. After the crime. My body seeks vengeance on a corrupt mind. My hands sliced, slowly, surely, with perfect control leaving yet another mark, another number, another murder. The blood welled, so close to the heart, and pooled on the knife, on my fingertips, red and slithering. A red snake. The pain was dull, mute, more separate than usual. But the boy still noticed the sharp intake of breath, and was abhorred at the sight when he turned around and saw the knife. He didn't understand, didn't realize that this is what must be done. Some people can forget a murder. Maybe I could forget, but my body would remember. Each scar has its own story.
My fingers pick the scab and I feel blood. I will not allow this to heal, not yet. It needs time to curdle. My mind retraces its steps, to the incident itself, my hand on my wand, and the boy beside me, wide-eyed. The old man was begging "Severus, please" (he always abuses my name) and the walls were closing in around me. Any plan I'd had escaped me in that moment, and the darkness stretched out eternally before me. They have begged before, pleading to end their lives so they did not have to endure this torture. The Dark Lord behind me, watching every move, grinning when I finally give them the release of death. Sacrifices, he'd say. He doesn't need more sacrifices; every one of his followers has sacrificed their entire existence for him. There is no turning back; there is no release; there is only a hate so deep it cannot be abolished.
But it was different with the old man. I knew, somewhere I knew that it would end (or is this only the beginning?) like this, and the words were out of my mouth without anything more than a second thought. A green light. The smell of flesh. The sound of a body on stone. Each scar its own story. Hidden beneath the scab is the terrified look in his eyes (who knew he'd be afraid of death after seeing so much?), Draco's small whimper beside me, the rush of the wind as he fell. No murderer deserves to forget; no, I will carry these scars forever. For unseen they hurt no one, corrupt no one but those who have already been destroyed.
I may not remember each scar - each begging face, each mother, child, rebel, innocent - but the body remembers each flick of the wand, every word, and every scar embodies each movement. Covered with them I would hate myself; but does one so twisted as me even remember?
Among the scars that are not self inflicted (though murders of the soul do not come lightly) there is one that hides a death much darker than even that of a heroic old martyr. It burns. A snake, a skull, the blackness blotting out the silver of all other scars, consuming them. Its power does not come from its master, no. It marks those who would be able to bear it, who kill, who rape, who ally themselves with a force they will never understand. All the other scars... they all came from this single mark. For this mark covers death. Not only past deaths, but those to come. It is the first scar, but the only one that someday will rejoice in the death of a boy - marked with a scar of his own - who was too trusting and too innocent to realize that one day I would come for him too.