Father Lupin has stopped asking me to perform Morning Prayer. If any of the other Brothers notice, none have said a word. I simply cannot bring myself to speak these little week-day words of blessing and peace when my heart is in such turmoil.
Theo has not mentioned his sickness again, and I have the grace enough, at least in this, to not ask, but I can feel the weight of the knowledge of it pressing down on me like the walls of this very building are hovering just over my head, prone to drop and crush me at any given moment. I do not know how to handle this news, because I know, now, what sickness ails him. That many bottles, and the shame in his face when I saw him take those pills…I know exactly the poison that courses through his veins as his own cells turn against him.
Created in the likeness of God, but riddled with the failings of an all-too-mortal casing.
How unfair.
Blasphemous.
There is that word again, plaguing my thoughts, casting my soul in an even deeper shadow than before. I know exactly why our bodies betray us, and I know why we suffer. Yet, every time I lift my rosary to place it around my neck, the soft sound of the beads brushing against each other is far too similar to the fatal sound of pills rattling in a plastic bottle - and my concentration slips again.
I should be paying attention. The Bible and its teachings have never been more important to my salvation than they are right now, but again, my eyes drift. To the altar. To the candles. To their flames. To the stained glass windows. To the pews. To the back of Theodore's head. To Father Lupin's eyes. There is something there, some understanding that urges my chest to squeeze around my heart. I have not said a word of Theo's ailment to anyone, nor will I betray his confidence like that, but I want to. I want to confess the hidden knowledge. I want to tell Father Lupin about those bottles of pills. I want to tell him about the rose pressed in the midst of the Song of Solomon in the Bible that rests on my lap.
I want to run out of the Church and never return.
Hermione Granger.
The Brothers around me have begun to sing whichever hymn Father Lupin has chosen for this morning, but my own mouth does not move. My vocal chords are not up to celebrating the love of a God who has never seemed more distant, faceless, and cold.
From their voices, I can easily pick out Theo's. He has always had such a lovely baritone - just another thing that has consistently made me envious; my own tenor is not nearly as rich, nor as melodious. We have sung together many times, complementing each other in this as we do so many other aspects of this life, but today, his voice only reminds me of a song bird who knows the Spring must end soon, and so sings his last song with the kind of fervor that leaves all the listeners in awe, while keeping them none the wiser of his upcoming demise.
It is too much.
To add another sin to my long list of transgressions for the month, I abruptly slip through the other Brothers in my pew and make my way, without a single spoken word, towards the back of the sanctuary. I pause only long enough to look at Father Lupin apologetically before I am leaving the building completely, and as I flee, I am haunted by the image I saw just before the cathedral doors closed behind me:
Father Lupin looking on sadly, nodding his head once in understanding of my sudden flight, while closer to me - so much closer and yet infinitely farther away - Theodore turns, the darkness of his eyes brimming with emotion that I cannot fathom.
I often forget what it is like to be out in the world away from the perceived safety of the Church walls.
The patrons of the public transit do not look at me with nearly as much interest as I anticipated, but then again, St. Salazar's is such a large part of the city that they are probably accustomed to seeing Brothers and Sisters of Christ out and about. I forget that not every Brother stays within the walls as much as I do, though even I get out more than Theodore.
Theodore.
I swallow hard and divert my gaze to the window. The bright sun of the afternoon doesn't quite reach me where I stand in the aisle, clinging to a strap from the ceiling. Though there are plenty of seats, I would never presume to sit - just in case. Humility was not bred into me, nor was it beaten into me as the marks on Theodore's back speak of it being beaten into him, but it has been nurtured. Through the sinister words that sometimes slip past the barrier of my teeth, and through the pride and sarcasm that flow through my veins, I have become a man of the cloth.
I have.
It is that certainty that I seek today on this impromptu trip. The sanctuary slips farther and farther away as the bus speeds on. The college has slid past without my glancing at it - maybe miracles do exist. I am going farther away from the city, until the rolling hills of the western side of town come into view. The bus comes to a slow stop, and I move smoothly and quickly past the other patrons, stopping to lay a hand on a woman's shoulder who clutches at my robe, murmuring a soft supplication for her sick daughter for whom she beseeches me to pray.
I do not have the heart to tell her that the prayers of a damned priest must surely mean as little to God as the agonized cries of those whom he has doomed to burn eternally.
My fingers move in the sign of the cross over the woman before I make my way out of the bus and onto the street. The cobblestones beneath my feet feel as familiar as the collar around my neck, but in the same way as my shadow resembles me, but is absent of the details, the nuances that make me who I am. These streets were me, once, when I was a child, and I was as yet unaware of the plans God had for me. Now, as I walk down them, it is only nostalgia that flutters around my chest, nothing else.
In fact, it isn't until I look up at the Manor in which my family resides that I feel anything else, and even then, it is fleeting.
Jealousy?
Pride?
Resentment?
Sin, sin, sin.
My hands take up their normal residences in my sleeves as I move up the long, winding drive to the front door. I could have rang in at the gate for someone to pick me up, but I have always enjoyed the walk through the grounds. They are beautiful, for all their ostentatious splendor.
Mark 10:25 - It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.
Unbidden, the verse floats to my mind, and it is just humorous enough to make me chuckle. My family has given more wealth than most to the church, tithing more than their ten percent, not to mention dedicating their first-born son, but still, these expansive grounds, this gigantic house…we are urged to discard such worldly possessions as these, yet my father clutches to his wealth with the hands of a miser.
I stop and stare up at the façade of the Manor. I forget how huge it is, how much space it seems to take up when one stands so very close to it. From memory, I know that Theodore comes from a house larger than mine, but he does not seem to miss it as much as I miss mine sometimes - the sins of the father become the sins of the son, do they not? Then again, perhaps it is not the house that Theodore does not miss…but the people within it.
Sadness wraps around my torso, tightening until I find it hard to breathe. That such a good man must suffer so…
Christ suffered more.
The loud ringing of the doorbell chases away my thoughts as it chases after someone to answer the door, echoing off the marble floors and decorated walls. My eyes slide closed as I listen, because in my mind, I can still see myself as the spoiled, little blond boy I once was, a boy who both wanted to run rambunctiously to the door and yet look with disdain at whoever thought they deserved his company.
I expect a servant to answer, but it is the woman I have come here to see that greets me.
"Draco!" Her voice is breathless with surprise, and her eyes - a brilliant shade of blue - brighten noticeably. She sweeps her gaze up and down me one time before opening her arms and pulling me into a tight hug. Normally, I deign to maintain my decorum in these situations, but today I haven't the strength. Willingly, I go into her arms, my own slipping free of my sleeves to clasp around her slender frame.
"Mother," I breathe into her shoulder as her grip around me tightens.
We embrace for much longer than is strictly proper, but I haven't the slightest care for that, either. There are times in life when a son needs his mother's arms around him, no matter how old, no matter his path.
"Come in, Draco. Come in and talk to me."
The large door swings shut with a small puff of air behind us, and I am facing my childhood home. I have not returned here in years. Not because I can't, but simply because it is too hard. I struggle with the separation from the secular world more than my other Brothers. The comforts of my home are long from forgotten, and, if anything, plague me more than most other things I have sacrificed for the Church.
Well, until recently.
"Oh, look at you. You have grown so much since I last saw you!"
I smile at her, though I know by the look of concern that flashes across her features that the smile does not quite reach my eyes.
"What is wrong?"
I shake my head as a flash of movement catches my eye.
It is my father.
"Well, if it isn't my son." There is a smile on his face, and I know, now, how my mother knows happiness does not dwell in my heart. My father's eyes, the exact same shade of gray as my own, are cold and unforgiving as they view me, despite the façade of happiness that decorates his mouth. The hand that clasps my shoulder is warm, but the fingers do not squeeze hard enough to display fatherly affection. "What brings you here, so far from the Church?"
I look at my mother before I answer, "I only wished to stop by for a visit. Is it an inappropriate time?"
"Of course not!" My mother intervenes, all calm tone and smiling words, gesturing with her hands for me to follow her. "Milly was just about to place dinner, I do believe." My heart constricts. I have no desire to eat food prepared by servants in this lavish home. Not tonight. It would only kindle the trouble in my chest, not smother it.
"Yes, Draco. Come and eat. We will have to set another place as we have another guest."
An eyebrow lifts as I follow my insistent mother into the dining room. "Another…?" It takes all the years of composure I have learned at the church to not come to a stop as I see who sits at the table, sipping a glass of deep-red wine.
"Mr. Nott, a pleasure." I look up at my mother surreptitiously as I incline my head towards the dark-headed man, but she is smiling politely. I must have fooled even her with the pleasantness of my tone.
"Draco, what a surprise. I trust you are well?"
I nod as I take a seat beside my mother, wishing fervently I could have the wine placed before me. My body is a temple. If only others respected the bodies of priests as much as we must respect them ourselves.
"And my son? How is Theodore? From what I understand, the two of you share a room."
Malice. I feel malice in his tone, and I only wish I could shred him with my tongue as he has shredded the flesh of his son's back with a whip.
"Theodore is well, Mr. Nott. He has taken well to the life of a Brother of the Cloth. Much more than I, I am afraid." I smile - a light joke, though there are no jokes that do not hold some nugget of truth within them. I wonder, though, does Charles know the sickness that plagues his son? Would he even care? "Latin comes as naturally to him as English, and he often leads the hymns when we sing."
Charles' fingers tighten just slightly around his glass, and I wonder that no one else notices such things. "I always knew he had a good head on his shoulders."
"Yes, but his true strength is his humility, almost as if he was born to be selfless."
My mother places her glass back on the table slightly louder than is strictly necessary, and when I look up into Charles' eyes, there is a fury there. The irises blaze with anger that plays at being righteous. Impotent rage, Father Lupin calls it. The rage of a man who cannot change his fate, but rails with his fists at the sky, anyway.
"If you'll excuse me, I should wash my hands before I partake in this lovely dinner."
I scoot back from the table and exit the room as swiftly as I can. So much weighs heavily on my mind that it is a wonder I can remember my way to the bathroom at all. Muscle memory takes over as I wind through the halls and towards the guest wash room. There is a second set of feet on my heels, and I whirl around in the dimness of the corridor, expecting to find myself face to face with a seething Charles Nott. Instead, it is the pale face of my mother that greets me, and I feel myself slump against the wall in surrender to the turmoil of things inside me.
She is there, immediately, her arms stronger than they possibly can be as they wrap around my shoulders, and she sinks slowly with me to the floor.
"Oh, Draco, my baby, my son. What is wrong? What can I do?" Her fingers are sure as they stroke my face, pushing blond strands off my forehead.
"Mother," I choke out past the sobs that threaten.
I have never felt more like a coward than I do in this moment.
"Mother, I cannot do this."
"Do what, my love?"
I gesture towards my robes.
"This. I am a failure. A sinner. I do not deserve to don these robes, to clutch this rosary." I tug at it in near-disgust, wishing I could break it and fling it away from my skin, surprised that I do not catch fire every day when I place it around my neck. "I am a charlatan. I am no more a Brother of the Cloth than a harlot who walks the streets. I try. I pray, and I seek, and I attempt to help others on their path towards Heaven, but I have strayed so far from my own that I can no longer see it through the thicket of transgressions in which I have lost myself." Tears are flowing freely down my cheeks now, and I am ashamed.
But even Jesus wept.
"Draco, listen to me." Her fingers are soft as they wipe the tears from my cheeks, yet her grip is strong when she clasps my face between her palms and forces me to hold her gaze. "You are not a failure or a charlatan. You have been chosen to walk this path for a reason. The path of a righteous man of God is not an easy one. The world is full of doubt, sin, and trials. Everywhere you look you will find a reason to lose faith in yourself and in God, but you must not let that happen. You are strong, Draco. I raised you. I know you. The heart that beats in your chest was made from the one that beats in mine. You were fashioned by God in His image, but also to take after myself and your father." I close my eyes as her words wash over and through me. "Often times, it is only when we have truly become lost that God shows us how to find ourselves. You are going through troubles now, Draco, but you will not always feel this way. God will show you the way. God will bring you back to your path and with a new understanding and stronger faith."
I want to believe her. I want more than anything to believe her, but I can't. I just sit there instead, eyes closed, focusing on evening out my breathing and calming myself down. I am silent for I don't know how many moments, sitting in the hallway with my mother.
"There is a girl, isn't there?"
Her voice breaks the silence. My eyes flick open, wide and wary.
"There is." Then, out of all the things she could do, she smiles. "I am not surprised, Draco. You are a young man. It is only natural for you to want things." My cheeks flush crimson, and I look away from her, staring into the depths of the hall. "Have you acted on your desires?"
"What? No! Of course not!"
She smiles again, softer. "No?"
"W-Well, I didn't do anything…"
"Tell me what happened."
And I do. I tell her of the first time I saw Hermione. I tell her of the conversation that frustrated and angered me. I tell her of Hermione's wit, her intelligence that flashes in her dark brown eyes. I tell her of the way the freckles are spread evenly across her nose and the tops of both cheeks. I tell her of the rose and how I have kept it pressed like a sacrilegious talisman in the pages of my Bible. I tell her of the second time I saw Hermione. I tell her of breathless expectations. I tell her of how her scent floats to me on the air like I am meant to inhale her. I tell her of the way the college looms so oppressively on one side of the garden while the church stands like a monument to all my sinful thoughts on the other.
I tell her of the kiss.
I tell her of how I wanted it to continue, of how I wanted to press back against Hermione's lips with every fiber of my being.
I tell her of how I cannot possibly be saved.
I do not tell her of Theo.
When I am breathless from my telling, and we have both proceeded to sit cross-legged in the corridor next to each other, her hand on my knee, my hand atop hers, I finally stop speaking.
I have not said so much in one sitting since I joined the church.
Her fingers shift beneath mine until her palm presses against my own and her fingers lace through mine. She gives my hand a gentle squeeze.
"Draco, I need you to listen to me again." I nod. "You have done nothing wrong."
My tears have long since dried, and it is with a sardonic twist to my lips that I quip, "Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery: But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart."
"Sometimes, you remind me so much of your father." I stiffen noticeably, and her hand slips from beneath mine to rest atop it instead, tracing her thumb over the back of my palm. "I only mean that the two of you can be the most self-deprecating men I have ever known. The heart wants what it wants, Draco. You are not going to Hell simply because you fancy a woman."
"It is against everything I am supposed to feel, mother. I am wedded to the church."
"Of course, you are, but you did not kiss her, Draco. She kissed you. From where I am sitting, I would say you have the restraint of a saint."
She moves to stand, and I, reluctantly, join her.
"I am nowhere near a saint, but I do feel better having said these things aloud."
"I am no priest to take your confession, Draco, but sometimes, I believe you need someone less condemning to tell your secrets to - someone who will listen without any sort of judgement."
"Perhaps you are right."
"I am."
She smiles at me; I smile at her.
"Would it be terribly rude of me to sneak away without saying goodbye?"
She swats me gently on the shoulder. "It would. You do not have to stay for dinner, but you should, at least, tell your father goodbye." She pauses for a beat. "He misses you."
"He does not."
"He does." Her eyes sharpen slightly. "Whether or not his love is tough, it is still love. You are his first-born son, Draco, and though he knew he would have to dedicate you, it was no less heavy of a burden to give you away."
"Perhaps, then, he should have shown his love in a way that was not liberally flavored with disappointment." My arms return to my sleeves. It is a way to protect myself, to hide what I am thinking and feeling from those who should not see such emotions in me.
"Tell him goodbye for me, mother. I do not wish to impose upon his and Mr. Nott's dinner." Her eyes are sad as she looks up at me, her hand cupping my face.
"Alright, son. Have a safe trip back. Keep your heart light and your head held high."
"I cannot hold my head too high, mother. Priests are meant to bow."
She tsks softly. "Be that as it may, remember that God would not have put you on a path you were not strong enough to endure, and through the greatest trials often come the greatest triumphs."
"That is just it, mother," I say, my voice softening even further as I tug open the large door, "I am not seeking a triumph. I am only seeking to survive." She smiles a bit sadly. "Tell me," I pause with one foot out of the door, "what do you think God thought as He looked down to see Jesus on the cross, bathed in the sins of the world, just before He turned His back on His only begotten son?"
She shakes her head from one side to the other.
"Hard to imagine, isn't it? It's because, when you try, you see me being crucified, and you think, what would make me ever turn my back so completely on my own son? But that's the thing, mother. God's love is supposed to be unconditional. His love is supposed to be beyond our comprehension. Yet even you, a mortal, fallible woman, wouldn't string me up on a cross and turn your back on me, would you?"
"Draco, God's ways are not for us - "
"To understand. Yes, I know."
She takes a step out of the house, wraps her arms around her chest, and sighs softly as she says, "I know that this is all very frustrating for you, Draco. I knew this life would be hard for you as soon as I realized just how smart you were, but that is why you are perfect for it, don't you see? You question things where no one else would. You have a hard time simply swallowing your lessons because you are meant to learn them. That is a good thing in this day and age. And that girl? Hermione? She challenges you. That is why you covet her, Draco. She does to you what the church does not." My mind churns with these bits of wisdom. I sometimes forget how perceptive my mother is. "Instead of seeking for satisfaction elsewhere, seek to make your life as a Brother of the Cloth satisfying. Your heart aches, because your soul is thirsty."
I force a smile to my lips, and this time, my eyes do not remain quite as unmoved as they did the last. Maybe she is right. Maybe I am being too hard on myself.
But I only have to imagine that hair, those eyes, or those lips. I only have to see Hermione briefly in my mind's eye before I am torn asunder all over again. Is this how David felt as he gazed upon Bathsheba bathing on the roof? Is this what it feels like to covet something that is not yours?
Unlike David, though, I will not take Hermione for my own. I will not claim her and lay with her, whether she is another man's wife or not.
It is forbidden.
"Theodore says sins are sweet, like candy."
"They are, my love. The devil has had nothing but time to craft sins into the finest of things to look upon and desire."
I nod once.
"Goodbye, mother." Out of habit, I perform the sign of the cross over her head and chest, smiling benignly. "I will light a candle for you and father upon my return, as always."
It is by the grace of God alone that I am able to so easily turn and walk back down the sweeping drive towards the street below. I do not look back. I do not allow myself to gaze upon my mother's worried face, for I can feel her stare on my shoulder blades all the way to the cobblestones. She speaks of strength, and though I believe what she says, I cannot help but wonder how much was spoken because she thought I needed to hear it, and how much was spoken because she truly meant it.
And as I light the candles later that night, once I am certain the cathedral has been empty for hours, I cast the same reflections on myself: how much of this life do I follow because I feel I should, and how much do I follow because I truly believe?
The flames accompany me into my dreams, for as I lie down that night, visions of flesh burned in eternal fire are traded interchangeably with the sweetest images of adultery I have ever seen.
And when I wake, I do not know if my skin is damp from the heat of Hell's flames, or in memory of the heat of Hermione's skin pressed flush to my own.
A/N: I suck, again, for super late updates. Life gets crazy sometimes, you know? I still love this story, though, and I absolutely love every single review, follow, etc. that I get for it. You all are amazing, and I love you. Knowing people out there enjoy my writing and my story just brings me so much happiness, especially when life is a bit rough, so thank you.
The next chapter is coming MUCH sooner - a zinger from Theo's POV.
Keep all the wonderful reviews coming. You are all fantastic!
- Running
