A Letter from Severus.
Dear Draco,
I have learned, from Hermione, the story of your life over the past few months. It seems that I, perhaps, am the only one in a position to write to you, and I do so, believe me, with compassion. I, too, have suffered agonies similar to yours. The pain of knowing yourself a traitor, but, worse, a traitor to a cause that is itself a betrayal of everything decent and good. A traitor twice over. Not brave, or imaginative, enough to chose the right side in the first place, and then not strong enough to stick with the side you have chosen. That is how some people have seen me, and , I fear, still see me.
When I was a young man I, like you, was a Death Eater. Not a very good one when it came to actual torture and destruction, but a damn good one when it came to plotting and planning. My position in the heirachy was uncertain - Voldemort appreciates bloodlust amongst his followers, as I'm sure you're aware. Voldemort often referred to me as his Virgin Strategist, with just enough of a sneer to humiliate my cowardice, but not enough to prick my conscience. A two-fold virgin, precious and rare, so he said. I had no idea what he planned to do about my sexual virginity. I imagine that I never would have seen the error of my ways had it not been for Voldemort's desire to initiate me into the ways of blood.
You know that on winter solstice the Death Eaters always enact the ritual death of the Holly King by the Ivy King. Always at the same time, and in the same place, always the same ritual. It's only known to the Inner Circle, though. Even Death Eaters have some standards, and this ritual can take some stomaching. The ritual, I believe, is part of the basis of Voldemort's bargain with Death. As the Holly King, he can die symbolically, strangled by the leafy tendrils that transfigure the young man chosen as the Ivy King.. Well, not many people know of the corresponding ritual held on midsummer. Only Voldemort and the young men who play the Ivy King, assuming that any, aside from me, survived. But I learnt of it. Voldemort asked me to be the Ivy King. There is no way you can refuse an invitation. So I accepted. Midwinter went off well, so I thought. Voldemort took his customary trip to the realm of the dead, to check that all is well with the torment of the souls he has sent there, I expect, and came back. At midsummer he told me I would have to participate in the other half. My symbolic death.
I have never told this to anyone save Albus Dumbledore, and even he does not know the full truth, but I think you need to know everything, so that you can continue to rebuild. On midsummer's eve, we went to the circle. I was transfigured: I was lush with curling strands of ivy, soft, tender, delicate, and in my prime. Voldemort's eyes shone as he looked at me. Only the two of us were there, although I believe one other knew the place in case there was an emergency. There was no emergency. Just Voldemort and me, under the stars. I was terrified. I had no idea what was going to happen. He walked toward me, and I was rooted to the spot - literally, a side effect of the transfiguration.
There is no easy way I can tell what happened next. Voldemort devoured me. If midwinter was how he checked in with Death, midsummer was how he recharged on life. My life. He tore me apart, my transfigured leaves were ripped from my body, leaving me exposed and naked. He drank in the blood that flowed from my wounds. He raped me, making me bleed, more blood he eagerly swallowed. It continued all night, the torment, my pleading screams, his horrible, horrible laughter. In my dreams I can still see his hands yellowish on my skin, the shape of his fingers on my arms, his laughter low and delighted in my ears. The smell of blood and fear and pulsating life still fills my nostrils. Then he whispered in my ear: "My Vigin Strategist, you were the best I ever had, you have filled me with more power than anyone else has ever done. All the work I do this year will be thanks to you, and I will give you power in repayment for what I have taken." Then he was gone, and I lay on the ground, wanting to die, but powerless too. I knew that I, and I alone, would be responsible for his evil acts that year, and it was my duty to avert them any way I could. Only that would be repayment for what was taken from me. Ironic, that I must be both the victim of thievery, and the perpetrator who atones that thievery. Life abounds in ironies of this kind, as soon as you betray the Dark Mark that is itself a betrayal.
So, I was once as you are now, a broken, rootless creature, with no foundations and nothing to live for but, in my case, atonement. Dumbledore gave me what he could, but I have still set twisted, like a badly broken leg on an unfortunate beggar. For years, all I craved was Death. But now, I see that in living lies the answer.
You are more fortunate than I, Draco, and yet less fortunate. More fortunate because you have someone who will help you heal. Less fortunate, because you cannot hate the ones who brought you to betrayal, because they did it with love. Or, perhaps, this is also fortunate. When you can remember your breaking with compassion, when you can love your breakers as the souls they are, then you will truly be healed, and that is something I doubt I shall ever have.
So, do not turn away from Harry, Draco. He will stand beside you, the stick that you can grow straight against. He will take your rage, your pain, your anger and despair. Do not hold them inside where they will fester and rot. Do not end up a bitter potions brewer. This is my gift to you, a story of double betrayal that could have led to light and peace. That it did not is partly my own fault. I pushed away those who would have helped me. My wish, my hope, is that you, Draco, do not make the same mistake. Walk toward the light.
I hope we can meet again, when this is over, and we can talk of things that only a double traitor can talk of. I would dearly love to be free, Draco. I want you to be free too.
Yours, with love and hope,
Severus.
Draco Speaks.
I never wanted to feel anything again. I was safe, in my little cocoon of silence and denial. Now the emotions flood from me like water from dam that's given way. I fear I will crush everything in my path. But there is nothing in my path. I have no past, no future, no self. I have only what I can rebuild.
There are many things I need to say, to do, to scream out to the world, but I cannot. Harry is my only link with the world, and I do not want to corrode him with my venom. I know he watches me, encouraging me to speak. Everyday I, at least once, lose it, and let go. Bile spills from me. Every ugly emotion I have ever experienced rushes from my mouth. And he sits there and takes it. Then, when I am spent and weeping, he comforts me. I am so ashamed, to pour out my hurt, my pain, my betrayal, on someone else. So most of it gets bottled.
But today, I have broken the bottle. Quite literally. A bottle of soy sauce that flooded in inky swirls over the counter as I smashed the end, and dripped quietly onto the floor. I look at the Dark Mark on my arm. Severus Snape was right. I am a traitor twice. I have already been marked once, it seems only fitting that I be marked again.
I can almost feel the same as when I was initiated as a Death Eater. Voldemort puts two curses on you - the Imperious Curse and the Cruciatus Curse. This is a foretaste of what will happen if you ever betray your vows - humiliation, pain and death. I have betrayed my vows, and I can feel humiliation and pain without the assistance of any curse. Compared to this pain, the clean cut of glass and sting of blood should be a good feeling. An innocent feeling.
I raise the bottle, fascinated by the texture of the glass against my finger. In initiation, you use an iron brand, hard, heavy, and as black as the life. of a Death Eater Is this glass a symbol of the new me? Is there a new me? Could there be a new Draco Malfoy? Can I be as smooth and clear as this glass? I know, now, that I can be as easily shattered. I think of Hermione, and those weeks in the cell. She never once physically hurt me, and that stings me more than this glass will when it slices my skin. She loved me, and I gave into her love, the thing I had always wanted. Then she tore it away, ripped down every last brick that made me and left me a pile of rubble.
And Harry. I would be dead if it wasn't for Harry. His compassion and love are infinite, gods know why, and I have to force myself not to climb into his lap and never move. Force myself not to soak up that compassion and love. He deserves better than me. Better than a weak, double traitor, who has no sense of life or death. Only limbo.
The glass touches my skin, and a small trail of red rises. I decide on the classic cross, the one used on Death Eaters that betray the cause. I have seen it done. I position the bottle, and cut, slowly and precisely. Blood flows like a river from my arm, and I make the other cut. Deeply. I have been touched. I lean back on the counter, and watch the blood drain from my arm.
Then he is there. A shocked cry, strong hands forcing my arm up, soft fingers pressing down on the wound. I look at him, and am amazed by the emotion in his eyes. Why have I never seen it before? I have seen his eyes speak, but never, never, like this. Has the loss of blood cleared some of the film of death from my eyes?
I don't know how he got me to the couch, how he got the bleeding stopped, but, when he raises his wand to heal it without a scar, I stop him. So much has leaked from me with the blood that I am weak.
"No. I want a scar." he shakes his head, but my fingers are wrapped round his wrist. He looks at me.
"Why, Draco?"
"I am a traitor, and this is the mark of the traitor. I will never turn back, but I need this to stand as a memorial of what I was and what I have paid." He hesitates, and I continue to talk.
"Harry, I do not want to die. Not any more. More things bled out of me onto the kitchen floor than blood." I see he does not understand.
"Harry, I have almost nothing. When I rebuild myself, I want it to be with the knowledge that this scar is what I am. That this is something I do have. Something I can be certain of. I have severed my links with the past." Talking is painful, and I know I am not making much sense. Then Harry shocks me.
He lifts my arm to his mouth and kisses the wound. He kisses the Dark Mark. His eyes burn into mine as his lips move over my skin. I try to pull away, but he will not let me. He kisses... he kisses the very mark that has caused pain and anguish for his friends, his family, the mark that caused his parent's death. Still he watches me, and I see emotion blazing from his eyes. I cannot identify all of them. My breathing is shallow. When his lips lift from my skin, I feel lost, but he does not let go of me entirely.
"Draco, you are worthy of life, and love, and light. I cannot hate this Mark." I gasp at his words, they are so intense, a feral growl.
"This mark is beautiful, because you are beautiful." I try to turn away, but he captures my chin with his free hand and turns it back.
"You are rebuilding yourself. Well, right at the bottom, in the foundations, should be a huge fucking stone that says 'Draco Malfoy is worthy of love'. And right next to it should be one that says 'It does not matter that he was once a Death Eater, because that Draco Malfoy is gone'."
He kisses my mark again, and his lips are so warm. Like everything about him. He can heat even me, in the extremes of my despair. I start to cry, and his lips continue to press my flesh.
"Harry... Harry.. you have no idea what gifts you give me." I whisper. "In my foundations will be a stone, a huge stone, marked 'Harry Potter'."
Now his eyes fill with tears, and they splash onto my arm. They burn, but I struggle up to press my face against his, our tears sliding down our cheeks and onto my arm. They burn hotter, but it is the good flame of cleansing.
Exhausted, I sink back down onto the couch. Sleep has begun to claim me. I will never again hold back from Harry. I feel his arms around me as I drift away. I feel the pain recede as his warm body presses against mine. I sleep, the sleep of the peaceful.
---
Not too melodramatic, I hope. I have no idea what was going through Severus's head when he wrote this, and I have some doubts about his motives. He has changed, and I hope we'll find out why as the story progresses. More about that next chapter.
Many thanks to all those who reviewed, and I hope you keep reading. Especial thanks to:
Rhyssen for her constructive criticism: you're right, Harry's monologue is a bit long, but Draco just wouldn't talk back, damn him. SilverWolf - do you not think that Ron and Hermione are cool? They're straight. Quidditch - thanks for your words, it never occured to me that people might have friends and relations who were not so frank with them as mine are with me. Sorry if you feel icky. kewl_lovebug - you put me in your fav stories! I only hope the rest of the story measures up. And sorry about the f-words, but people look at you strange if you say 'make love' where I come from, and I don't think Harry and Draco did make love in the sense of it being a tender emotional experience for either of them. Keep reading, things will just get weirder.
Dear Draco,
I have learned, from Hermione, the story of your life over the past few months. It seems that I, perhaps, am the only one in a position to write to you, and I do so, believe me, with compassion. I, too, have suffered agonies similar to yours. The pain of knowing yourself a traitor, but, worse, a traitor to a cause that is itself a betrayal of everything decent and good. A traitor twice over. Not brave, or imaginative, enough to chose the right side in the first place, and then not strong enough to stick with the side you have chosen. That is how some people have seen me, and , I fear, still see me.
When I was a young man I, like you, was a Death Eater. Not a very good one when it came to actual torture and destruction, but a damn good one when it came to plotting and planning. My position in the heirachy was uncertain - Voldemort appreciates bloodlust amongst his followers, as I'm sure you're aware. Voldemort often referred to me as his Virgin Strategist, with just enough of a sneer to humiliate my cowardice, but not enough to prick my conscience. A two-fold virgin, precious and rare, so he said. I had no idea what he planned to do about my sexual virginity. I imagine that I never would have seen the error of my ways had it not been for Voldemort's desire to initiate me into the ways of blood.
You know that on winter solstice the Death Eaters always enact the ritual death of the Holly King by the Ivy King. Always at the same time, and in the same place, always the same ritual. It's only known to the Inner Circle, though. Even Death Eaters have some standards, and this ritual can take some stomaching. The ritual, I believe, is part of the basis of Voldemort's bargain with Death. As the Holly King, he can die symbolically, strangled by the leafy tendrils that transfigure the young man chosen as the Ivy King.. Well, not many people know of the corresponding ritual held on midsummer. Only Voldemort and the young men who play the Ivy King, assuming that any, aside from me, survived. But I learnt of it. Voldemort asked me to be the Ivy King. There is no way you can refuse an invitation. So I accepted. Midwinter went off well, so I thought. Voldemort took his customary trip to the realm of the dead, to check that all is well with the torment of the souls he has sent there, I expect, and came back. At midsummer he told me I would have to participate in the other half. My symbolic death.
I have never told this to anyone save Albus Dumbledore, and even he does not know the full truth, but I think you need to know everything, so that you can continue to rebuild. On midsummer's eve, we went to the circle. I was transfigured: I was lush with curling strands of ivy, soft, tender, delicate, and in my prime. Voldemort's eyes shone as he looked at me. Only the two of us were there, although I believe one other knew the place in case there was an emergency. There was no emergency. Just Voldemort and me, under the stars. I was terrified. I had no idea what was going to happen. He walked toward me, and I was rooted to the spot - literally, a side effect of the transfiguration.
There is no easy way I can tell what happened next. Voldemort devoured me. If midwinter was how he checked in with Death, midsummer was how he recharged on life. My life. He tore me apart, my transfigured leaves were ripped from my body, leaving me exposed and naked. He drank in the blood that flowed from my wounds. He raped me, making me bleed, more blood he eagerly swallowed. It continued all night, the torment, my pleading screams, his horrible, horrible laughter. In my dreams I can still see his hands yellowish on my skin, the shape of his fingers on my arms, his laughter low and delighted in my ears. The smell of blood and fear and pulsating life still fills my nostrils. Then he whispered in my ear: "My Vigin Strategist, you were the best I ever had, you have filled me with more power than anyone else has ever done. All the work I do this year will be thanks to you, and I will give you power in repayment for what I have taken." Then he was gone, and I lay on the ground, wanting to die, but powerless too. I knew that I, and I alone, would be responsible for his evil acts that year, and it was my duty to avert them any way I could. Only that would be repayment for what was taken from me. Ironic, that I must be both the victim of thievery, and the perpetrator who atones that thievery. Life abounds in ironies of this kind, as soon as you betray the Dark Mark that is itself a betrayal.
So, I was once as you are now, a broken, rootless creature, with no foundations and nothing to live for but, in my case, atonement. Dumbledore gave me what he could, but I have still set twisted, like a badly broken leg on an unfortunate beggar. For years, all I craved was Death. But now, I see that in living lies the answer.
You are more fortunate than I, Draco, and yet less fortunate. More fortunate because you have someone who will help you heal. Less fortunate, because you cannot hate the ones who brought you to betrayal, because they did it with love. Or, perhaps, this is also fortunate. When you can remember your breaking with compassion, when you can love your breakers as the souls they are, then you will truly be healed, and that is something I doubt I shall ever have.
So, do not turn away from Harry, Draco. He will stand beside you, the stick that you can grow straight against. He will take your rage, your pain, your anger and despair. Do not hold them inside where they will fester and rot. Do not end up a bitter potions brewer. This is my gift to you, a story of double betrayal that could have led to light and peace. That it did not is partly my own fault. I pushed away those who would have helped me. My wish, my hope, is that you, Draco, do not make the same mistake. Walk toward the light.
I hope we can meet again, when this is over, and we can talk of things that only a double traitor can talk of. I would dearly love to be free, Draco. I want you to be free too.
Yours, with love and hope,
Severus.
Draco Speaks.
I never wanted to feel anything again. I was safe, in my little cocoon of silence and denial. Now the emotions flood from me like water from dam that's given way. I fear I will crush everything in my path. But there is nothing in my path. I have no past, no future, no self. I have only what I can rebuild.
There are many things I need to say, to do, to scream out to the world, but I cannot. Harry is my only link with the world, and I do not want to corrode him with my venom. I know he watches me, encouraging me to speak. Everyday I, at least once, lose it, and let go. Bile spills from me. Every ugly emotion I have ever experienced rushes from my mouth. And he sits there and takes it. Then, when I am spent and weeping, he comforts me. I am so ashamed, to pour out my hurt, my pain, my betrayal, on someone else. So most of it gets bottled.
But today, I have broken the bottle. Quite literally. A bottle of soy sauce that flooded in inky swirls over the counter as I smashed the end, and dripped quietly onto the floor. I look at the Dark Mark on my arm. Severus Snape was right. I am a traitor twice. I have already been marked once, it seems only fitting that I be marked again.
I can almost feel the same as when I was initiated as a Death Eater. Voldemort puts two curses on you - the Imperious Curse and the Cruciatus Curse. This is a foretaste of what will happen if you ever betray your vows - humiliation, pain and death. I have betrayed my vows, and I can feel humiliation and pain without the assistance of any curse. Compared to this pain, the clean cut of glass and sting of blood should be a good feeling. An innocent feeling.
I raise the bottle, fascinated by the texture of the glass against my finger. In initiation, you use an iron brand, hard, heavy, and as black as the life. of a Death Eater Is this glass a symbol of the new me? Is there a new me? Could there be a new Draco Malfoy? Can I be as smooth and clear as this glass? I know, now, that I can be as easily shattered. I think of Hermione, and those weeks in the cell. She never once physically hurt me, and that stings me more than this glass will when it slices my skin. She loved me, and I gave into her love, the thing I had always wanted. Then she tore it away, ripped down every last brick that made me and left me a pile of rubble.
And Harry. I would be dead if it wasn't for Harry. His compassion and love are infinite, gods know why, and I have to force myself not to climb into his lap and never move. Force myself not to soak up that compassion and love. He deserves better than me. Better than a weak, double traitor, who has no sense of life or death. Only limbo.
The glass touches my skin, and a small trail of red rises. I decide on the classic cross, the one used on Death Eaters that betray the cause. I have seen it done. I position the bottle, and cut, slowly and precisely. Blood flows like a river from my arm, and I make the other cut. Deeply. I have been touched. I lean back on the counter, and watch the blood drain from my arm.
Then he is there. A shocked cry, strong hands forcing my arm up, soft fingers pressing down on the wound. I look at him, and am amazed by the emotion in his eyes. Why have I never seen it before? I have seen his eyes speak, but never, never, like this. Has the loss of blood cleared some of the film of death from my eyes?
I don't know how he got me to the couch, how he got the bleeding stopped, but, when he raises his wand to heal it without a scar, I stop him. So much has leaked from me with the blood that I am weak.
"No. I want a scar." he shakes his head, but my fingers are wrapped round his wrist. He looks at me.
"Why, Draco?"
"I am a traitor, and this is the mark of the traitor. I will never turn back, but I need this to stand as a memorial of what I was and what I have paid." He hesitates, and I continue to talk.
"Harry, I do not want to die. Not any more. More things bled out of me onto the kitchen floor than blood." I see he does not understand.
"Harry, I have almost nothing. When I rebuild myself, I want it to be with the knowledge that this scar is what I am. That this is something I do have. Something I can be certain of. I have severed my links with the past." Talking is painful, and I know I am not making much sense. Then Harry shocks me.
He lifts my arm to his mouth and kisses the wound. He kisses the Dark Mark. His eyes burn into mine as his lips move over my skin. I try to pull away, but he will not let me. He kisses... he kisses the very mark that has caused pain and anguish for his friends, his family, the mark that caused his parent's death. Still he watches me, and I see emotion blazing from his eyes. I cannot identify all of them. My breathing is shallow. When his lips lift from my skin, I feel lost, but he does not let go of me entirely.
"Draco, you are worthy of life, and love, and light. I cannot hate this Mark." I gasp at his words, they are so intense, a feral growl.
"This mark is beautiful, because you are beautiful." I try to turn away, but he captures my chin with his free hand and turns it back.
"You are rebuilding yourself. Well, right at the bottom, in the foundations, should be a huge fucking stone that says 'Draco Malfoy is worthy of love'. And right next to it should be one that says 'It does not matter that he was once a Death Eater, because that Draco Malfoy is gone'."
He kisses my mark again, and his lips are so warm. Like everything about him. He can heat even me, in the extremes of my despair. I start to cry, and his lips continue to press my flesh.
"Harry... Harry.. you have no idea what gifts you give me." I whisper. "In my foundations will be a stone, a huge stone, marked 'Harry Potter'."
Now his eyes fill with tears, and they splash onto my arm. They burn, but I struggle up to press my face against his, our tears sliding down our cheeks and onto my arm. They burn hotter, but it is the good flame of cleansing.
Exhausted, I sink back down onto the couch. Sleep has begun to claim me. I will never again hold back from Harry. I feel his arms around me as I drift away. I feel the pain recede as his warm body presses against mine. I sleep, the sleep of the peaceful.
---
Not too melodramatic, I hope. I have no idea what was going through Severus's head when he wrote this, and I have some doubts about his motives. He has changed, and I hope we'll find out why as the story progresses. More about that next chapter.
Many thanks to all those who reviewed, and I hope you keep reading. Especial thanks to:
Rhyssen for her constructive criticism: you're right, Harry's monologue is a bit long, but Draco just wouldn't talk back, damn him. SilverWolf - do you not think that Ron and Hermione are cool? They're straight. Quidditch - thanks for your words, it never occured to me that people might have friends and relations who were not so frank with them as mine are with me. Sorry if you feel icky. kewl_lovebug - you put me in your fav stories! I only hope the rest of the story measures up. And sorry about the f-words, but people look at you strange if you say 'make love' where I come from, and I don't think Harry and Draco did make love in the sense of it being a tender emotional experience for either of them. Keep reading, things will just get weirder.