WHOM JESUS CAME TO SAVE - DRACO'S STORY - CHAPTER 5
I hate being me. I look in the mirror and I see a face I detest, I speak and hear a voice I detest, I touch and feel a skin I loathe. I am the man I least wanted to be. I am my father. I have spent a wasted life, fighting against my inclinations and my desires. I would blame it on ill fortune, if I did not know that Lady Luck was not fickle, I was. I realize my perfidy most when someone mentions him in front of me. Every time I hear his name, followed by the common suffix of savior, something tears within me.
I remember with an untoward vividness the first time I met him. Slight, short, with a smile that made even my heart melt enough to address him and eyes that were pools of wonder. He was so shy, so insecure, but even in that scared boy I could see the seeds of the man he was to become. Even the Eaters of the Dead, the Dark Lords own lackeys had a soft spot for him. It was impossible to resist him.
I watched him grow from a distance into a self-confident, handsome man with a quality far less tangible than good looks. I saw his love for the muggle girl and his affection for his dearest friend - the traitor. I cannot think of him in any other way. I was there the day my father and his comrades bullied that miserable defector into confessing. He broke like a reed. What use are apologies after stabbing a friend in the back? At least he understood that. He killed himself.
After his friends disloyalty I saw him emerge a stronger person. The boy had in truth become a man. But in him were the qualities that had made the boy so attractive. That disarming air of honesty and kindness, that his mentor had inculcated in him. Even to me, his bitterest enemy, he was patient, forbearing. Once he said to me, on a rare occasion when we had a conversation without scrapping, "We will always be enemies, not because we hate each other, but because we have different goals. In the achievement of those goals, we will clash, but know, that under different circumstances, in different lives we could be friends."
With those words ringing in my ears I went today, gathering my courage in my hands to meet my former teacher, his patron to address him. I found the old man much changed. I saw, for the first time, his hands shake as he bade me to sit. In his eyes, I noted, tears which seemed to be forever unshed. He spoke to me about the one person we had in common and my heart seemed to melt within me.
Afraid to show weakness, as I have always been, I hastened away. I stood at the door to collect myself. I have never allowed myself to show emotion. I would not start now. I strode down the familiar corridors expecting his shadow to swiftly pass me by. Not the shadow of the man I admired, but the shadow of the boy I loved.
Another shadow glides out instead. A live shadow. My old teacher, his antagonist. We shake hands warmly, seeing in the others eyes, the reflection of our own thoughts. No words are necessary. We look for a couple of seconds more and then turn away as if afraid to see any more.
I leave even earlier than I thought I would. There is nothing here for me, but memories. Salt-sweet memories which wash over me in waves of agony. I toy with the idea of visiting the love of his life, the muggle girl. I dismiss the thought almost immediately. She has never liked me, distrusted me instinctively and at a time like this she would prefer not to see one who fought on the other side.
The other side. Why did I fight for the Dark Lord? I ask myself this question more and more often as time goes by. Why did I not respond to the plea that the light side made to me? I answer automatically, conditioning. My father cajoled me, scolded me, beat me, bribed me to join. From childhood I had been trained for the dark side. When the offer was made to me I was too young to break away. When I was ready, it was too late. The war had begun.
I did as I had been trained to do. I thought I was a rebel, I was wrong. I was just conforming to the norms set by my father, his father before him, and his father before that. No man is a rebel unless he can break away. I just broke down.
Now I am sorry for all that I have done, sorry that I have sinned. Is it too late for me? I wish he was here now, so that I could fall to my knees and beg him to show me the light. But, as always, it is too late for me. I want to tell him that he has succeeded, that now we can be friends, but I will never say those words to him now.
In our conversation, our erstwhile headmaster gave me one ray of hope. He told me that there was no certainty, that no one knew for sure whether the boy who lived had surely died. He said that no one that powerful could die so easily. Maybe he was trying to console himself as much as he was trying to placate me. I don't know and it does not matter. With hope he gave me one more thing, he gave me a purpose for living. I know what I will do for the rest of my life. I have a mission. If he is alive, I will find him and restore him to the world. At last I have a task to accomplish on hand, and for him I would do so much more. Tonight I leave, and until he is found I shall not return. I shall search all land and sea and air. He must be alive, he has to be alive. I need him if I am to live again with myself, if I am to be at peace. I must save him, because only he can save me.
I hate being me. I look in the mirror and I see a face I detest, I speak and hear a voice I detest, I touch and feel a skin I loathe. I am the man I least wanted to be. I am my father. I have spent a wasted life, fighting against my inclinations and my desires. I would blame it on ill fortune, if I did not know that Lady Luck was not fickle, I was. I realize my perfidy most when someone mentions him in front of me. Every time I hear his name, followed by the common suffix of savior, something tears within me.
I remember with an untoward vividness the first time I met him. Slight, short, with a smile that made even my heart melt enough to address him and eyes that were pools of wonder. He was so shy, so insecure, but even in that scared boy I could see the seeds of the man he was to become. Even the Eaters of the Dead, the Dark Lords own lackeys had a soft spot for him. It was impossible to resist him.
I watched him grow from a distance into a self-confident, handsome man with a quality far less tangible than good looks. I saw his love for the muggle girl and his affection for his dearest friend - the traitor. I cannot think of him in any other way. I was there the day my father and his comrades bullied that miserable defector into confessing. He broke like a reed. What use are apologies after stabbing a friend in the back? At least he understood that. He killed himself.
After his friends disloyalty I saw him emerge a stronger person. The boy had in truth become a man. But in him were the qualities that had made the boy so attractive. That disarming air of honesty and kindness, that his mentor had inculcated in him. Even to me, his bitterest enemy, he was patient, forbearing. Once he said to me, on a rare occasion when we had a conversation without scrapping, "We will always be enemies, not because we hate each other, but because we have different goals. In the achievement of those goals, we will clash, but know, that under different circumstances, in different lives we could be friends."
With those words ringing in my ears I went today, gathering my courage in my hands to meet my former teacher, his patron to address him. I found the old man much changed. I saw, for the first time, his hands shake as he bade me to sit. In his eyes, I noted, tears which seemed to be forever unshed. He spoke to me about the one person we had in common and my heart seemed to melt within me.
Afraid to show weakness, as I have always been, I hastened away. I stood at the door to collect myself. I have never allowed myself to show emotion. I would not start now. I strode down the familiar corridors expecting his shadow to swiftly pass me by. Not the shadow of the man I admired, but the shadow of the boy I loved.
Another shadow glides out instead. A live shadow. My old teacher, his antagonist. We shake hands warmly, seeing in the others eyes, the reflection of our own thoughts. No words are necessary. We look for a couple of seconds more and then turn away as if afraid to see any more.
I leave even earlier than I thought I would. There is nothing here for me, but memories. Salt-sweet memories which wash over me in waves of agony. I toy with the idea of visiting the love of his life, the muggle girl. I dismiss the thought almost immediately. She has never liked me, distrusted me instinctively and at a time like this she would prefer not to see one who fought on the other side.
The other side. Why did I fight for the Dark Lord? I ask myself this question more and more often as time goes by. Why did I not respond to the plea that the light side made to me? I answer automatically, conditioning. My father cajoled me, scolded me, beat me, bribed me to join. From childhood I had been trained for the dark side. When the offer was made to me I was too young to break away. When I was ready, it was too late. The war had begun.
I did as I had been trained to do. I thought I was a rebel, I was wrong. I was just conforming to the norms set by my father, his father before him, and his father before that. No man is a rebel unless he can break away. I just broke down.
Now I am sorry for all that I have done, sorry that I have sinned. Is it too late for me? I wish he was here now, so that I could fall to my knees and beg him to show me the light. But, as always, it is too late for me. I want to tell him that he has succeeded, that now we can be friends, but I will never say those words to him now.
In our conversation, our erstwhile headmaster gave me one ray of hope. He told me that there was no certainty, that no one knew for sure whether the boy who lived had surely died. He said that no one that powerful could die so easily. Maybe he was trying to console himself as much as he was trying to placate me. I don't know and it does not matter. With hope he gave me one more thing, he gave me a purpose for living. I know what I will do for the rest of my life. I have a mission. If he is alive, I will find him and restore him to the world. At last I have a task to accomplish on hand, and for him I would do so much more. Tonight I leave, and until he is found I shall not return. I shall search all land and sea and air. He must be alive, he has to be alive. I need him if I am to live again with myself, if I am to be at peace. I must save him, because only he can save me.
