Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor any of JK Rowling's creations.
A/N: Here is the next part. Any comments about who else should be involved in this piece would be welcome. Be warned that this piece will end or at least peter off...I am working on something much larger and less depressing right now as well. I just write this late at night when I should be doing chem homework. Because this isn't quite as depressing as chem homework.
Title: Absolution of a Murderer
There is a white line running from the edge of his left hip down to his knee. It is perfectly straight, a white stripe that looks almost as if it had been drawn upon his body. It is not ugly. Just out of place on the long, thin, white limb. An odd mark on an otherwise unscarred area.
He does not acknowledge that it exists. He never touches it, never looks at it, never mentions it. I probably would not either. It is just one of many such lines, all over his thin, weak, pale body.
He always changes fast. Steps out of his clothes and into his pajamas, or the other way around. He keeps his head down. He won't look at me when he changes. I can see that he blushes red, even as he strips down and moves as quickly as he can. He rarely showers—he prefers just to use a damp rag and keep on at least some clothing.
He is afraid of me. He trembles at my voice and cries out if I startle him. He flushes when he knows I am looking at the white line on his leg. Or the one on his chest, or the rather ugly, thick, crooked red mark on his back. The one that has not faded in the least.
Not that he cares about the lines, the scars. I understand that.
At first I thought his embarrassment when he changed and I kept guard came from having the scars marring his young body. But obviously the presence of them does not bother him—there is a new one, on his cheek, that does not make him blush red and turn away.
It is because I made the scars that I stare at. The long white line, the short white line, the ragged red smear. Because he knows that I know that those are my marks on his body, however unwilling. I was the one to put them there.
He knows I had to. He knows that if the Dark—if Tom—had any inkling that I was a spy, I would be tortured and killed. Voldemort thinks that Harry does not know who I am, when I torture him. I am allowed to wear my mask to preserve my anonymity, and Harry never once acts as if he knows me.
If he did, I would probably be killed. He refused to let that happen. He practically demands that I participate in his inevitable tortures. And then never once lets on that he knows who his tormentor is. He told me if I did not willingly do it, he would attack me specifically and give me no choice.
Despite his words then, he fears me now. He fears what I did to him, what I will probably do to him again. I know that the curses I used were not nice. They were some of the worst I know.
I let my anger at the stupid brat's shouted insults get the better of me. I hated him in those moments, as he glared at me while lying on his stomach in the circle of death eaters. Smeared in his own blood, clothes tattered and almost nonexistent.
I hate him still. I cannot give up that hate. Because if I do, I am afraid I will find that I love him. Or worse, respect him.
***************
He is in the shower now, for only the second time this week. He does not like to go in there, because I am required to stay just by the door of the stall, eyes on him for the first warnings of a kidnapping.
Voldemort is able to take Harry at any time, if there is no one there to prevent it. He just has to reach out through their shared connection and give a hard tug. But if someone performs a strong, but unfortunately only temporary, anchoring spell, Harry can be kept in place. It takes Voldemort a day, approximately, to again have the strength to try for Harry.
I stay leaning against the shower stall's door, wand in hand and ready to use at the slightest hint of danger. Harry stays turned away from me, thin scarred back mocking me. He is looking ill, worse than ever now.
His failure at Occlumency, though I will never admit it, was never really his fault. How can you learn to block something that is already inside you? It is like Voldemort has a key to Harry's mind, one that the boy cannot block against. He can keep anyone else out now, even Dumbledore. But when he sets up his shields against Voldemort, the Dark Lord just slips around them, unlocks them with his key.
And so Harry looks ill because he is ill. He sleeps little or none at all, is plagued by Voldemort-induced dreams, and throws up his food at regular intervals.
And when he showers, I worry. Because it is not a sign that he is physically dirty. The way that he scrubs, fingers digging at his skin and at the scars, tells me that he is trying to scrub away something else. Something that only he can see.
I imagine that Potter is slightly insane. How could he not be? He has been subjected to tortures far worse than anything I have ever seen, and he goes through classes with an aura of death about him. He knows he is going to die, and very much looks the part.
He is scrubbing hard at the red weal on his back, the one I put on his body. His fingers keep raking it, dragging deep red tracks across it, as if he could peel it away. I don't like to watch, I don't want to watch, but I cannot look away. He would not be frantically scratching at it if I had not put it there in the first place.
I think he may be crying now. He does that, towards the ends of these showers. He breaks down, every single time. This is something he does not want anyone to see—and to him, I am about nothing. I am unimportant. I do not count.
(Or perhaps it is because I count. Because I know the truth, he can trust me with his deep secrets. His weaknesses.)
His shoulders shake. He has his arms resting against the corner of the shower, his back under the spray. In a few moments, he will stop and straighten up. He will turn off the water and take his towel and dry off and dress, all without ever glancing my way.
He should not have this burden, I tell myself. An idiotic brat with a death wish is all that it has created. Prophecies are just that—stupid vague claims at what the future will be. They have led this stupid, arrogant brat to this point, where he somehow thinks that he will be the deciding factor in this war. Just what does he think he can accomplish that the rest of us cannot?
"I can't do anything," he says. I start, realizing I had spoken my last thought out loud. "I'm a stupid, stupid boy who thinks if he tries really hard, he might just be of help."
He's watching me as he speaks, eyes actually on me. He's wrapped the towel around his waist and is fumbling for his boxers. "You're going to end up getting yourself killed, with nothing to show for it," I say coldly. Someone has to tell the boy. Someone has to make sure he understands.
(Perhaps he already knows. Perhaps I am the one that needs told.)
But Harry just breathes out slowly and pulls the towel away from his body, leaving himself standing there in just a pair of faded, too-stretched boxers. "I know that, Professor," he says wearily.
I am slightly surprised, even if I don't show it. I expect the boy to insist he'll be fine, that he'll make it through this. Perhaps he is a little smarter than I give him credit for. "Voldemort is much stronger and much more experienced in battling than you are," I tell him. He nods.
"But I can't run away. There is nowhere to run. He dogs my every step. I did not ask him to take me and torture my body, tear it to pieces and send it back. Over and over, until only my soul is left alive?"
His voice chills me. Is his soul alive, I wonder? It sounds as dead as his body looks. "Albus will defeat Voldemort," I say. "It should not be your concern."
(But it is his. Only his...)
Harry watches me, sad eyes on me for long silent moments. Then he turns to his clothes and starts to dress. "I've never mentioned the scars," he says, pulling on his pants. "I never say a word about them."
Here it comes, I think. He's going to blame me for them, tell me that if I didn't think he was important, I would have not cursed him like I did.
Because that is what it symbolizes. I am too important, but as well he is too important to risk death. Torture prolongs the possibility of death, and has kept us both alive. I, as the giver, and he as the receiver.
"I've never known how to mention it," Harry goes on. "But I have to...just in case...but I wanted to tell you it is forgiven."
"What??" I say. He has thrown me on my back, so to speak. I have no idea if he's still sane or not.
"All is forgiven in the end, Professor," he tells me. "Please, believe me."
He has hit upon my fear.
(All is forgiven. Even by those wide blue eyes...those sweet eyes...they forgave in the end...how could he know? How could he know!)
I don't want to admit it, but he has found what I fear most and said it out loud. I know I can never pay for all that I have done in my life, all the hurt and pain and death that I have caused, but I have worked hard to eat away at that debt, clawing a small hole out of the side of a cliff.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I tell him sharply. He pauses, halfway through pulling his shirt on, and stares at me again. Slowly, he pulls it on the rest of the way, covering the scars. Except the ones on his neck and cheek, which stand out badly against his flesh.
"I think I might, Professor," he says patiently. "I have been close to death many times...I have begged for it, wished for it, pleaded...but in the end I come back, and a few months later it all repeats..." He trails off, and starts rubbing the nasty scar on his cheek with one hand, while the other fiddles with the edge of his sleeve. "It is a close thing, there on the edge, sir. You forgive everything when you die."
"You have not died," I say. "Unless I am speaking with a ghost."
"Perhaps you are," he says softly. He is pushing his feet into his shoes now, unwilling to sit down to put them on properly. "I think I died long ago. When I realized that I wasn't going to have a future here."
"You should be talking with Albus," I tell him. The boy is clearly suicidal. "Or Professor Lupin."
"They do not understand...and I could not worry them like that," Harry tells me. "But you have been there. And you have...and I have forgiven..."
"Do you think I care for your forgiveness?" I ask him sharply. He smiles, an odd, eerie, understand expression that I have seen only on Albus's face before now.
"I think you do, Professor," he tells me. "I think you pray for it every night. In the end, it's forgiven."
(...pray that I find peace...that I am forgiven my crimes...)
"Classes are beginning soon," I tell him. He is beginning to worry me a rather lot. His words are making no sense. "You need to go to breakfast."
"Nah," he says, amazingly willing to change conversations. "I'll eat something at lunch."
I don't argue. He wouldn't have kept it down anyway.
*************************
I do not see him again until Potions. He is taking NEWT level sixth year potions, though he and I both know it really is a waste of his time. Of my time, as well. There are much more important things for us to be doing, for all of the Order to be doing, but we are forced to keep up our façade.
Just in case spies are watching. Other than myself, of course.
He sits at his desk, to the left of his two best friends. Even I have to admit that Mr. Weasley has matured. He does not lose his temper anymore. Actually, he does not do much of anything anymore except comfort Ms. Granger, who is surely his girlfriend, and look after Potter. Potter, who smiles and laughs and looks so alive...a complete change from his mornings, evenings, and nights.
Draco Malfoy is still at Hogwarts. Somehow, I had assumed that he would leave when his father was imprisoned and then join the Death Eater ranks. But he has not. He is here, still tormenting Potter, still acting like a spoilt prince.
Even as I watch, he says something to Potter, who, by Draco's expression, should be looking angry about now. But instead he laughs and says something that makes Draco flush. I wonder what it was. I could use it on Lucius next time I see him, if it is any good.
Everyone is working on their potions, some more diligently than others. I do not comment on Weasley and Granger's potions anymore—they are either done perfectly, or not at all. When they are not done, I know that they were up all the night before with Potter, keeping him from dying in his sleep.
Albus has told me very pointedly that if I mention it once, or take a single point at all, he will not hesitate to take away my position and confine me to the dungeons.
Because he loves the brat.
(No. Because he loves the boy, the selfless, strong, tired, beaten boy, the boy that has given everything to him for the Cause...)
Today is a better day. The three chat and work on their potions separately, stirring and mixing and sniffing and comparing notes amongst themselves. No one else from Gryffindor speaks with them. They are their own world, their own house, their own group.
I think about what Harry said, while I swoop about the class, preying on innocent students. I will never admit it, never to him, but I do pray for forgiveness, that I might die knowing that I am forgiven my terrible sins.
All is forgiven in the end. He, he who should never have to, has forgiven the pains I have given him, the blood that I have brought from his body.
All is forgiven.
Perhaps I can find absolution. Perhaps even I can die forgiven.
******************
A/N: Well, Snape is kinda melancholy in this. I at first planned to do Draco Malfoy next, but then I was working my longer HP piece and I started thinking about Snape in this piece. Especially since he's such a bast—er—jerk in the other. Read it. You'll see why. But anyway, the point is that Draco will make an appearance later, when he really does have something to say that's worth putting down. It'll come to me, don't worry. Any comments would be great, and I live off of reviews right now. So please, review this, and if you have time try reading some of my other HP stuff. I think it's better than its summaries make it out to be. –Miss Laine
Next: Section 4: Son – no I won't give you any hints!
A/N: Here is the next part. Any comments about who else should be involved in this piece would be welcome. Be warned that this piece will end or at least peter off...I am working on something much larger and less depressing right now as well. I just write this late at night when I should be doing chem homework. Because this isn't quite as depressing as chem homework.
Title: Absolution of a Murderer
There is a white line running from the edge of his left hip down to his knee. It is perfectly straight, a white stripe that looks almost as if it had been drawn upon his body. It is not ugly. Just out of place on the long, thin, white limb. An odd mark on an otherwise unscarred area.
He does not acknowledge that it exists. He never touches it, never looks at it, never mentions it. I probably would not either. It is just one of many such lines, all over his thin, weak, pale body.
He always changes fast. Steps out of his clothes and into his pajamas, or the other way around. He keeps his head down. He won't look at me when he changes. I can see that he blushes red, even as he strips down and moves as quickly as he can. He rarely showers—he prefers just to use a damp rag and keep on at least some clothing.
He is afraid of me. He trembles at my voice and cries out if I startle him. He flushes when he knows I am looking at the white line on his leg. Or the one on his chest, or the rather ugly, thick, crooked red mark on his back. The one that has not faded in the least.
Not that he cares about the lines, the scars. I understand that.
At first I thought his embarrassment when he changed and I kept guard came from having the scars marring his young body. But obviously the presence of them does not bother him—there is a new one, on his cheek, that does not make him blush red and turn away.
It is because I made the scars that I stare at. The long white line, the short white line, the ragged red smear. Because he knows that I know that those are my marks on his body, however unwilling. I was the one to put them there.
He knows I had to. He knows that if the Dark—if Tom—had any inkling that I was a spy, I would be tortured and killed. Voldemort thinks that Harry does not know who I am, when I torture him. I am allowed to wear my mask to preserve my anonymity, and Harry never once acts as if he knows me.
If he did, I would probably be killed. He refused to let that happen. He practically demands that I participate in his inevitable tortures. And then never once lets on that he knows who his tormentor is. He told me if I did not willingly do it, he would attack me specifically and give me no choice.
Despite his words then, he fears me now. He fears what I did to him, what I will probably do to him again. I know that the curses I used were not nice. They were some of the worst I know.
I let my anger at the stupid brat's shouted insults get the better of me. I hated him in those moments, as he glared at me while lying on his stomach in the circle of death eaters. Smeared in his own blood, clothes tattered and almost nonexistent.
I hate him still. I cannot give up that hate. Because if I do, I am afraid I will find that I love him. Or worse, respect him.
***************
He is in the shower now, for only the second time this week. He does not like to go in there, because I am required to stay just by the door of the stall, eyes on him for the first warnings of a kidnapping.
Voldemort is able to take Harry at any time, if there is no one there to prevent it. He just has to reach out through their shared connection and give a hard tug. But if someone performs a strong, but unfortunately only temporary, anchoring spell, Harry can be kept in place. It takes Voldemort a day, approximately, to again have the strength to try for Harry.
I stay leaning against the shower stall's door, wand in hand and ready to use at the slightest hint of danger. Harry stays turned away from me, thin scarred back mocking me. He is looking ill, worse than ever now.
His failure at Occlumency, though I will never admit it, was never really his fault. How can you learn to block something that is already inside you? It is like Voldemort has a key to Harry's mind, one that the boy cannot block against. He can keep anyone else out now, even Dumbledore. But when he sets up his shields against Voldemort, the Dark Lord just slips around them, unlocks them with his key.
And so Harry looks ill because he is ill. He sleeps little or none at all, is plagued by Voldemort-induced dreams, and throws up his food at regular intervals.
And when he showers, I worry. Because it is not a sign that he is physically dirty. The way that he scrubs, fingers digging at his skin and at the scars, tells me that he is trying to scrub away something else. Something that only he can see.
I imagine that Potter is slightly insane. How could he not be? He has been subjected to tortures far worse than anything I have ever seen, and he goes through classes with an aura of death about him. He knows he is going to die, and very much looks the part.
He is scrubbing hard at the red weal on his back, the one I put on his body. His fingers keep raking it, dragging deep red tracks across it, as if he could peel it away. I don't like to watch, I don't want to watch, but I cannot look away. He would not be frantically scratching at it if I had not put it there in the first place.
I think he may be crying now. He does that, towards the ends of these showers. He breaks down, every single time. This is something he does not want anyone to see—and to him, I am about nothing. I am unimportant. I do not count.
(Or perhaps it is because I count. Because I know the truth, he can trust me with his deep secrets. His weaknesses.)
His shoulders shake. He has his arms resting against the corner of the shower, his back under the spray. In a few moments, he will stop and straighten up. He will turn off the water and take his towel and dry off and dress, all without ever glancing my way.
He should not have this burden, I tell myself. An idiotic brat with a death wish is all that it has created. Prophecies are just that—stupid vague claims at what the future will be. They have led this stupid, arrogant brat to this point, where he somehow thinks that he will be the deciding factor in this war. Just what does he think he can accomplish that the rest of us cannot?
"I can't do anything," he says. I start, realizing I had spoken my last thought out loud. "I'm a stupid, stupid boy who thinks if he tries really hard, he might just be of help."
He's watching me as he speaks, eyes actually on me. He's wrapped the towel around his waist and is fumbling for his boxers. "You're going to end up getting yourself killed, with nothing to show for it," I say coldly. Someone has to tell the boy. Someone has to make sure he understands.
(Perhaps he already knows. Perhaps I am the one that needs told.)
But Harry just breathes out slowly and pulls the towel away from his body, leaving himself standing there in just a pair of faded, too-stretched boxers. "I know that, Professor," he says wearily.
I am slightly surprised, even if I don't show it. I expect the boy to insist he'll be fine, that he'll make it through this. Perhaps he is a little smarter than I give him credit for. "Voldemort is much stronger and much more experienced in battling than you are," I tell him. He nods.
"But I can't run away. There is nowhere to run. He dogs my every step. I did not ask him to take me and torture my body, tear it to pieces and send it back. Over and over, until only my soul is left alive?"
His voice chills me. Is his soul alive, I wonder? It sounds as dead as his body looks. "Albus will defeat Voldemort," I say. "It should not be your concern."
(But it is his. Only his...)
Harry watches me, sad eyes on me for long silent moments. Then he turns to his clothes and starts to dress. "I've never mentioned the scars," he says, pulling on his pants. "I never say a word about them."
Here it comes, I think. He's going to blame me for them, tell me that if I didn't think he was important, I would have not cursed him like I did.
Because that is what it symbolizes. I am too important, but as well he is too important to risk death. Torture prolongs the possibility of death, and has kept us both alive. I, as the giver, and he as the receiver.
"I've never known how to mention it," Harry goes on. "But I have to...just in case...but I wanted to tell you it is forgiven."
"What??" I say. He has thrown me on my back, so to speak. I have no idea if he's still sane or not.
"All is forgiven in the end, Professor," he tells me. "Please, believe me."
He has hit upon my fear.
(All is forgiven. Even by those wide blue eyes...those sweet eyes...they forgave in the end...how could he know? How could he know!)
I don't want to admit it, but he has found what I fear most and said it out loud. I know I can never pay for all that I have done in my life, all the hurt and pain and death that I have caused, but I have worked hard to eat away at that debt, clawing a small hole out of the side of a cliff.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I tell him sharply. He pauses, halfway through pulling his shirt on, and stares at me again. Slowly, he pulls it on the rest of the way, covering the scars. Except the ones on his neck and cheek, which stand out badly against his flesh.
"I think I might, Professor," he says patiently. "I have been close to death many times...I have begged for it, wished for it, pleaded...but in the end I come back, and a few months later it all repeats..." He trails off, and starts rubbing the nasty scar on his cheek with one hand, while the other fiddles with the edge of his sleeve. "It is a close thing, there on the edge, sir. You forgive everything when you die."
"You have not died," I say. "Unless I am speaking with a ghost."
"Perhaps you are," he says softly. He is pushing his feet into his shoes now, unwilling to sit down to put them on properly. "I think I died long ago. When I realized that I wasn't going to have a future here."
"You should be talking with Albus," I tell him. The boy is clearly suicidal. "Or Professor Lupin."
"They do not understand...and I could not worry them like that," Harry tells me. "But you have been there. And you have...and I have forgiven..."
"Do you think I care for your forgiveness?" I ask him sharply. He smiles, an odd, eerie, understand expression that I have seen only on Albus's face before now.
"I think you do, Professor," he tells me. "I think you pray for it every night. In the end, it's forgiven."
(...pray that I find peace...that I am forgiven my crimes...)
"Classes are beginning soon," I tell him. He is beginning to worry me a rather lot. His words are making no sense. "You need to go to breakfast."
"Nah," he says, amazingly willing to change conversations. "I'll eat something at lunch."
I don't argue. He wouldn't have kept it down anyway.
*************************
I do not see him again until Potions. He is taking NEWT level sixth year potions, though he and I both know it really is a waste of his time. Of my time, as well. There are much more important things for us to be doing, for all of the Order to be doing, but we are forced to keep up our façade.
Just in case spies are watching. Other than myself, of course.
He sits at his desk, to the left of his two best friends. Even I have to admit that Mr. Weasley has matured. He does not lose his temper anymore. Actually, he does not do much of anything anymore except comfort Ms. Granger, who is surely his girlfriend, and look after Potter. Potter, who smiles and laughs and looks so alive...a complete change from his mornings, evenings, and nights.
Draco Malfoy is still at Hogwarts. Somehow, I had assumed that he would leave when his father was imprisoned and then join the Death Eater ranks. But he has not. He is here, still tormenting Potter, still acting like a spoilt prince.
Even as I watch, he says something to Potter, who, by Draco's expression, should be looking angry about now. But instead he laughs and says something that makes Draco flush. I wonder what it was. I could use it on Lucius next time I see him, if it is any good.
Everyone is working on their potions, some more diligently than others. I do not comment on Weasley and Granger's potions anymore—they are either done perfectly, or not at all. When they are not done, I know that they were up all the night before with Potter, keeping him from dying in his sleep.
Albus has told me very pointedly that if I mention it once, or take a single point at all, he will not hesitate to take away my position and confine me to the dungeons.
Because he loves the brat.
(No. Because he loves the boy, the selfless, strong, tired, beaten boy, the boy that has given everything to him for the Cause...)
Today is a better day. The three chat and work on their potions separately, stirring and mixing and sniffing and comparing notes amongst themselves. No one else from Gryffindor speaks with them. They are their own world, their own house, their own group.
I think about what Harry said, while I swoop about the class, preying on innocent students. I will never admit it, never to him, but I do pray for forgiveness, that I might die knowing that I am forgiven my terrible sins.
All is forgiven in the end. He, he who should never have to, has forgiven the pains I have given him, the blood that I have brought from his body.
All is forgiven.
Perhaps I can find absolution. Perhaps even I can die forgiven.
******************
A/N: Well, Snape is kinda melancholy in this. I at first planned to do Draco Malfoy next, but then I was working my longer HP piece and I started thinking about Snape in this piece. Especially since he's such a bast—er—jerk in the other. Read it. You'll see why. But anyway, the point is that Draco will make an appearance later, when he really does have something to say that's worth putting down. It'll come to me, don't worry. Any comments would be great, and I live off of reviews right now. So please, review this, and if you have time try reading some of my other HP stuff. I think it's better than its summaries make it out to be. –Miss Laine
Next: Section 4: Son – no I won't give you any hints!