Title: The Reward
Author/Artist: closetbound
Rating: R
Warning: cutting, character death
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Please don't sue me.
Summery: He could never forget.
It began as punishment.
Small cuts--a sharp quill, scratching just under his elbow four or five times until red dots stained the pale surface of his skin. Each death earned a new mark, a small amount of his own blood spilled in payment for lives sacrificed on the alter of his weakness. Not enough--it was never enough, but it was something.
Two nights after Cedric Diggory died--that was the first time, the night he discovered the small amount of relief he could gain by attempting some sort of atonement. The relief never lasted long, but then, he didn't deserve lasting relief. Every night, seeing the nearly faded marks from the night before, he drew blood again. There were three--one for his father who died protecting him, a longer one for his mother who died in his stead, and the longest for Cedric, who he'd done nothing to defend. It was important to remember. If he forgot--he couldn't forget.
The night Sirius died, he knew he needed something sharper, something that would cut deeper. This death was heavy on his shoulders, caused not by a lack of action but by his own stupidity and arrogance. This cut was larger, deeper, and would scar the first time. It was a reminder of more than his guilt. There was a price for his moment of relief, and the price was high. He fell asleep before the blood stopped oozing from the wound. When it scarred, it was wide and pink against his pale skin. He would not forget.
The night he killed Voldemort, he sat behind dark curtains staring down at the line of scars patterned along his forearm, hearing the sounds of joyful celebration drifting in through his dorm room window. He was a murderer many times over, but tonight his hands were stained with blood that was more than metaphorical. The blood of his enemy wasn't black. It didn't look evil--it looked just like his own, red and dark against his skin. Tonight, he had killed with intent, spilling another's blood purposefully. A scar would never be enough. The reminder for something like this--it should bleed forever.
Listening to the voices that celebrated his life, he drew the knife firmly across his wrist, then up his forearm, across the many scars, marking his final payment. He lay back, his blood staining the bedspread, and sighed with relief, accepting his reward.