By Cordatus Viperae (Chimerablue5)
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything of the Harry Potter world. I’m merely borrowing the wonderful characters that J.K. Rowling has created.
Rating: PG-13 or a light R (very light)
Warnings: Deals with implied suicidal thoughts and major angst.
A sigh escaped his pale lips as he allowed the warmth from the fire and the chill of the firewhisky in his hand to calm his body. It had been another trying day of teaching the idiots that graced his classroom.
Swirling the whisky, he took a sip, letting it wind a burning path down his throat and into his stomach. Having forgone his usual heavy robes, he was currently in his sitting room wearing casual pants, and button up shirt, black of course. He’d undone the cuff of the shirtsleeve on his left wrist, rolling the sleeve up until it threatened to numb his arm with the constriction of the tight cloth on his upper arm.
As his arm grew numb, he lifted it, exposing the black abomination that resided on his upper arm to the warm flames. Even the light from the fire that normally set anything in a good light, could alter the feeling of utter darkness and disgust that he held for the Dark Mark. Branded into his skin by his old master, he was still paying for the mistake of his youth.
With the final battle coming between Light and Dark, he wasn’t even sure where his loyalties resided. He continued spying on the Dark Lord, knowing that if he were caught he would be killed. Tortured first of course, but eventually killed. From the fuzziness that began to cloud his mind from the third glass of firewhisky, would it really be that bad if he did die?
Thinking about it, that option didn’t seem to bad, sitting in the plush black chair in front of the fire with a glass of liquid comfort. If the Light won, he would still be an out cast, though serving the light, he’d be too tainted with darkness to be welcomed back into the, he snorted at his vocabulary, fold. He wasn’t nice in any way, unless he wanted to be and those instances were few and far in-between.
If he continued to hide in the shadows, there’d always be that tiny niggling sense of guilt, of regret, in essence, his conscience. The reason why he was driven to Dumbledore those 20 some years ago. To constantly live in darkness without even a spark of light would eventually drive him mad, or to suicide at least.
Emitting another tired sigh and draining the glass, he set it down and leaned forward to stare into the fire pensively while resting his chin on his clasped hands. The knobs of his knuckles annoyed his chin, but it distracted him from the numbness on his arm, knowing that the reminder of his mistake was still visible, exposed to the calming fire.
As black obsidian eyes observed the flickering flames through half-lidded eyes, he thought about his current situation. Not completely white, nor completely black. Just a light enough gray to appease his conscience and just dark enough to satisfy the blackness that was born in him so long ago. He knew that this wouldn’t last, and he wondered whether he should stop it here and now, stop it so that he wouldn’t have to go through with the suffering that he knew was up ahead.
Turning his head to the dinner table where he had left his plate and cutlery, he looked at the gleaming edge of a knife that lay innocuously on the plate. Turning back to the fire, he thought of how easy it would be to just get up, walk over and lift it to his wrists and just bleed all over the floors of Hogwarts.
He thought of all the blood that would be let out onto the floor. All the pureblood. He sneered at the term. Though he still had darkness, he knew that purity of blood had nothing to do with what he did. The urges that he felt tug at him to do. In a sense, he thought acerbically, maybe that made him more of a monster than the others. Blinded by a prejudice of lineage, he himself rather reveled in what he did for purely the sight. For the action of doing it. To feel life itself writhe, wriggle, and finally slip through his slender fingers.
It’s why he rather favored potions. The control of the substances to make something. That something could destroy as easily as help. He could control what was the result after everything was said and done.
Sure, he liked to control. What Slytherin wasn’t like that? He knew what he wanted, and was intelligent enough to know how to get it in the subtlest and most cunning way to attain said goal. If he had the brains and ambition, what reason was there for him not to grab it?
Leaning back into his chair, he looked at the accursed mark again. It almost seemed as though it was laughing at him. To mock him and remind him of what he did. And remember he did. He knew now that there were limits. Now he knew that. He couldn’t have known then?
Tilting his head to rest on the back of the chair, he let himself drift; letting the two sides of him battle it out. Come morning, he’d know which side had gotten just that much stronger over the other side. Right now, he didn’t know where he was going, he just knew that he’d keep going, to know where he’d end up. He had to.
The constant struggle that was in him, the path of thorns he travels,
There’s no end in sight, and the pools of blood behind him,
Glitter darkly in the night.