I sit here, in the gloom of the night. Upstairs, there sleeps two boys. One so pale, the other dark. Our children. How I love them. Everett? Foolish name. It bares nothing to what my son truly is. My dragon. And he has not changed, nor will he ever. I gave him that name because of everything he has been through, because of the hell he would have to go through. The dragon that protects the jeweled treasure in its nest is a symbol of fairytales, but this one bares a small semblance of truth. Draco protects the family name and honour.
Harry, now named Thomas. Thomas wasn't your father's real name, though. He was always just Tom. He could never really be anything but Tom, though he tried so very hard to destroy that part of himself. You know what he gave up to be the Dark Lord? His own soul. He had it ripped from him, not from the Dark, but from society. People tore him apart so that when his own destiny found him, there was nothing left to negotiate. There was just the simple matter of being.
He became what the world had made of him. A personification of everything that was painful and hurtful and intolerable in the world. By assuming this role, he took on the idea that he could fix it all. Like Christ in the stories, he carried the sins of others on his back and he bore that cross magnificently, wielding it to thrash apart the wrongdoers. The wolves in sheep's clothing soon betrayed themselves. Dumbledore for one. The Aurors for another.
We are all murderers. Every single one of us. Do we care? Only the good ones do. Do we acknowledge what we are? No. We live in an endless stream of denial. It is only the ones that know what they will become that they can avoid that life. You are one of them, Lily. You knew and you avoided, though I would like to think that I helped with that.
Do I remember those letters? All too well. I walked around the city of Paris and wrote them. Bits and pieces of random thought tangents that I could combine back at the hotel and send them off to you. Fanciful letters. Letters that spoke of my own wretched damnation from me to you. Ah, Lily, my soul is within those pieces of parchments and you have read it so many times, is it any wonder that you can recognize me in the pieces that have always belonged to you? I fear I am incomplete even now, as I sit here, watching over you.
You sleep, oblivious as to my mental state, my own inner anguish. I have told you that by morning, I will take my leave. That you will wake up to find me gone, back into the morning light, back into my world of death and decay.
A shine distracts my attention from your face unto my arm. The glint of silver flashes across my eyes and I touch the steel appendage. It is not steel, however, but something even more ancient. Something that was not man-made. Through the powers of the Dark, I have crafted a limb, a life, and a mindset. I have drowned, my sweet Lily, and you would follow me into the murky depths of this tumultuous ocean if only to try and pull me back out.
You say you have not the strength to fight against me or even to live in this world I have created. How so then, do you have strength to keep me from going under? Love is not a many splendoured thing. It is a harrowing, malicious devil that never stops killing. A spirit, a life, a dream. Love destroys and, unlike the Phoenix, it does not rise up again. Rather, it leaves with us something new. Cynical wisdom for most. Someone else for another.
It all varies in every little way. Some are more fortunate, others must die. What are we, Lily? Nothing. Because we have not been separated yet. We are still together, you and I, as one. We are His Heirs. His son and his daughter and we know of our routes. But you refuse to take yours. So what does that make me? A true follower or a sinner? An incomplete sinner, no less. One who has lost his role in this time. One who has fallen far and landed hard.
Or have I yet to land? When I do, will you be there to mend my crippled wings and broken bones? Will you be there to kiss my forehead and tell me that everything will be alright as you clutch me to your slender body and I feel you tremble and shiver as you realize that there are some wounds that cannot be healed.
I am a living wound. One that has come so very far on lies and inner torments. One who has waited for you for so long. I feel dead now, or empty. My journey is soon to be at an end and I wonder just where I shall be heading then. I have fulfilled my obligations. The world fears me. The world works to keep itself from my clutches. In doing so, they have healed most of their wrongdoings.
Is that enough for me? No. There is no Lily to go against me, to keep humanity at its sinful best. Do you defend the wicked along with the good? Yes. In order to save the few that are pure and innocent, you would save them all, whereas I would sacrifice them upon spits of fire.
We are so very opposite, my Lily. Both of us have so much to live for. I reach out and brush my hand against your forehead, moving some of the strands of hair away. You shift and breathe my name, making it sound as though the wind had whispered it upon your voice. I long to kiss you then, suddenly having no idea of what it would feel like.
You danced for me in Notre Dame and I almost killed you there. I still remember holding your white throat in my increasingly paler hand. I remember squeezing with mixed feelings, knowing that once you died, I could run again. I could escape, make my way through life, just keep running. It would all be blamed upon an accident, nothing more. And gods, but the temptation of freedom was almost overwhelming. The world had thought me dead. What was there to stop me?
Your eyes. I could not explain it then and I still cannot now. Your eyes saw my pain then, my confusion and rather than fight against me, you chose to let me take the path I thought was the easiest way out, the only path before me. You would let me kill you if it meant my happiness. You would not struggle, you would simply breathe your last.
Was this weakness on your part? No. It is a weakness on my own. To be so taken in by those eyes, to fall in love with them, to lock gazes with them, that was pure folly. It was then that I fell in love with you and I could not extricate myself out of this dark pit in which I have fallen. Paris, the land of romance and the country of revolution. I met my end that night and it was the very night I was allowed to live again.
Will you dance for me, Lily? Will you dance atop Notre Dame, amidst the gargoyles and the bells? Will your hair flow like a curtain over your features, your dress swaying about your feet and body, your soul uplifted, your goodness shining forth? Will you dance out of a desire to please or a desire to just do? Will you then bring me with on your way and allow me to experience that which is yours?
Upon this starry night sky, I make a promise. A promise that no matter what may happen, I will see you dance once more. For the last time, or for the first time. I want to remember times long ago, a time when there was only the Death Eater and the Auror and not the Dark Lord and the tired woman. I want to share a lifetime with you because I have missed out on so much already.
Will you allow me that? I think that you would. You would because that is exactly what you want for yourself.
Dance with me, Lily. Whatever I am to you, an Azkaban inmate, a rival of your ex-husband's, a dangerous ally, a Death Eater, a suicidal man, your own hostage, your lover, a friend, a confidante, a man who needs you desperately, will you dance with me? Upon the roof of Notre Dame? Where the angels can look down and become jealous of these two creations they have made and the devil is blocked from viewing what is going on.
Your father would look down upon us. I know he will. And he will be happy. And that is enough for me, Lily. You are enough for me.
Good night, sweet Lily. Rest easy. This fallen angel shall continue to look after you.
When Lily woke up the next morning, her eyes fluttered open. She lay upon her side and there was only emptiness in the bed next to her. Her fingers reached out to brush against the sheets. They were cold. He must have been gone for a long time. Sadness flowed through her, she had no time nor emotional energy to feel angry.
Despite all her words, all her assurances, she had not been able to get through to him. Not even their one final act of consummation was enough to keep him grounded.
Not even his son. And that thought stung her more than the others. Lucius. He was well and truly gone and her life was at an end. She had done what she could for him and in the end...
Quiet breathing. A clink of metal. Her eyes widened as she turned onto her left side and caught sight of him. Sleeping against the hearth of the room, facing her. One leg was up, the metal arm resting against it. His head was tilted down, chin resting against his chest, and he was softly snoring.
She felt pinpricks of tears well up in her eyes and they were cascading down her cheeks before she could stop them. He was still here! And she needed to go to him now, needed to make sure he was really there and this wasn't just a sick delusion her mind was playing on her.
Disentangling the sheets from her naked body, she silently rose from the bed and approached him. Apparently, she wasn't as silent as she should have been, for when she was standing right above him, a tentative hand going out to touch that silken hair, his real hand shot out and touched her wrist.
She gave a delightful gasp at how very real he felt. More real even than when he was inside of her just last night. His head moved up and his eyes locked with her own. She smiled down at him, her eyes soft and sad and filled with infinite devotion and tenderness.
"Those same eyes," he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him.
And then, there were no more words. Only limbs entangled with limbs, the muffled sound of sobbing against a bare chest, and all the sounds that go with that of long-lost lovers who have just now come back together.
