Bede described life as a brief respite in the golden hall, as though we were a bird that flew in from the darkness and to darkness will return.

I fly, terrified and trapped, my wings beating as I look for the exit. They say that god lies out in the unknown darkness, in the night, in the shadows where even a child knows not to go. We are afraid of the dark for good reason.

He held me in the darkness and it was glorious. I knew god, and he destroyed me with his love, and I wanted for nothing. Don't ever be noticed by the gods. A truism. They use their chosen hard and then discard them like broken toys.

What becomes of the wind up bird when the child has broken the mechanism and it flops on the wooden floor, eternally going on a circle? I am broken. I am forgotten.

The sun comes up. Life goes on.

A blaze of light. A blaise of light. I burn.

I want to be in the dark.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Let me bleed for you."

Draco buried his face in his hands at the scathing fury in Blaise's voice. He supposed it had been inevitable. Sooner or later one of them would have walked in and seen. They knew, of course. But knowing and seeing were different. Tom had left when the unlocked door betrayed them and left Draco wondering if this was some new torment devised for him. If so, it was a brilliant one.

"It's who I am," he said, knowing that wasn't quite true but unsure how to explain or if he even wanted to.

"It's only who he's made you," Blaise said. He grabbed at Draco's hands and pulled them toward himself. The unhealed cuts stung at the pressure and Draco felt his blood stir at even that echo of the earlier pain. "You can go; we'll all leave with you. Me. Harry. Hermione. We'll find a tiny town and disappear."

"I can't," Draco said. Blaise just held on more tightly and Draco couldn't control a slight gasp as the flare that sent through his nerves.

"You can," Blaise said softly. He saw the dilated pupils and the way Draco's throat bobbed as he swallowed. He tightened his grip even more until ragged nails dug into the edge of one cut and wrenched another sound out of Draco. "If you need me to be cruel, I can."

Draco knew Blaise could. No one had ever accused him of being kind or nice or even halfway mannered. He just also knew it wouldn't be enough. He'd learned suffering at the hands of a master. He couldn't imagine anyone else being able to pluck at his strings the way Tom did, and by now he needed his fix. "I can't," he said even as Blaise dug his fingers harder into the cuts and his own response betrayed him even more.

"I think you can," Blaise said. He leaned closer so his breath was hot on Draco's neck when he whispered, "Try me."

Draco looked desperately toward the door. He wasn't sure if he wanted Tom to come and tell Blaise to let him go, to defend the toy that belonged to him, or if he were afraid of that rescue but when Blaise twisted his fingers against the cuts Tom had made thought and will left him and he closed his eyes and nodded. Do it, the nod said.

He hadn't known Blaise carried a small knife. It was little more than the sort of tool you might use to open a letter than a weapon, but he'd honed it until it was sharp enough he could have shaved with it. The pain from the shallow cuts washed over him and when he opened his eyes again the room swam behind the tears he was already shedding. The only thing wrong was that Blaise looked at him without the mocking amusement Tom always wore. This wasn't a punishment, or a game, or a reward.

It was love.

. . . . . . . . . .

The end.

Finis.

The beginning.

Incipit.

The lights come up on the stage. It is a small cottage, the kind you find in the English countryside, furnished with attention to detail and obvious wealth. Most of the room is a living space, though there is a small kitchen partially visible upstage left. Ivy has partially grown over one window but nevertheless the room is still filled with sunlight. A butcher's knife is stuck into a block in the kitchen. We hear a woman yelling at someone offstage, but her words are indistinct and she sounds more amused than angry.

Two actors enter stage right. One is dark. One is fair. They are in love.

This is a comedy.

This is a tragedy.

You shouldn't believe a thing you read.

The End