Mark

The room is dark enough, he supposes, to hide the sin.

The candles are on the table in separate puddles of wax, guttering their last dying flickers, and the rest of the room is lit only by faint moonlight, brighter in the mind than reality. Nobody can really see by the moon. That's just a myth they make up to cover the fact that night is the darkest thing there is.

Black as night. Secret as night. Cold as night. All things dark lead back to night, and no moon or faint stars can hide that fact. They even describe the mark with night – it shows up in the black with a frightening clarity that they like. Intimidating, they said. Always move to intimidate. And blackest coals and darkest nights are so very intimidating.

They operate in the night, marking victims by sunset and attacking by shadows. They've been likened to vampires, and the thought makes him laugh.

Vampires? Hardly. Dracula, at least, had style. Death Eaters have the macabre and nothing more. With perhaps the sole exception of Aunt Bellatrix, whose sadistic streak rivals the Dark Lord's himself, not a one of them could kill with any finesse. Most of them didn't really want to, just considered it necessary purification for the betterment of the wizarding race. He wonders if that's the same thing Hitler told the Nazis.

The ends, he's learned, do not justify the means. No matter how purified the wizarding world becomes, it won't erase how many people are dying daily. A dead man is still a dead man, no matter how impure his blood.

The candles finally give out, and the darkness becomes complete. He casts a near-blind eye over the scar – a tattoo, a black-as-night mark of doom, a death sentence – and begins to laugh.

The ends do not justify the means. Dead is dead, no matter how beneficial that death was. That's what Potter knows about life, and that's what he should have been taught. There are depths to which the savior cannot sink before he becomes a murderer himself. The problem-solver can only go so far before becoming part of the problem.

He shouldn't have panicked. He shouldn't have run. He shouldn't have turned the wand on Avery.

He should have faced his fate like a brave man, not turn tail and run like a coward, but he never claimed to be brave. He should have stood up and faced the music for his actions, but he was never that strong. He could have turned to any fate – his master's, his father's, his government's – but in the end, the result was always the same.

Murderers are murderers, no matter who they kill. And justice is justice, no matter who is receiving it.

The night is dark enough to hide his sin, but not dark enough to erase it. And they say that hell burns fire and crimson, and he thinks that's fitting, but he wants to see for himself. Or maybe hell burns black as night and cold as sin and green as the mark in the sky.

He thinks that suits a little better.

It's a sardonic Rudolphus who opens the door to the pitch-colored house, and his wife follows unemotionally. By the time they reach the kitchen with the burned-out candles and faintest sliver of moonlight through the window, Draco is already standing, not frightened, not running and not laughing. He meets their eyes challengingly but goes down without a fight.

If he learned nothing of humanity from his family, at least he learned something of dignity.

His last request is simple, quietly spoken. Not tonight, he says. I have all of eternity to see my sins. Don't make them glare on me tonight.

They nod, and, as a matter of respect, don't shoot the mark into the sky.

Not tonight.
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(A/N: A poor beg at forgiveness for what I've added to the news section of my profile, yes. Not entirely happy with this, but I was bored. Very bored. So bored. And so addicted to caramel rice cakes. If you loathe it, blame Quaker Oats. And review, please.)