The Paradox of Sin

Chapter One

Pride

Inordinate self-love is the cause of every sin. The root of pride is found to consist in man not being, in some way, subject to God and His rule.

Flash.

Knife.

Pain.

Blood.

Anger.

Torment.

Hurt.

Tears.

Questions.

Grief.

Comfort.

Shadow.

NO!

As he lay there, his chest moving up and down with each breath, sweat rolling down his temple, Draco stared up at the water stain on his ceiling that he hadn't gotten around to fixing yet. It sat there, as if taunting him. If he squinted, it resembled the scar on his left side, which taunted him even more.

So much around the Manor needed fixing that such a tiny, seemingly insignificant water spot shouldn't have bothered him. But it did bother him, and nothing that had ever bothered him before had lived to tell its story.

Except for the boy sprawled out next to him.

The only sign that he was there the tuft of black hair sticking up from amid the pile of blankets piled on top of him. How he could use so many quilts in the middle of the summer as Draco lay here dying was beyond him, but he didn't question Harry Potter.

"Potter, wake up. The sun's out." Draco tried jabbing the boy with a finger, but not much penetrated the wall of thick wool blankets. All that happened was that Harry yawned. "Bloody hell, you can't just stay here all morning."

"Watch me." The boy really could be quite snide, despite the fact that he was now in, let alone sleeping in the bed of the owner of, the Malfoy Manor. Even though no one had lived within the Manor for years now, and dust covered everything imaginable, Draco still owned it, and damned if he didn't still have power here.

"I'm going to make a cup of coffee. Stay here if you really want." Harry didn't move. Even as Draco stretched out, rolled his head on his shoulders to get the crick out of his neck, and put his feet on the cold wooden floor, the brunette next to him didn't make a sound.

Trudging slowly, carefully, Draco made his way to the door. It was only when he had his hand on the handle and a foot in the hall that Harry spoke. "Three things. You have house elves to get you coffee, I broke your coffee pot last night fetching a midnight treat, and if you do get around to actually making some, bring some up for me."

"You're an arse." Draco didn't want to have a fight so early in the morning, particularly with a sleepy Harry, as that was the worst kind, so he dragged himself into hallway and slumped down against the door. He was tiered, and so desperately wanted to go back to sleep, but he couldn't if it meant staring up at that mark on the ceiling any more.

He felt the scar on his side through his shirt, tracing over its jagged edge with his index finger. It was still tender, and as he pulled his hand away and placed it on the floor, he sighed.

Things had been so strange since returning to this place that had once been his home. All of the shadows, cast by random objects and even more random lighting, were forbidding and he sometimes found himself calling out, at least in his head, for his mother. His father. His Harry.

He didn't really remember bringing Harry to the Manor. All that he could recall was the raven haired boy being there, following him through the dusty, dimmed hallways, always asking questions and never accepting any answers. It was as if he, too, were scared of the darkness of this old building. Afraid to be alone here. Harry Potter afraid.

And there were the light, padded footsteps of his companion's feet, as if sliding delicately on top the creaking wooden floors. Draco could just see the dust being kicked up from the floor, swirling about Harry's pale ankles until he left so that it could settle back into an uneasy slumber again. It had to be restless, as that room, the room that had once been Draco's own, was one of the few they went into.

Door open, and Draco's eyes met Harry's briefly before traveling back to the blotch of sunlight relaxing on the floor before him. It, too, held dust that lay silent, caught up in a golden glow but knowing that it might be stirred again by either of the two boys.

"What happened to coffee?" Harry's voice was creaky with sleep, or lack-there-of, and Draco couldn't help but to let a small, crooked smile twitch onto his face before it slipped off somewhere into the dust.

"What happened to lying there all day?" His eyes darted up again, pale silver flowing into the sharp green, like the shards of the bottles of vodka he had bought out on the streets. They sat there for a moment, neither moving and neither knowing why.

"You know, there's a watermark on the ceiling of your room. It looks funny, like I've seen it before." Draco lifted up his nightshirt enough for Harry to see the scar jetting up from the smooth skin of his side, and Harry slumped to the ground beside him. "Oh. Yea."

"I've seen it too. That's why... that's why I came out here." He hated admitting that he was afraid of anything, even something so insignificant as a simple knife scratch. He hated admitting anything to the boy sitting next to him, his legs stretching nearly across the expanse of the hall, but he did admit things to him, because he felt compelled to.

He didn't know why the boy insisted on following him, on sleeping next to him on a mattress that smelled of mothballs and mold, except that he too might be looking for himself in this old building. What, Draco didn't know. But he must be.

Draco himself was looking for his past. That was all he had known when he had given up trying to be someone other than who he was on the outside and come back to this place, much as he had come back every summer away from school. Only now his mother wasn't there to hold him close in a tight embrace, his father not there to shake his hand and welcome him home again. He had come back this time to echoes that didn't really exist except in his mind and filth on the once sparkling windows.

What he had done then was wander through the old halls, occasionally seeing figures that weren't there, figures that reminded him of everything that had died within him. Sometimes a house elf would tumble across his path, bowing violently and throwing out apologies over the state of the house. Making claims that he would clean it all again the next day. It never happened. Draco knew that they were all hiding somewhere in the shadows, knowing the Malfoy wrath that could come from disobedience. He didn't bother to find them.

Then Harry had come, and the wandering had ended. It had transformed into a simple existence then, something between boys who had once been enemies, who still were, but would now stand each other because they had to. No, not had to. Harry could leave again, or even Draco himself, and the other would have the house to himself to continue wandering and trying to find that thing that they wanted. But they were too stubborn to go, so they stayed.

"Where did that mark come from? You've never told me." Harry was looking everywhere except Draco, his eyes falling over all of the old family portraits clinging to the walls. They were all watching the boys, sort of a stare-down between those paintings of the past and the breathing, living black haired boy lounging in the hall. He didn't belong here, on any accounts to those portraits. Not a Malfoy. Didn't belong.

"I haven't told you a lot of things, Potter." His statement was far harsher than he would have liked, but displayed his message in exactly the same way. One of the portraits laughed cruelly, his face blurry behind all of the years of dirt it hid behind. Harry shook his head and pulled his legs up to his chest, hugging them there with his arms gently.

"Why not? It's not like I have anyone to tell all the little facts about you to. I'm sure that the public would love your life story." Harry could be cold, too.

Draco sat silent, tracing a finger along the deep red carpet slowly, watching the material bend as he pressed it. He had often done that as a child, fascinated with the way it would move to his touch. "I'm sure that they would."

Harry sighed. Not a deep one, a tiered one. More of a frustrated one, one that conveyed emotions far deeper than anything someone should be feeling at such an early hour. "Fine. Be locked up. I don't care."

"That makes two of us then, doesn't it?" Draco watched Harry stand, watched him push himself up shakily with his arms, and made no motion to get up himself. The painting that had been laughing had fallen silent again, slipping into a catatonic state for awhile more. "Why don't you make coffee, if you're so anxious to be up and about?"

"No, I think I'll just go and explore our house and-"Draco's eyes flickered violently as those words slipped, like silk, from Harry's mouth. His hand went to Harry's wrist, gripping it tightly, wrapping his pale, boney fingers around the slightly darker skin, and pulled his face down so it met his.

"My house." This house, this piece of filth that would have made his mother shed so many tears, was all that he had left of himself now. He would not share it with Harry. It was all his, his last link to his family's well-to-do past. His claim to power. He could show it off to Harry, never letting him touch it. His. "Not your. Mine."

He released Harry's arm, staring at the red marks his grip had left on that skin, but Harry didn't move away. The boy just stood there, staring back down at Draco, his face like a slate of granite. "Pride is such a haughty sin."

"Do you want sin, Potter? You fucking killed a girl, a girl that you loved no less, and you are telling me about sin?" Draco stood now, nearly shouting at the black-haired boy staring at him stupidly. "Are you listening? You killed her! I know you don't like to acknowledge it, but you did. Wrath, Potter, is an even worse sin than pride."

"You're... you're right." Another chuckle from one of the portraits, this time of a fairly young looking Lucius Malfoy, and Draco didn't want to hear more from Harry. But he would hear more. He always heard more. "I'm sorry. Your house."

"Or, was it really wrath? Or perhaps lust killed her. Did Brown not put out for you, Potter? Did you want more of her than she wanted of you?"

"Enough, Malfoy."

"What, don't want to admit that it was that? Too caught up in thinking that something just went wrong when you were raping her?"

Draco felt the fist that Harry sent to his face long before his brain registered it. But when it did, the pain sent him to his knees, clutching his bloodstained cheek. Harry just stood over him, towering over the figure whimpering at his feet, not seeming to notice the blood dripping from his knuckles. Not all of it was Draco's, either.

"I didn't rape her." Another blow to the head, this time the other cheek with Harry's other clenched hand, sent Draco reeling to the floor. And as Draco looked up at his assailant, he found it almost comical that Harry still had ruffled bed-hair. "I just killed her."

Harry walked away, a few droplets of blood dripping from his fists, leaving Draco on the floor. The droplets wouldn't be seen, of course, as they blended in with the deep red carpet, but Draco knew they were there.

They would never leave.

*

A/N Thanks to CCharlotte, The Monkey Queen, Rachel_918, Avada Kedavra, DarkSorceress226, E.C.S.15, Bellisario, Kamakazi Lentil, Shy Unicorn, Dracosbabe2 and whoever else reviews after I submit this chapter.

Next sin is Envy, and while this seemed more like Wrath than Pride, just expect a whole lot more of those angry emotions later...