Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday

He wakes up in his own bed, in his nightclothes, and it is morning, and he has scratches down the side of his face, the length of his neck, and the taste of vomit in his mouth. And the last thing he can remember is the hallway outside his classroom, and he doesn't know what day it is where he's been. Or he finds himself stumbling to his feet in clearing, the ringing of his Apparition still in his ears and the Mark burning on his arm, and no memory putting on his mask, his robe, Apparating. No memory of what came before.

He can't keep track of what he's told or whom he's telling; he recites the agenda of Order meetings to Albus and lists of Death Eater initiates to Voldemort. He grades papers he can't remember assigning; orders the House Elves to bring him breakfast even though he's just eaten in the Great Hall. The edges of his vision are filled with half-familiar faces and angry voices and all of them want something from him.

There was a time when he knew every student in the school by name, the lineage and abilities and hopes and fears of each of his Slytherin students and now he can barely remember his own name. Such spells they cast on him--so many Charms and Potions, and the darker, grimmer magic of Legilimency. He cannot call his mind is own these days.

He finds himself dreaming of places he can't remember having been. A thousand burning cities: Rome, Amsterdam, New York, Tokyo, Tehran; each is worse than the last and all are horrific. He dreamed of Potions ingredients, once--of parsley and sage, rosemary and thyme. Now he wakes to find himself speaking the words of curses he doesn't remember knowing existed.

He's dissected animals before, transfigured them, tested Potions on them, tortured them, killed them, eaten them. Some of them were Magical Creatures, and some were house pets, and he thinks now that he knows what they felt. Bewilderment, mostly, when the wand begins its descent. He will die, as they do, for nothing and for everyone.

His masters are growing tired of him. The old man and dead man, each of whom have taken firm hold of his arms. Drawing and quartering might be less painful. And yet he loves them both; he lives to serve them both. He lives because he serves them both. He is doing penance for a sin he can no longer remember committing. Voldemore and Dumbledort, such lies they tell him, such lies he tells in their names. And what has any of it accomplished? Who has he saved? He cannot tell the difference any longer between the faces of the living and the dead.

When they are done with him what will be left of his mind? Nameless, faceless men, masked men, haunt his dreams; he hears Memory Charms in any silence and his clothes smell of veritaserum. He cannot trust anyone and so he trusts everyone, and they betray him. He is the only Death Eater who cannot keep a tally of his kills and he needs a book to make Potions he once knew by heart. He was first among them once and soon he will be dust.