Babylon

Babylon

The boy is white-faced, having been copiously sick, and exhausted. He is not really cut out for this; he has Narcissa's nerves and his father's inconvenient conscience and Snape does not think his heart was really in any of it. He is the closest to an innocent of any of them: his choices were made for him long before he was born, and have continued to be made to this day. Lucius, Narcissa, Dumbledore, Snape himself, Voldemort; all of them have pushed him and pulled him and done their best to tear him apart.

Watching him sleep, Snape is aware that nothing will ever be the same again, for either of them, and he wonders if the boy realizes it. He has proven unexpectedly clever, if not unexpectedly mature; and he is friendless and a failure and bears the Mark on his arm. Righteous men will try to kill him, and decent people will deny him shelter. Righteous men--Snape stands, wavering a little on his feet. Righteous men die. The movement pulls at the wound in his side where the damned hippogriff slashed him. But who is there to heal it for him? Draco? Draco has been taught nothing so useful or so simple as healing.

He makes his way into the kitchen and leans heavily against the counter, listening to the water run into the sink. He is very tired, and he has a great deal to do. There is no blood on his hands except his own, and when it is gone there will be no visible sign of the day's work. Voldemort will be pleased with him, and not too displeased with the boy asleep on Snape's hearthrug.

It is not enough. It will never be enough. He lets his cloak fall to the floor and fumbles with the clasp of his robes. The Mark still glows sullenly on his arm, proof, had he needed it, that he is what they have always said he was. He strips off his ruined trousers and splashes water on his face, on his hands. There are potions designed to remove blood from cloth and paper and wood, but he does not know if they would work on skin.

The wound is long, but not overly deep. He bathes it carefully, wondering just how clean the beast's claws could have been. He is wondering how to bandage it when there is a sound from the parlor. Draco, waking. He has a moment to consider letting the bloody water out of the basin, wrapping himself in his ruined shirt. He does neither. It is his house. Why should he conceal from the boy the result of his folly?

Draco comes in, and Snape does not turn to face him. He knows what he will see; Draco, pale and sulky, angry with Snape and Voldemort and himself most of all. He presses gauze over the cut, and reaches for the bandage. Dumbledore had died so that this graceless child should live; Dumbledore had thought the sacrifice worth making. If Snape did not agree--well, that was his own burden to bear.