Twelve Steps

Twelve Steps

Prologue

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

- the Serenity Prayer, Reinhold Niebuhr

On the morning of the last battle, Draco awoke in someone else's bed.

Disoriented, his eyes still screwed tightly shut against the light filtering in through the windows, he rolled over only to bump into someone else's face. Still unwilling to open his eyes, he fumbled with slack fingers until he felt the outline of Severus Snape's hooked nose. He squinted out of sleep-encrusted eyelids to find the Potions Master studying his forearm with uncanny deliberation.

Draco rubbed at the spot, just below his wrist, where the Dark Mark glittered and ached at the same time. It was a constant reminder of the mortal wound he had struck against himself through his foolish familial pride. "Morning," he mumbled into his pillow, disinclined to face the day.

"A pleasant morning to you as well, Draco," said Snape, crawling out from beneath the ebony sheets in a rather undignified manner. After a moment, Draco followed suit. He went through his morning ablutions mechanically, his gaze trailing after Snape as the other man slipped into his flowing robes. Snape's rugged countenance gave no sign that he even remembered the events of the previous evening. Without comment, he passed Draco a slender glass vial that bubbled with something ominous and green.

Grimacing, Draco swallowed the emerald froth in one gulp. It tasted of sage and seawater--not an enticing combination. "What is this rot?" he spluttered.

"Nothing we would have covered in your Potions classes," Snape replied smoothly, adjusting his collar. "It will dull the pain, should you receive any injuries during your excursion to Malfoy Manor." He paused. "Are you ready?"

Certainly not, he thought. "I suppose."

Snape pursed his lips. "I will admit that when the Headmaster first approached me concerning your change of loyalties, I was somewhat skeptical. However, your subsequent field work has been exemplary." His voice deepened with a hint of sarcasm. "I trust that your quick reflexes will not fail you at this critical juncture."

"Yes, sir," Draco said with a smirk, not at all ashamed of his prowess both in magical and in other areas. He harboured no illusions about the professor's intentions; this had been a solitary affair, spawned from a mutual admiration between teacher and student. Draco had been chosen because he was there, because he was male, and--most of all--because they might both perish this afternoon.

He and Snape might be the only wizards ever to repent after taking the oath to serve Voldemort, but Snape had yet to cease berating him for his idiocy. Sometimes the professor stared at him with the same malice with which he had once regarded Harry Potter. Still, if they were to die, at least Draco would have one pleasant memory to keep him company during the ride into oblivion.

"Come, boy. We must depart."

Draco opened his mouth to protest that he was almost twenty and found himself asking, instead, "Might I shower first?"

"I sincerely doubt that the Dark Lord will care if you have bathed, Draco."

* * * * *

For the second time that day, Draco Malfoy awoke in a daze.

He was sprawled in the ruins of what had once been the decadent Malfoy gardens but now resembled a disaster zone. His cloak was torn in three places; he reached down absently into his pocket, rummaging for his wand, and his fingers came out stained with crimson. His temples screamed in agony, as if someone had been whacking him over the head repeatedly with a Bludger. A dusting of dead lily petals had fallen on his forehead to form a decaying crown.

When he eventually came to his senses, he tried to ignore the persistent ringing in his ears and scanned the horizon. Bodies littered the ground like party favours, Death Eater obsidian and the paler garments of the wizard resistance mingling in a sea of scarlet. He clambered shakily to his feet, swaying, willing his mind to bring up his most recent memories. Glass crunched under his trainers and he glanced down at a pair of twisted metallic frames. Potter's glasses, he thought.

Harry Potter lay prone on the crushed grass. Beside him sat a small figure, hunched and withered. Draco took a step forward, his breath catching in his throat as he realized that Potter's chest still rose and fell in a slow but rhythmic motion. Had they done it? Had the Boy Who Lived really vanquished his nemesis?

"Draco," croaked a faint, warbling voice. He looked up, away from Potter's still form, and a pair of watery blue eyes met his own. "Draco, my sweet, you were always my..."

He would have recognised the voice anywhere, no matter how cracked with disuse. So this was the body that the Dark Lord had been reduced to inhabiting? This frail, tattered wisp of a man could not be dangerous, could he? On instinct, Draco whipped out his wand, the words flowing unbidden from his lips. "Avada Kedavra."

The little man stared at him in consternation. "Would you not have mercy on your former master..."

"Avada Kedavra," he repeated, flailing the wand in what he had intended to be a menacing manner. Nothing happened. Perhaps he had not put enough force into the spell? "Avada Kedavra!" he screeched, his voice breaking with the effort. "Why won't you just die, you sodding--"

The thing that had been Voldemort began to giggle.

* * * * *