Chapter 11: The Dark Tree Bears Bitter Fruit

I woke in the infirmary; I had only been out for less than a day.  Better than I 
had expected, given how I had felt.  The burns on my left arm and my hands had 
been healed, and Poppy smiled as I climbed out of bed.  She knew better than to 
try to keep me there.  "Potter?" I asked.

"Still asleep, but he'll be fine."

"Malfoy?  Voldemort?"

"Voldemort escaped us," said Albus, from the doorway.  "Young Mr. Malfoy is at St. 
Mungo's.  He has been asking to see you."  He held out clean robes - soft, grey, 
not mine, but better than the infirmary-issued pajamas I was wearing.

I took the robes and stripped out of the pajamas.  "How is he?"

Albus frowned, an expression which did not sit well on his idiotically genial 
face. "He is...not well."

I shrugged to settle the robes over my shoulders and brushed back my hair.  "How 
'not well'?"

"I believe he's dying."

I froze, remembering for a moment the pretty, petty, smirking child I had first 
met as an infant; I remembered the talented--still petty--wizard he'd grown into.  
In my House.  Under my hand and eye. "Death takes all of us, in the end, Albus. 
Voldemort promises immortality but I have never seen him deliver it to any but 
himself."

Poppy made a muffled sound, behind me.  I ignored her and went to my apprentice's 
bedside.  He was sleeping easily, as if the infirmary bed were as familiar as his 
own.  

Given the amount of time he had spent in that bed as a student, it might well be.

"Watch him for me," I said.  "I'll be back before long."

I headed for my rooms to bathe and change robes.  A visit to St. Mungo's was in 
order.

* * *

A grave mediwitch conducted me down the long hallway to Draco's room.  I looked at 
him through the window, seeing the ruins of the boy traced in bone and flesh.  My 
triumph over Voldemort came at the cost of Draco's sanity, and that was another 
weight on my soul.

After a time, I slipped inside.  "Mr. Malfoy," I said, but he made no answer.  I 
took a seat on the narrow bed and held my tongue.

Perhaps five minutes later, he spoke.  "I can't do it, sir."

"Do what, Mr. Malfoy?"

He looked down at his hands, pale and colourless against robes as white as my own. 
"I can't live in this world as Lucius Malfoy's son, and I can't forgive you for 
what you did."

"I have never asked for your forgiveness.  I do not ever expect it."

"Then why are you here?"

I reached out and tilted his face up so that I could meet his eyes.  "Hope, Mr. 
Malfoy.  My last and most desperate weapon."

He hesitated, rubbed his hand over the Dark Mark on his left arm, the twin to my 
own.  "I--did things.  As a Death Eater.  I've never understood why I'm not in 
Azkaban."

"I told them your father had used the Imperius curse on you."

He looked startled.  "But--"

"It was little enough to give you a chance at life, Mr. Malfoy, after what I had 
done to you."  I studied him for a long moment.  "Draco," I said, finally, and he 
inhaled sharply, "Draco, my child, didn't you know?  I have never stopped loving 
you."

His face shuttered, and he pulled away from me.  "I *hate* you," he said.  "When 
my master comes for me--"

I stood and loomed over him.  He shrank, and I took his head in my hands, spread 
my fingers over the bones of his skull. "Do not imagine that my love for you will 
keep me from doing what is necessary, Mr. Malfoy," I said, sliding my hands down, 
thumbs tracing his jaw and his throat, pressing in on the frantic pulse under his 
skin.  "Remember.  I loved your father."

"*I* loved my father," he said, and his throat moved under my hands.  "I still do.  
And you killed him."

I let him go.  "Yes," I said.  "I did.  I trust you will remember that, when your 
master comes for you."

I turned to leave, and Draco made no move to stop me.

I left him there, shining palely in the dark of that room, alone with his dreams 
of his master.

* * * 

Back at Hogwarts, I stopped to look in on my apprentice, but Poppy caught me at 
the door and told me Black was there.  I decided to take the opportunity to speak 
to Albus about Draco.

He was in his office, and smiled as I came in.  He had a cup of tea already 
prepared for me--damn his eyes.  I stood before the fire and cradled the cup, the 
china fragile in my hand, and told him what I had seen of Draco.  He said nothing 
the entire time, and finally I set my cup down and laced my fingers together.  
"Albus.  Tell me.  Was I ever like that?"

He looked at me steadily.  "No," he said, after a time.  "No.  You were always 
proud."

"Hah." I turned my face to the wall; studied a tapestry there.  "Draco will never 
be whole again.  I trapped him between loyalty to me and love for his father.  
Love for Voldemort, perhaps.  He could not choose between us, and it destroyed 
him."

From behind me, Albus said, "Twenty years ago, I knew another boy trapped between 
opposing forces.  He stood before me, in this office."  His hand tangled in my 
hair, rested against the nape of my neck.  Once, he had been taller than I; now he 
had to reach up to me.  Now, his skin was soft and papery with age.  He drew me 
after him to the cabinet where he kept his Pensieve.  "Severus."

I brushed my fingers over the silvery surface, and found myself looking at the 
young man I had been, holding out my left arm to Albus Dumbledore.  He took my--my 
younger self's--arm and touched the Mark.

Watching, I pressed my left arm close to my body.

"Why are you here?" Dumbledore said.  "I can't imagine that your master would want 
you here."

"It could be a trap," I answered, my voice still a boy's voice. "You'll want 
Veritaserum, old man."

He raised his brows.  "I don't believe I shall.  What do you want?"

"Lord Voldemort is planning the death of the Potters.  All of them--James, his 
wife, his child."

"Ah."

My younger self raised his chin, as if expecting to be challenged. "I will not be 
party to James Potter's death.  Do with me what you will."

He released my arm and touched my cheek.  

I remembered that caress, remembered how I had wanted to flinch away, remembered 
letting his hand land on me and how, shockingly, it had not hurt to have him be 
gentle with me.

The world jerked around me, and I was back in the now.  Albus's hand remained on 
my neck, firm and solid--a welcome weight now, familiar and warm.  "You, too, were 
caught," he said.  "You loved your master, but you had your honor. You could not 
leave a life-debt unpaid."  His fingers tightened.  "I have never been so proud of 
you as in that moment, my dear boy.  You were a vicious child, and you grew into a 
vicious man--but even vicious men, in the end, answer to their own conscience."

I closed my eyes.  "I do not believe Draco Malfoy has a conscience.  I believe--I 
believe I failed him, and you."

Albus released me with a pat on the shoulder. He walked around his desk and smiled 
at me, that infuriating, senile, happy smile.  "Draco is not your fault.  You were 
responsible only for giving him a choice, not for his inability to choose.  Now.  
Young Mr. Potter is waiting for you in the infirmary; he wants to be off visiting 
his friends this summer, and I know you wish to see him before he leaves."

I hadn't intended to give Potter any liberty this summer, which Albus knew 
perfectly well. No sooner had I opened my mouth to protest than I found myself 
alone outside the office, the door closed tight behind me.

I do so hate it when he does that.

* * *

Sirius Black favored me with his usual glare when I entered the infirmary, but 
Potter sat upright.  "Master!"  He looked convalescent, his skin paler than usual, 
his scar blood-red.

"Apprentice Potter," I said.  "Recovering, I trust."

"Yes."

I lifted his hair from the scar and frowned, wondering if it burned as did my 
Mark.  I could still feel the aftereffects of Investigo in my muscles; my skin 
felt raw.  He brushed my hand away impatiently.  "Master, I wanted to ask you--"

I held up my hand, and he bit his tongue.  I considered drawing this out, but I 
did not have the energy.  "Take two weeks," I said, "to ensure you recover fully.  
You may spend the time as you choose, but avoid strenuous magic."

He smiled. "Thank you, Master."

I tapped one finger against my forearm. "Do not thank *me*, Mr. Potter.  The 
Headmaster gave me little choice."

Black twitched, and I bared my teeth at him.

"At any rate," I said, returning my attention to my apprentice, "your first year 
has been less of a disaster than I originally anticipated.  When you return, we 
will revise the curriculum for your second year."

Before he could answer, I turned on my heel and left the infirmary.

The walk to my quarters seemed to take an eternity, but that was nothing compared 
to the agony of reaching them. The outer rooms looked normal enough, but my 
bedroom opened, not on my familiar dark furniture, but on white-painted wood and 
frilly pink floral pillows, piled high on a canopied bed.  Albus's doing, no 
doubt. Exhausted, I decided to deal with the state of the room in the morning.  I 
had two weeks to devise new tortures for my apprentice, after all - the loss of a 
morning mattered little.  I rid the bed of the worst of the pillows and collapsed 
into it.

My last coherent thought before sleep was that one of these days I was going to 
poison Albus Dumbledore.