Cicatrices- Marks That Remain

Forgive Me, Father, for I Have Sinned

Draco followed the lines as they crossed and wove into the diamond-shaped grid in front of him. Even in the darkness of his surroundings, he could see the faded yellow screen behind the pattern. He briefly thought about the hands that were responsible for the carved oak pattern. He envisioned the large and calloused hands of... perhaps an old Italian sculptor. Or maybe it was a local. He wondered how the sculptor felt, making something so significant, so beautiful, so... good.

"Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy."

The voice nearly startled Draco, for he had become so engrossed in the carvings and patterns in front of him that he'd nearly forgotten there was somebody on the other side. He swallowed.

"I've been coming to this church since I was little," he began with, because, truly, he didn't know how else to. "And in all those years, I never thought I would have to come in here."

"You never sought to confess your sins?"

"I never thought I would sin."

There was a slight stretch of silence. "When anyone becomes aware that they are guilty in any of these matters, they must confess in what way they have sinned."

Draco swallowed, staring down at his palms as they sat on his lap.

"God forgives everyone, right?"

"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness."

"What if we didn't? What if... if speaking about these things hurts? It makes us remember things we'd rather not?"

Again, the voice echoed from the other side of the narrow chamber. "Then we must remember Psalms... Because I kept silence, my bones waxed old, from my crying all the day..."

"Yes, but," He worked his jaw, fighting through the lump that had formed in his throat. "I'm not sure if my sins are..." Draco stopped, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments. He thought of the scars on his left arm. He thought of the scars across his torso...

Draco took a breath, keeping his head down, and decided to start over.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..."

--------

"Hey, you got a minute?"

"If it means I get to stop doing all of this," Harry gestured to the paperwork piling up beside him, "then by all means, what's up?"

Ron went from leaning against the doorframe to taking the seat in front of Harry's desk.

"I just wanted to talk to you about..." He ducked his head, despite them being alone in the office, and leaned forward. "You know..."

Harry sighed. "I'm sorry, mate, I just can't do it anymore. And after last month..."

"I know, I just, this is going to be a big case. I can feel it, and we just can't afford to lose people right now."

Harry slumped backwards into his chair, bringing a hand up to scrub at his face as he sighed.

"How can you go on? Really. I want to know. That was..."

"I know, it's terrible. And I won't lie to you, Harry, It's not easy. But there's just this feeling inside me that forces me to keep going. Something that tells me... the world needs me. It needs us. I need to do this to serve the community because who else will? Not everyone is fit enough to do what we do."

"I know, I know, it's just..." Harry stopped speaking, at a loss for words. It's just difficult to see more dead bodies, he almost wanted to say, but he wasn't sure if that was it. "Why are you bringing this up, anyway?"

Ron sucked in a breath, adjusting his position on the seat and reaching into his pocket to reveal in his hand a shrunken yellow file. He placed it on the table before tapping his wand to it, bringing it back to its original size.

The word CONFIDENTIAL bore lasers into Harry's soul. He knew what was in the folder. His throat tightened up. He was unable to tear his gaze from it when he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Ron brought out another file and put it to its original size.

"He was found yesterday when you called in sick," Ron began, tone cautious. "It's worth noting the similarities, I think."

Similarities. The word caught itself in Harry's throat. He looked up to see Ron, concern written across his face. "There was another?" Ron nodded, moving to open it.

Harry had to blink quite a few times to register what he was seeing, the churn of his stomach began to make itself known in its threat to push last night's dinner out.

The first thing Harry saw, some terrible mixture of red and black with a spot of yellow, skin flaked and scaled over, stiff and textured in ways skin should never be textured, was his arm, which was shackled to the floor, just like his other extremities. The next thing he noticed was the expanse of crimson that pooled beneath his body, which was dragged out into a circle around him. There were cuts along his bare torso, long and deep and left to bleed-

Harry thought he would be sick, and apparently it showed in his expression, because Ron sighed and closed the folder. It was only then that Harry could turn away, face in his hand.

"You know, we may have hated each other back in school, and sure, the bloke never knew when to stop eating and start thinking," they both grimaced at Ron's joke, poorly timed and terribly executed, "But Goyle didn't deserve this."

Harry licked his lips in an attempt to get his mouth working again, "No, he didn't."

The tension soon dissipated, though it left behind a sense that nothing was alright, not really. Ron spoke again.

"Did you notice the... the ring of blood? It's the same." He went and opened both folders again. Pansy Parkinson's and Gregory Goyle's dead and mangled bodies lay in their respective folders, side by side.

"Both had multiple lacerations, both had that ring of blood around them... They were both Slytherins in our year, friends with Malfoy... and the similarities don't end there."

"They were both left to bleed out," Harry continued, finally gathering the courage to thumb through the files and multiple pictures of various gruesome wounds with trembling hands

"Their wounds may not be... exactly the same..." Ron chanced a glance at the pink and splattered red sockets where Pansy's eyes had been, turning away immediately and pressing his fingers to his own now-closed eyes, grimacing as though he could feel it.

"But there are a few things that were similar at the crime scene. For one, both deaths were gruesome and bloody," Harry continued. "And that- that ring of blood."

"And," Ron breathed, finally turning back to the files, "Both of them have a cut on their left forearms."