Page 32 of Penance

Why do I want so badly to be proven wrong?

Because I want to be protected, and I know I can’t protect myself?

Draco’s expression shifts, a subtle softening that gives me a glimmer of hope, but it’s fleeting, replaced almost instantly by a cold detachment. He leans in, and I have to force myself not to shiver as our eyes meet.

“Dammit, Mercy, I was just trying to be nice.”

I flinch at his crude language, the word cutting through me like a shard of ice. This isn’t the Draco I knew, the boy who used to quote scripture with warmth in his eyes.

This Draco is cold, damaged.

This Draco has been broken.

His hands clench at his sides.

“Trying to be nice?” I echo, my voice barely audible.

His eyes flash, a storm of annoyance and something darker.

“Yes, Mercy,” he growls. I can see the muscles around his eyes tightening, pulling at the corners as he grinds the words out. “You think I fucking wanted this? To follow you around like some creep?”

I gasp. The old Draco never would have spoken like this, not to me. It’s like a physical blow, striking me with full force. I take a step back, my shoulders hitting the cold brick wall behind me.

“You don’t need to do this, Draco,” I tell him, my voice trembling. “I don’t need your help.”

He scoffs, a harsh sound that grates against my ears. His brown eyes roll.

“You don’t know what you need, Mercy,” he snaps. “You’re so wrapped up in your fucking faith, you can’t see the reality staring you in the face.”

“And you can’t see the good that’s left in you,” I quip back, anger rising in me. “The Draco I knew wouldn’t talk like this. He wouldn’t act like this, and sure wouldn’t question my faith,or his.”

His eyes widen, surprise flickering across his face, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by that cold detachment. He takes a step back, his jaw set in a hard line.

“You’re right, Mercy,” he says, his voice a low growl that shakes with bitterness. “The old me wouldn’t have. The old me would be just as blind and stupid as you are. But ya know what?The old me is dead and fucking buried. The old me bled out in the back of that fuckin’ church, and you just stood there andwatched.”

He scoffs, looking down his nose at me as he turns away, into the shadows.

“I don’t know why I bothered. You’ve made your choice, and it’s not me.” His words are cold and cutting, sharpened to a point, designed to wound. He takes a step away, his boots grinding against the gravel.

Guilt surges through me, a hot, choking wave that constricts my throat.

“Draco, wait.”

The street stretches out before me, a yawning chasm that Draco’s retreating form disappears into. His shoulders are hunched, hands buried in his pockets. He shrugs, dismissively pushing me away.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I shouldn’t have expected anything different. Mercy Clarke is too fucking good for trash like me, even if I am just trying to protect you.”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down. The night air grows colder, or maybe it’s just the emptiness he leaves that sucks all the warmth that was left right out of me. The first tendrils of fog curl around the street lamps, casting an eerie glow on the cobblestones. The shadows dance at the edges of my vision, whispering accusations, bitterness.

Why did I push him away?

Why do I keep doing that?

My mind flashes back to simpler times, when Draco was just a boy with mischief in his eyes, and a smile on his lips. We used to laugh together, play together. We watched movies together. We had sleepovers.

But that was before—before the shadows claimed him, and my faith built walls between us.

My faith teaches forgiveness, compassion, yet I’ve shown him none.

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