Mark（烙印）

作者：switchknife
翻译：我……
翻译修改：mayuki（啊啊啊，强烈感谢，亲亲可爱的美人老婆！）
原文地址：http://notquiteroyal.net/switchknife/fiction/mark.htm
shipper：Lucius Malfoy / Draco Malfoy
级别：PG
Summary：”And when the shadow fades and is no more, the light that lingers becomes a shadow to another light.” - Kahlil Gibran.


Draco原以为Dark Mark疼痛如灼烧——它如同屈辱的烙铁按压在他的皮肤上，留下灰烬与疼痛破碎的组织。实际上烙印是轻柔的，甚至美丽——缓慢溶化的黑色在他的皮肤下渐渐丰盈，让他有些昏眩于注视这变化移动的形状，沸腾了他体内的鲜血。他觉得自己像奶油色的羊皮纸，一封被印签封缄的空白信件——他觉得自己是纯澈的，被折叠封装，承载着他人的秘密。Voldemort在他身上书写，在他的灵魂上书写――在赠与和掠夺之间，在杀戮与诞生之间——书写一份契约，一份协定，让Draco觉得他被拥有了。

被拥有。不是被爱。

Snape在人群边缘观看着，仿佛他只是那一大群幽灵中一个高挑的阴影——仅管面无表情，但他是唯一一个带着些微的关注，近乎于是关心的凝视着Draco的。那空白的神情是他另一张存在于食死徒面罩之下的白色面具*1。 Draco想在烙印式结束之后跌跌撞撞的走过去跟他说：“带我回家，教授。”但他不可以——他是Lucius Malfoy的儿子，虽然很荒谬，但是众人要求他清白，纯洁，只在适当的时候愤恨——作为Voldemort的苍白锋利的刃精明准确的刺向任何黑暗君主认为合适的对象。
但是Draco没有告诉他们真相——他没有，因为真相在这里是如此昂贵的日常消费品，即使Voldemort也负担不起。所以Draco沉默了，伪装成坚强有力——当有人给他斟上葡萄酒时，微笑，几乎没有一丝颤抖的痕迹。他很少想起他在Azkaban的父亲，因为那也是一个承担不起真相——当他想起他父亲缓慢悠长的吻，当他想起Lucius Malfoy在抚养他时盛大的缺席与失败，他感到不适。显然*2，这里的人们并没有察觉到这点。多么可笑，他们屈尊得近乎讨好的向他低下头颅，但是却没有放松警惕——仿佛Draco不仅仅是娼妓，似乎Draco不光是宠物，不只是由月光雕饰得整洁优雅的银色装饰品。Draco应该被送回家，不曾被触碰，不曾被玷污——也许只是因为这烙印已经申明完全占有他，以至于没剩下什么可供索取了。

“宽恕我，我父，我主，我已染罪*。”Voldemort在他耳边嘲讽的嘶声轻笑。Draco并不清楚意思，但他发现自己在被snape带回家后彻夜重复着这句话——彻夜的重复，彻夜，但是他的父亲并没有来用吻让他平静。


Fin


（*1:One white mask beneath another.汗，英文好精妙，翻译不出来。）
（*2: It is remarkable that…连着几句话都是这样，我不知道如何翻译比较好。老是用“值得注意得是”或者是“非凡的是”很诡异啊。汗汗，所以我就那么翻译了。或者也许可以用“太好了”来代替“注意”。我并不清楚这里应该用remarkable的哪个意思。）
（*3:“Forgive me，Father，I have sinned。”哈哈，双关，老伏说的是上帝，后面小D就在喊他的卢爸爸了。）

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很压抑的短篇啊，呵呵，这样描写LM/DM配对的还真是很少见。感觉很好。汗汗，强烈推荐大家看原文……

笑，最近狂迷Dark文，尤其喜欢深暗压抑的，咚的沉下去连个泡泡都不冒的。

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原文在此

Mark

Draco had thought the Dark Mark would burn--that it would be pressed into his skin like a brand, leaving ash and raw tissue in its wake. Instead the Mark is gentle, almost beautiful--a slow melting of black wax under his skin, a moving, shifting shape that makes him dizzy looking at it, boiling his blood gently from within. He feels like cream parchment, a blank letter now closed with a seal--he feels clean and folded and given, carrying someone else's secrets in himself. Voldemort is writing words across him, across his soul--something between a giving and a taking, a killing and a birthing--a contract, an agreement, that makes Draco feel owned.

Owned. Not loved.

Snape watches from the outskirts, one more tall shadow amongst so many--but he is the only one here who watches Draco with anything resembling concern, even though his face is no doubt expressionless. One white mask beneath another. Draco wants to stumble to him afterwards, say take me home, Professor, but he can't--because he is Lucius Malfoy's son, and it's ridiculous but people expect him to live up to that, to be clean and pure and wrathful when appropriate--to be Voldemort's pale paring knife, applied judiciously to whomever the Dark Lord sees fit.

But Draco doesn't tell them the truth--he doesn't, because truth is an expensive commodity here, one even Voldemort cannot afford. So Draco keeps his counsel, and pretends to be strong--and smiles, almost without the hint of a tremor, when someone gives him wine. He doesn't think of his father in Azkaban, because that's another unaffordable truth--he doesn't think of comfort, of his father's long, slow kisses--of how spectacularly Lucius Malfoy had failed in bringing up his son. It is remarkable that the men here don't see that. It is remarkable that they incline their heads condescendingly but with a certain sense of wariness--as though Draco isn't a whore, as though Draco isn't a pet, a silver-lined thing to be arranged neatly by moonlight. It is remarkable that Draco should be returned home untouched, unused--but perhaps that's because the Mark has already claimed so much of him that there's nothing left to take at all.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, hisses Voldemort mockingly in his ear. Draco doesn't know what it means, but he finds himself repeating it all night long after Snape takes him home--all night long, all night, but his father doesn't come to silence him with a kiss.

* FIN *