The Doe and the Half-Blood Oath

I grew where chimneys blackened sky, a narrow room, a narrowed heart, A half-blood name, a need to hide the softer, brighter part. By riverside you found my gift and called it something kind; At Hogwarts, houses drew their lines and I fell in with the blind. I chased the darker syllables, a serpent’s silver tongue, Jealous of a stag that laughed, too proud to die so young. A whispered shard of prophecy—my folly, cold and thin— I begged a lord to spare your life and let the darkness in. You walked the night and wore its thorns, yet kept a lantern lit. You bartered breath against the storm and swallowed every hit. You drew a line with ash and tears, then crossed it to undo— Between a wand and mercy’s edge, the vow that held was you. A headmaster’s winter calculus, a plan of braided blame: I played the villain on the stage to keep a brighter flame. I carried secrets like a frost that bit through borrowed years, Sent a silver doe to guide the boy, and bled in no one’s cheers. I took the strike that spared the son, wore scorn to shield the weak, Became the mask, became the snare, became what I must speak. If courage is a quiet thing, then let it be unnamed— A life of knives turned inward so the child left unmaimed. You stained your hands to cleanse a path the world refused to see. You held your ground while breaking down the walls inside of me. You led him where the sword could sing and grief could not break through— In halls of stone and winter light, the vow that held was you. My Patronus matched your memory, a silent, silver plea; In dying, all my borrowed light returned at last to me. Not hero, not forgiven—only faithful to the end: A watchman at a boy’s green gaze, a debt I could not mend. You chose too late, then chose again, and paid in bone and breath. You taught by wound, you loved by lack, you argued life with death. The world will weigh you black and white, but truth is midnight blue— In every shade between the stars, the vow that held was you. I was cruel where I was broken, tender where I bled; I stood between your child and night with thorns around my head. Judgment writes in living ink: not saint, not simple sin— A man who walked the longest road and laid his secrets in. Where willow shadows touch the lake, where silver ripples run, Receive this thanks that cannot fade: you kept alive my son. Sleep where the quiet waters glow, where braver names accrue— The world forgets, but I will know: the vow that held was you.