Author: Dracos Diablos
Genre: Slash romance
Rating: PG -13
Warnings: This fanfiction contains slash/homosexual themes and some coarse language. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Disclaimer: Names, places, items or anything within this fic remotely connected to the world of Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and affiliated companies. I own nothing. Except maybe the spell Laceratus, for which I claim to have made up and therefore you may NOT use it in your own fic. But JK can have it if she wants. ^_-
Author's Note: Not my first ever fanfic, but the first under this pen name. Anybody remember Rachie.V from way back? That was me, if you were around back then, a couple of years ago. And yes, I write slash fics now… o_O But hey! What can ya do? Times change. NOW READ! Before I resort to something truly horrible! … Er, yeah. Review me too?
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The second I saw him back at Hogwarts, I knew we had finally reached an understanding. Well, not quite an understanding. But he felt the pain I had been living all my life, to a certain degree.
He hurt. And only I could recognize it for what it was.
I knew of Sirius Black's death. My father held back nothing from me, considering my looming future as one of Voldemort's closest followers. My father was partly to blame for Black's death. Personally, I couldn't give a damn. But Potter could. I'd known him all these years, seen him go through so much (though hardly caring); yet never had the Golden Boy shown his suffering so obviously.
For the first few weeks, the school was alive with rumours and gossip of the death of Sirius Black. At the same time, Potter went about his life in a sombre fashion, for he skulked through the school with Weasley and Granger, dark rings under his eyes. Most thought that he was straining under the pressure as The Boy Who Lived; most thought he was becoming afraid of Voldemort's ever increasing kill rate. They thought he was losing his nerve.
But some connected Black's death and Potter's sudden misery, and rumours grew larger. Potter's Gryffindor followers managed to quash most of the gossip but I doubt they even knew the real deal behind Potter's pain.
Eventually, most people thought he had gotten over it - he returned to his life as normal. As normal as it could be for that bloody prick. Quidditch. School work. His Gryffindor associates. Fans who couldn't get enough of the scar on his head. Potter even began to smile and laugh again. But his eyes were never the same. Nobody else saw it. Granger and Weasley were concerned, but nobody save probably Dumbledore and I could see it.
Inside, he burned. Not out of anger. Or loneliness. Or even sadness. But he felt completely and utterly defeated. Helpless. He was waiting for doom to claim him.
Weeks passed. Many weeks. Classes came and went and the once annoying sparkle of emerald eyes no longer glistened. Every dinner he ate and left, passing a few greetings or farewells on his way. He reigned over Quidditch.
But I hadn't confronted him since the beginning of our sixth year. Not once. In fact, my observing of Potter seemed to have attracted some unwanted attention.
I can't say why. I do not know myself. But to see Potter going through the very thing I knew so intimately - it quelled any thoughts of humiliating him, of degrading him or insulting him. My fellow Slytherins continued in the act whenever they could; but I backed away from it. No more duels, arguments, fistfights. Even Crabbe and Goyle distanced themselves from me. What was once known as the ultimate rivalry seemed to have dwindled to dust. Draco Malfoy was no longer cold and cruel. He was cold, withdrawn and boring. Harry Potter continued in all his fake glory - fucking Holy Harry Potter. But of course, being the Gryffindor he is, he didn't intend on discovering why I had stopped harassing him. Instead, he seemed to embrace the newfound peace and ignored me.
Positively infuriating. I suppose I had been hoping that he'd approach me and curse me half to death, trying to get a response of violence from me, so that all seemed normal again. But ever the fucking, accepting Gryffindor.
But, I suppose I could sympathize; he had fallen into my now-familiar world of having to guard his every emotion, having to hide what he really felt. He had done it before, but now he had learned to master it out of sheer necessity.
I suppose I came to respect him.
If only I had seen what respect would lead to.
*---
***
I walked slowly down the hill, the dancing blades of grass like carpet beneath my feet. God bless weekends.
Dressed in a simple white cotton shirt, the top three buttons undone, and a pair of similarly boring cotton black pants, I carried my broomstick down to the Quidditch pitch. It was deserted.
I smiled to myself, more from relief than anything. I walked onto the hard surface of the well-worn pitch, looking up toward the sky. My neglected platinum blond hair, now jaw-length, fluttered before my eyes as I looked skyward. It was an overcast day, the clouds gloomy, dark and threatening to rain. I smirked to myself.
Just the way I like it.
Seconds later I was in the air, pivoting, spiralling, soaring through the bitter wind. My hair flicked against the skin of my cheeks and neck, scraping my flesh like miniature daggers; this was my freedom. Flying had become an obsession, of late. More so than even Potter could compare to. I smirked.
I flew higher and higher, revelling in the breeze and solitude. The stands were tiny specks, so far below that a person would seem like no more than a grain of dust littering my vision. I gave an exhalation of approval. Here is where none could judge me.
Even the Dark Mark on my forearm could not define me here. Burnt into me that summer, I was now Voldemort's own. Or so it seemed.
But I am not like my father. I am no coward. He may consider the Malfoys to be the property of the Dark Lord, but I beg to differ. I am mine. And nobody else's. The Dark Mark will bind me to no one. It's just a tattoo.
I unbuttoned my shirt completely, my skin instantly chilled even further by the weather.
I closed my eyes and tipped into a dive. The wind soared past and screamed in my ears, and even beneath the eyelashes, I could feel my eyes water. My opened shirt whipped out from under my arms like loose wings; eyes still closed I gave another exhalation of vast satisfaction and I could almost sense the ground coming nearer. My hair streaming out behind me, slender form almost lying upon the broom's handle, I knew nothing but the thrill of adrenaline that began to flow through my veins, the closer to the ground I flew.
Suddenly, in one swift movement, I tore my eyes open and swerved up, before tumbling gracefully onto the ground, not even a foot below.
I lay on the pitch, looking at the grey clouds.
And smiled.
Without my constant harassing of Potter, I was pure. Pure and still sheer Slytherin. An unhealthy combination, perhaps. But all the more fitting for a Malfoy as perturbed as I.
The heavens above slowly fell apart like the fraying strands of a tapestry - the clouds let forth a curtain of rain and I smirked to myself, the droplets pooling on my skin.
"That was an impressive dive. As much as I hate to compliment you, I can't deny that you're improving remarkably."
I would know that voice anywhere. How many times had it described me as a heartless, arrogant asshole? Many, but not once this year. First time I had heard it using civil tones in my direction, though.
"Potter, what a pleasant surprise," I said calmly, not looking at him. Aware of my chest being bared to him but not really caring, I got to my feet in a smooth and flowing movement. I could feel his eyes watching me. Oh, how I loved to be so graceful - yet equally dangerous.
I turned and saw him standing in the doorway of the changing rooms. His face held no expression. Without even trying, I could sense his aching soul. I pushed that awareness away and stood before Potter, shirt saturated from the rain and still undone.
Arms folded, he pushed himself off the doorframe and came walking towards me slowly. Midnight hair and eyes of jade, glasses of thin rectangular wire frames, he observed me.
I saw his eyes roam from my thin, curtaining hair to my eyes, to my chest, and eventually to observe my pants. I recognized this act. He was looking upon a Draco Malfoy he had never seen before. Robed and followed by Slytherins, hair smoothed back and dealing out nasty implications is one Malfoy. But the withdrawn, simply dressed and unaccompanied Malfoy is quite another.
Potter was very wary. He had not confronted me such a way before. And he knew not what to expect.
"Thank you."
My thanks on the dive compliment seemed to melt some of his suspicion. Though, were I him, hearing a Slytherin say 'thank you' was an ever larger reason to be worried.
"You deserve it," he replied to me.
I stayed silent.
What do you want, Potter?
"What's up with you, Malfoy? You haven't said one rotten thing to me all year. And you don't socialize with your Slytherin housemates any more. You're always alone, Crabbe and Goyle never with you. And you're not…yourself," he seemed unsure of how to say it. I doubted he wanted to accept it. I had decided to leave him alone. And that disturbed him. Such an unfamiliar thing for him, to see Draco Malfoy walking past and not encountering hostility.
"What's up with me? I haven't changed, Potter. I stopped bullying the Boy Who Lived. And by refraining from picking on you, it has resulted in the Slytherins doubting my sincerity, your Gryffindor pals doubt me even more, everybody is wary of my intentions… I haven't changed Potter. I just became fed up with picking on Dumbledore's Golden Boy."
"Why?"
It was a simple question. And by asking me so softly, I knew in a flash. He trusted too swiftly. His nemesis of five years had given him one civil conversation and he was already losing his vigilance.
I couldn't handle such a swift change of hatred to trust. I had to brush him off.
Holding my emotions aloof, I narrowed my eyes in mock anger. It was a fake glare, borne on nothing but the need to divert his attention elsewhere. But practice makes perfect, and the Malfoy sneer still worked on my fine features. He took a step back.
He had never been so confused by me.
"Potter. I know you still grieve Black. I see it. You hide it from everyone. Even after all these months you still ache for your precious godfather, yet still you manage to act like nothing is wrong. You're the one that's changed. You're not whole any more - and I see it."
At the mention of Black's name, Potter's eyes regained some emotion. Terrible, welling sadness. And anger.
Well, it's better than nothing, I thought dryly.
"What do you know?! You don't know anything!" he yelled. The rain increased and we stood, facing one another in the torrents. His hair slick to his head, glasses suddenly misted with condensation, he turned and bolted into the changing rooms.
I should have left it there, but his new approach towards me left me more curious than was healthy. Broomstick in hand, I followed him. He had taken off his glasses and was drying them.
"What do I know? Everything. You forget who my father is. I know all that happened to Black. And I see your suffering. I see it, Potter! Don't pretend that I don't understand! You know it - deep down, that's exactly what we now have in common. We're both incomplete."
Putting his glasses back on furiously, he glared at me. I set my broom down and advanced towards him until we were staring into one another's eyes, our clothes still dripping. We were of a height. His green eyes flashed suddenly, hidden behind thin glass.
"You're in pain? You know nothing of it! Perhaps if your maniac of a father died, then perhaps you may know of what I feel. But Sirius could never be replaced! Yes I grieve him. Hermione and Ron think I've gotten over it. And the school thinks my life is peachy. Because I'm the big brave Harry Potter! Fucking hell Malfoy, I don't CARE if you're the only one to notice! The fact is, you're one of them! You're a Death Eater! So don't you EVER think we have ANYTHING in common!"
He turned from me. I heard a rasping sob escape him.
Even though it was hidden behind a cool expression, I was utterly shocked. In all our arguments, he had never been so…odd . Neither had he ever fought against me so childishly. He was verbally and physically capable of much, much more.
A sign of how much he hurt. And I could compare all the more.
I put a hand on his shoulder, half expecting him to turn around and smack me in the face. Or at least shrug away from my touch.
But he just stood there, head bowed. I knew he was weeping.
"I have been forced all my life to live a lie. I have been forced into the role of a Death Eater. Forced to hate you because you are the Lord's enemy. Forced to walk in the footsteps of my father. I know pain. My mother cares not for my misery, though she is not unaware. These Slytherins - they think they know me better than anyone, they think they know who Draco is. They do not. I have been alone so long. So long. To see you suffering as much as me - it made me realize. I respect you. Because you are perhaps the only other person in this school who can understand real pain." As I spoke, Potter turned toward me. Tears spilling down his cheeks though still dignified, he glared at me. Again.
"Respect? How could you respect anybody, Draco Malfoy? You're a liar." He spat the insult at me. It was a moment later that he realized.
For I had expected him to understand. I had thought he would sympathize. Gryffindor that he was, I thought he would be able to accept me. Or at least have not discriminated me for spilling my heart out to him.
Fool, Draco. You're a fool! How could you think that anybody would ever accept you, your enemy most of all?! You are eternally alone. Might as well get used to living behind a façade for the rest of your life. You - are - worthless.
I pushed back those thoughts, gulping down my fear. I think that was the first time I had ever given myself away through a facial expression. Pain. No - agony. It tore at my heart, cold as it was.
I backed away from Potter, lips parted slightly in dismay. My eyes held horror.
And he saw straight through me.
He saw my sincerity. And my suffering. He saw it. And was instantly aware that everything I had ever been to him had never been real - we were not enemies. We were almost kin. Together we alone knew the truths of evil. We alone.
"Malfoy - Malfoy I'm sorry!" Potter spluttered. "I - I thought you were lying! I didn't realize -"
"No." I cut him off hoarsely. My throat was tight. It would not be the first time I cried. But I would not allow myself to sob before Harry Potter. "Just shut the fuck up, Potter. You've proven what I've known all along. My life - it's a lie. And I will remain hated by all save the people I myself despise."
I turned and ran, leaving my broomstick behind. I knew he'd store it in the shed for me.
My tears blinded me.
***
Weeks passed. In those weeks I took up my former self once more. Nasty, bitter and pure Malfoy - the Slytherins loved me again, admiring me. Yet I still refrained from taking out my anger on Potter, and paid attention to everyone else. My housemates noted this, but decided it was better than nothing. Terrorizing almost every student in the school was still satisfying, to a degree.
But, deep down, I was so sorry. So sorry for making these people live in fear of us. They knew we were Death Eaters. We weren't school bullies. We were bringers of Evil. If anyone stood up to us, they wouldn't be pushed around in the courtyard. They would make their families enemies of Voldemort himself. Targets.
And so we tore through the school, plaguing them with fear. I did not like it. But to live alone, facing my real self… If even Saint Fucking Potter couldn't accept me, then who could? Better to live an acceptable lie than a lonely life of truth.
The teachers themselves were not quite so afraid. Being older, wiser and particularly more brave, they could still hold sway with us in the classrooms; Death Eaters we might be but expelled from the school gave our fathers no control over Hogwarts. At least this way Voldemort had eyes and ears in the school. But the slowly darkening curtain of fear continued to veil the Hogwarts' students.
I started to hate them all. They weren't entirely to blame. But every student, every teacher, every blade of grass within Hogwarts came to be a thing to be hated. I'm not sure if it were the same for my fellow Slytherin sixth and seventh years, but it's the way I felt, then. I hated it all. Everything except Harry Potter. I couldn't bring myself to degrade him - to hate him. The reason eluded me back then - I had fallen so deep into confusion of myself that I couldn't part the truth from the lies. Was I really so evil? Is my father my saviour, or my retribution? The Dark Mark - did it define me or defy me? I didn't know what I really wanted. I could not know. My lies clouded my mind and I hated all. Except Potter.
---*
I think then I began to fall. Our constant reign over the school began to poison my mind. I can't actually remember slipping from my sanity. All I remember from that time, is how all I felt was hate. All I knew was a burning resentment for anyone and anything, save Potter. He knew. He may not have accepted it. He may have crushed what hope I had left, back on the Quidditch pitch that day. But he knew.
Yet that knowledge was not enough to save me. I slowly began to sink further and further into the Death Eaters' grasp. They had me. Potter knew it. He had told no one that Draco is not what he seems. And he was too intelligent to try and break me free from the Dark grasp single-handedly. So he watched and waited while I plunged into darkness. I guess I was losing my mind. Slytherin House was monarch over Hogwarts. Dumbledore let fate carry his hopes and worries - what had to happen would happen, and he knew that it would be remedied sooner or later. So he let it continue. Now, after all has passed, I know that he had been relying on myself and Harry. But back then, I assumed him to be a weak, old-minded fool who had no power over a bunch of teenage Death Eaters.
And I, Draco, began to lose what I once so obsessively tried to keep. A soul. A life of my own. Submission is cowardice. And that made me the world's most foolish coward.
*---
***
I lay on my bed in the Slytherin dorm, twirling my wand in my fingers. Crabbe, Goyle and the others were out terrorizing someone or another. I could hear a few second or third years in the common room but I ignored them.
My mind was blank. I was thinking of nothing. And nothing was incredibly boring.
I left the dorm and wandered the castle. Wherever I walked, students not of my own house slouched away, fearing me. Usually if it was a single Slytherin walking the corridors, people would scowl and whisper fearfully as they shuffled away.
But not I. I was the Slytherin prince - even my seventh year housemates respected me. They all admired me. I was their own, their pride.
And so I walked out of the oak double doors, people scurrying from me in frantic movements. I stalked across the school grounds, robes billowing out behind me.
After a few minutes, I came to stand before the lake.
I had no idea why. Nobody to threaten out here. Fucking boring school. No good targets.
"Malfoy."
I spun on my heel, slender fingers already grasping my wand.
"Potter, do me a favour and piss off," I snarled, pointing my wand at his chest. The Gryffindor looked me in the eye. Flames of extreme annoyance licked my blood. Not quite hatred.
Getting closer, at least.
"I came to apologize," Harry said softly, with a soft shrug of his shoulders. As if he was oblivious to my sudden change of rank around the school, he still stood before me, expecting me to treat him humanely.
I stared at him. Not out of surprise or disbelief. Mainly just to scare him off. It didn't work. I looked him up and down and wished I could treat him like everyone else - with immense malice. But Potter was always different.
"You tried to comfort me in a way, and even showed me a side of yourself that none have seen before. And I ignored that trust, so I apologize. You've treated me fairly this year, so I was hoping… well… truce?"
I looked down at the hand held out before me. He wanted a truce. Oh, how precious.
Little Golden Boy thinks I'm too weak to take a bit of emotional rejection. Incompetent Gryffindors. We Slytherin bow to none. We show sympathy to none. We make truces with none. We - are - malice.
I seized his wrist and dragged him forwards so that he wasn't an inch away from me.
"I don't need your sympathy. The Dark Lord is all I need," I whispered menacingly, my breath stirring his very pores, so close was he.
"You need to find yourself first. Then you must decide where your loyalties lie," he replied to me. Not coldly. Simply. As if I had gone deranged.
"Oh so I'm insane, now?" I asked, sneering.
Still almost pressed up against me, he remained expressionless.
"No. You've lost yourself. And I'm afraid it's my fault," he replied, his hot breath tickling my skin.
I shoved him away from me and he stumbled, but did not fall.
"Draco, I'm sorry! You truly are someone different…I don't want to be the one to have destroyed it!" he cried.
Why are you trying so hard to liberate me?
"Just shut up and stay the hell away from me Potter. And do NOT call me Draco! I am a Malfoy!" I yelled at him, then turned, my robes sweeping the grass. I took another step towards the lake and fell to my knees in the grass. The giant squid shook a tentacle at me lazily.
Why am I so confused? I thought miserably. I'm a Death Eater. That's all I need to know. ..Is it?
Odd, how only you has been able to break me from my reverie. Odd, how you can make me feel bad for breaking limbs and uttering death threats. Only you, Potter. But it doesn't change anything. I'm still a Death Eater.
He came to stand behind me. One thing was clear. Something had definitely passed between us.
"I'm a Death Eater," I said sadly over my shoulder.
"Do you want to be?" he asked me. I watched as he crouched down beside me, robes enfolding about him like a bodice of liquid. He was so unique. Just like I wished to be.
"Yes!" I retorted shrilly, fearful of my previous thoughts.
How immoral for a Malfoy to shriek in denial. You filth.
"Draco, I'm sorry. I know you can be so much of a better person inside," Harry said softly, not looking at me. He picked up a stone and threw it into the lake. The giant squid moved one of its tentacles to avoid being hit.
"You don't know me at all," I growled softly. Who was he to judge me? He was Saint Potter, everybody's bloody hero. And I? Who was I, really?
Who am I?
"Why are you doing this, Potter?" I whispered, and looked at him with wild eyes. He read me easily. I was lost. I didn't know who I was anymore.
"Draco…if you keep going on like this, you're gonna reach the point of no return. You're driving yourself further and further away from who you really are! Do you actually enjoy this?"
"Enjoy what?" I replied hoarsely. I didn't know what to think.
"Threatening families. Belonging to the Dark Lord. Giving the school a dose of evil."
"Of course I …" My voice trailed away. Did I enjoy it? Or did I do it because I was a coward? Too weak to try and face who I really was, so instead I hid behind my father's shadow, like every other Slytherin..?
Weakling.
"I'm not!" I cried. Potter looked over at me. "Harry, I'm not a coward! I'm not! I…just called you by your first name…"
He smiled at me. It was still not a complete smile, but it lit up his face. And shook me to my core. This simple act was so out of league of who I really was. It wasn't right. But I liked it - his smile was a nice thing to be able to accept. But was I about to be accepted?
Do I care? I've always been so independent. Why now should I need to feel acknowledged? So confused…
"Draco. You need to shake off this…wrongness. Back on the Quidditch pitch, I believe that I truly saw a different side of you. The REAL Draco. You deserve so much better," he said softly. Quietly.
I tore my eyes from him and looked at the pale shady water, trying to sort out my feelings.
"Draco, even now, you see me. You know that I still grieve Sirius. I know you still feel alone. We have both lost the very thing that made us whole. My godfather, and your soul."
"Why are you saying this?" I whispered.
"Because…like I said, you deserve so much better."
I stared at the water, still.
All my life, I had been somebody's tool. Toy: my father's son. Puppet: the Dark Lord's follower. Had I ever been me? And it was then that I truly believe I felt self-worth. It was then I opened my eyes and truly saw myself.
"You're right, Potter. I do deserve better. But I won't find that in you," I sneered, and stood.
"What - " Potter began.
"Hush. Be silent! I've heard enough. And I believe you. You're right. But I will not accept anything else from you."
Half dazed from trying to wake from my reverie that had taken hold since the Quidditch pitch, and half giddy with anger, I pulled up the sleeve of my robes. I showed him the Dark Mark, and pointed my wand at it.
"Laceratus," I whispered.
My skin tore open. I clenched my teeth as I watched fold after fold of flesh undo and tear open. Blood seeped out and trickled down my arm, the pain escalating, and I gave a grunt in the back of my throat.
"No!" Harry yelled, and launched himself at me. We crashed together on the grass, and my vision blurred as a stream of blood came form my arm. Beneath the curtain of red, I could still see the Mark. It was not a skin blemish; it was embedded into my flesh. It was a part of me.
My eyes welled in a great misery, and a single, lonely tear tracked down my face.
"Draco…" Harry whispered, eyes full of sadness. He reached over and touched my skin gingerly, his fingertip brushing away my tear.
We had fallen on the grass before a tree.
My vision blurred again, my forearm still open and weeping crimson rain.
I heard material tearing and looked over at Harry beside me. He had torn a black strip from the sleeve of his robes. He shuffled over to me and wrapped it around the gash in my arm.
"Stupid Potter," I whispered, "Use your bloody wand, for fuck's sake."
And I fainted.