Don't worry about the details. Just read what's here. You already have all the answers you need. Nothing else matters.

Loosely inspired by the works of Edgar Allen Poe, this is—above all else—a writing experiment that looks into the nature of the tormented mind. I used Draco for this because, personally, I think he was tormented (no matter how much he was passed off as merely spoiled). I dare assume that this will probably be unlike any other fanfiction you've ever read. If this explains anything, I'm a university student studying psychology. ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. JK Rowling does.

It was a typical night just like any other, but Draco Malfoy couldn't keep still.

He could not stop himself from shaking. Harry knew this. He'd seen it before—the restlessness, the agitation, the anxiousness, the dark pathos that his once-nemesis had never been able to escape from. Even now, after all these years. His scars called to him, beckoning him, mocking him with the knowledge of who he was, of who he was supposed to be. Harry knew that Draco had scars, and not just those he'd received that fateful day when Harry decided to use the sectumsempra curse—scars that no one saw. Scars that made him pace relentlessly across the creaking floorboards of the basement of Harry's house and moan in pitiful anguish.

Harry listened to the rapid pattering of Draco's bare feet reverberating below him and wished he would go to sleep. It scared him sometimes, Draco's psychosis. There were moments when he was tempted to use magic on him, though he always cursed himself for thinking such things; magic was what had gotten them into this mess in the first place. He'd be damned if that's what got them out.

Suddenly, a banging noise resonated from downstairs and Harry involuntarily jumped and winced. This was getting ridiculous; he needed to talk to him. Tiredly, he forced himself out of bed and groggily meandered down to the dimly-lit basement where, for some reason, Draco felt most at home. His bones creaked almost as much as the stairs did as he descended them. He was deplorably sleep-deprived. He'd been staying up all hours of the night for the past several days and it was beginning to take its toll on him. But with Draco this way, he often couldn't sleep. He couldn't afford to let his guard down.

The basement was dark—no lights, no candles, just the distorted glow of the round, swollen moon pouring in through the dirty overhead window (the only one in the room). Carefully, Harry stepped around a broken vase he found on the floor and then sighed when he spotted an overturned bottle of mead lying in its own little puddle next to Draco's toes.

Draco himself was crouched in a corner, as far away from the moonlight as he could possibly get, his knees drawn up to his chest, his trembling hands clasping his head. Harry squatted and reached out to touch him. However, right when his fingers came in contact with Draco's shoulder, Draco flinched and pulled away. "Don't," he hissed.

But Harry was persistent. He touched his shoulder again, this time gently stroking it. "Shhh," he soothed. "Are they bothering you again?"

Draco shuddered and moaned, and that was all Harry needed for a response. Draco's scars went too deep to fade. They were sensitive, vulnerable, and utterly horrendous. They carried secrets, mysteries—confessions of a life that looked perfect, yet was unspeakably disgusting. A soul-baring life meant only to be told in the faintest of whispers.

Harry scooted closer and slid his hand along Draco's arm, trying in vain to calm his demons. Draco's trembling intensified. He began to whimper and Harry's heart immediately plummeted. "I'm so sorry," he said quickly. "It's okay...it's okay...I'm so sorry, Draco."

Draco's hands clenched into fists and he banged his knuckles against his forehead—once, twice, three times.

"Draco, stop," Harry ordered, grabbing a hold of his fists and tugging them away from him. "You mustn't do that!" There was an air of parental authority in his voice. It was stern, while at the same time caring.

Draco looked at him, the whites of his eyes barely visible in the wedge of white light spilling into the interior of the basement. "What do you want from me?" he asked desperately. "Tell me the truth."

"I want to help you," Harry replied.

Draco snorted. "Lying asshole," he grumbled. "Vindictive, two-faced little fuck!"

"Calm down," Harry advised him, ignoring his touchiness. "Why don't you tell me what's bothering you?"

There was no reply.

"Draco..."

Draco leaned his head back against the wall and momentarily closed his eyes. "I tried to find it," he answered.

"Find what?"

Draco paused, deep in thought. "I tried to find...I wanted...I tried to...no." All of a sudden, he leapt to his feet, pushing Harry over backwards. "I can't do it. Not with you looking at me!"

He shoved past Harry and darted across the basement, emerging into focus under the moonlight for a brief moment before vanishing into the dark obscurity of another corner. Harry waited patiently, deciding it best not to approach him again.

"I dreamed of killing you," Draco confessed, his tone eerily apathetic.

Harry felt a swift chill rush up his spine. In case something should go horribly wrong at the blink of an eye, he assumed a semi-defensive stance, mentally accusing himself of leaving his wand upstairs.

"I really did," Draco continued. "Well, I think they were dreams—so weak. Did you make me weak? Fighting with you. Pouring salt in the wounds. Screaming. Laughing. They should have warned me about you—sneaky little pricks!"

"Wait, who should have warned you about me?" Harry inquired, but Draco did not answer.

"They don't want you, no," he said matter-of-factly. "They're afraid of you. You're a monster. You don't have a heart—or, maybe you do, but it's not flesh and blood like theirs. It's stone."

Right then Harry realized that Draco was referring to himself.

"You have no soul," he ridiculed. "You are proud, and selfish, and cruel. You are all the things people believe they're allowed to be when they don't have reasons. But you know the truth. She shot you out her dirty hole and you have no soul. Just a body. Just an ugly body, with no soul."

Harry's eyes started to pool with tears. "You have a soul, Draco," he told him.

Draco moved again, further into the shadows. "It's about bloody time you were honest with yourself. Daddy's cane told the truth. Daddy's cane always tells the truth." Despite the darkness, Harry could see Draco cradle his head in his hands, rocking back and forth as though trying to soothe a chronic headache. "It scolds you!" he cried. "'Go to the darkness!' it says. 'Go to the darkness where you belong!'"

"Why does it tell you to go to the darkness?" Harry asked.

Draco moaned.

"Draco...?"

"There was no spark."

"No spark?"

"No, no spark—and I wanted the spark!"

Harry was surprised that Draco now referred to himself as "I" instead of "you." A peculiar thing it was, switching between first and second person like that—almost as if two different people were speaking.

"I wanted it back. I wanted to shine again, like I did before I could think—before I knew I was alive. I wanted to be clean again. I endured agonizing pain. Dumbledore, he knew what I was. He saw through my façade. But he didn't know I wanted the spark." And just like that, seemingly without any reason, Draco burst into tears. "He didn't know I wanted to shine!"

"I'm sure he knew, Draco," Harry tried to console him. "Dumbledore saw you for who you truly were."

"The spark was so beautiful," Draco sputtered. "A light drew me toward it. Such a pretty light—worth dying for. And so I took the pain. It crumbled me, but I told myself to be strong. 'They're only broken bones,' I said. 'Only broken bones. Don't matter. Not in the end.'"

"Why did you go through so much pain? Why would you allow yourself to suffer like that?"

"Harry, shame on you!" Draco shouted. "Why does a scared little boy do what he shouldn't? Why does he give himself away? To love. To be loved. To get someone—anyone—to understand."

Harry nodded, coming to grips with what Draco meant. He was right; people often did things out of the ordinary for the sake of being understood and accepted.

"It hurts, Harry."

Harry's stomach churned. "What hurts?" he asked nervously.

"The spark is a fire."

"A fire?"

"Yes, a fire." Draco then gave a humorless laugh. "It burns on the inside. So much pain in there... It's devouring me whole."

All of a sudden, Harry's eyes widened as the shocking revelation of what Draco was talking about hit him. "Your conscience," he gasped. "You're talking about your conscience, aren't you?" He was mystified by how simple it was, yet how long it took him to figure out. "It's killing you from the inside."

"You tried to cut it out of me once," Draco mused, lifting up the hem of his shirt, revealing—to Harry's dismay—the still-visible slash marks across his stomach and chest from the regretful Sectumsempra curse. "Don't you remember, Harry? You tried to slash it out, but you couldn't."

"That's not true!" Harry hollered, his voice cracking with emotion. "I never wanted to hurt you like that. I had no idea what that spell would even do when I used it!"

Instinctually, he began to walk toward Draco—steadily, cautiously—but Draco scurried away, this time going over to the stair case. He lingered there for a moment, and then rushed up the stairs in a frenzy, his bare feet creating spastic thumping noises as he ascended.

Harry followed him, shouting at him to stop. But Draco didn't stop—not until he reached Harry's bedroom, where he knew Harry kept his wand. On a countertop right by the door. By the time Harry entered the room, Draco had already snatched it and was brandishing it in front of him.

"Draco, drop it!" Harry commanded.

Draco did not comply. "So everything's okay then, right? Everything's as it should be."

"No, everything's not alright, Draco. Now put down my wand!"

Draco still did not relinquish the wand. "I've seen the truth," he declared. "I have the spark in me, and soon everyone will know. Everyone will love and forgive...right, Harry?"

Harry sighed, defeated. "That's right, Draco," he humored him. "That's exactly right. But first you must give me my wand back. It doesn't belong to you."

"Oh yes," Draco said, relieved. "Love."

He then gazed fixedly at Harry's wand, clutching it tightly within his grasp, observing a moment of silence. When he spoke again, his words came out slow and practiced—as though he was quoting something: "They will love the spark—the soul—and all will be set right. He shall find the truth that he so passionately sought, and all his destitutions shall reveal themselves. The truth will be known by his friends and his enemies...and everyone shall look upon him with compassion, and everyone shall forgive, and love."

A single tear fell from his eye and journeyed down his cheek. "Oh yes, he will be loved."

"Please," Harry begged, holding out his opened palm, "give me my wand."

"The things we give away will always find their way back to us, and then we can rest."

Slowly, Draco turned the wand around so that the tip of it pointed towards himself—right at his chest. He looked at Harry and smiled in reassurance. "You understand?" he asked.

Harry shook his head, knowing what he was about the do but unable to make himself believe it.

"Harry...you understand?"

"Draco," Harry muttered, "please..."

Still smiling, Draco closed his eyes.

An eternity passed in the next moment.

"Avada…"

"NOOOO!"

"Kadavra!"