AN: Written for Dauntless Competition by Cheeky Slytherin Lass. For the tragedy/angst round. I do not own Harry Potter.
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He had bolted up in a cold sweat, covers tossed and tangled up with his own limbs. His blond hair was messed up from its usual slickness, and deep, tired circles ran under his eyes, revealing hours of sleepless slumber. He was exhausted and it was showing.
He ran a hand through his mess of hair and sighed. It was getting to him. Voldemort's task was getting to him. He stretched his cramped limbs and swung his legs over the side of his bed, his toes meeting cold wood.
Why was he chosen of all people? Why not choose a professor to do it? He'd be under someone's radar. He was already under Potter's.
It was dark inside his dormitory room, the only light was the moon hanging high overhead. No one had awoken from his wild terror, so Draco stood alone by the window sill. A chill ran through him although no wind was present, and Draco drew his arms around himself.
Maybe he could just slip away, he thought. No one would know. He could run away by himself, hide away somewhere in one of his parents' estates. He could take care of himself-he was sixteen for Merlin's sake.
But no that wouldn't work…no, they'd find him in a heartbeat. But he knew he could never live with himself if he went through with it-that would be too much guilt, too much anxiety. He was sheltered, he had to admit. There was nothing in his moral being that could persuade him to go through with it. He wasn't like the rest of his family.
There was no way in hell that he could kill his headmaster.
But he was going to be a failure then. He was going to fail and Voldemort was going to punish him. And it wouldn't be a light consequence.
Draco beat a fist against the window pane, and a dull sound echoed back. Someone stirred in bed and Draco froze. If it were Crabbe or Goyle, they'd ask what he was doing up, and being the nosy people they were, would demand more than an "I couldn't sleep". Blaise…Draco didn't know what he'd ask.
The moving subsided, and Draco relaxed, yet still frustrated at his situation. What was he going to do? He was never going to win.
Maybe...maybe he'd just end it all. Get away from all the evil and expectations and the fighting. He'd never live up to his family's expectations-well, his father's anyway. Who would miss him?
Crabbe and Goyle would find another host to suck onto; Blaise might be a bit upset at first. Pansy would act devastated and annoy the crap out of everyone. His father…his father would think it was a blessing, with his coward son out of the way and the disgrace and whispers upon the Malfoy name would cease to exist. His mother, she might have a hard time with it, but she was strong enough to pull through and move on-maybe she could still have another, better child. He certainly wouldn't be missed by the "Golden Trio".
Suddenly, he threw open the window, letting the cold air rush in and engulf him. It was like a breath of fresh air, and he felt refreshed, like his decision was made up. His hands gripped the edge of the frame, and he looked down; down the many flights of stone to the ground below.
His heart raced. It wouldn't be that bad. He had fallen off his broom plenty of times in practice. It was like that, just slightly farther…
He had hung half his upper torso out the window, ready to just pitch himself over and tumble down into the night, when someone whispered out to him from inside.
"Draco, what are you doing?" It was Blaise, his voice groggy and confused.
Draco rolled his eyes. Damn. "Nothing, Blaise. It was stuffy in here. Go back to bed," he said, withdrawing his body from outside quickly. He could hear the creak of Blaise sitting up, to get a better view. There went that plan.
"Can you close the window?" Blaise asked softly, before he lowered his head to his pillow again and dozed off.
Draco stood speechless. The window was still open, he could do it, tip backwards and that would be it. Do it, do it, do it!
"I'm sorry Blaise," he whispered. "Good night."
He took a deep breath and with his back to the window, shook his head, and grasped the empty space. His legs hit the bottom of the wall.
His hand met the latch and brought it towards himself, and he listened to the click of the window, before soundlessly getting back into bed.
It was only a matter of time now, he thought. You have to decide. You're not walking away from this unscathed. There's no way.
There's no way in hell.
….