A Pain That I'm Used To
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Warnings: Auto-destructive behaviour. Death. OOC behaviour.
Rating: NC-17 for above reasons.
Summary: The last Hogsmeade Night before the finals. Draco has stayed in Hogwarts, to reflect on the past seven years.
Draco Malfoy was lying outstretched on his bed. He was all alone in the big and normally very busy boys dorm. Today was Hogsmeade day, and everyone had been excited when they had woken up two hours ago. Everyone except Draco.
"Come on, Malfoy," Blaise had urged him. "Last Hogsmeade winter visit before we leave school! You can't miss that!" But Draco had refused on the premise of "not feeling too well", but unusually, he had refused a curing spell as well. "Illnesses not brought on by magic should not be cured by magic," he had cut short every attempt at getting him to Madam Pomfrey, or her to see him. In the end, when they saw he wouldn't be thrown from that position, the Slytherins had shrugged – Draco was, after all, renowned for having strange fits and fancies, and maybe, who knew, he was plotting something – and left for a day of Butter beer, snowball fights, and magic candy. He had all but urged them out of doors, and had breathed a deep sigh of relief when they were finally all gone.
He went over to the window, looking onto the snow-covered meadows and the magic wood. The tops of the trees were visible in the distance. He shot a longing glance at the Quidditch pitch. He had always missed the game during the cold season. The tingling in his stomach when he flew, the gentle wind playing with his hair. The glory of a match won. The excitement of fighting. He could have picked up his broom and turned a round any time, but in this kind of weather it was no fun, and he'd always found flying all on his own rather depressing. No team, no Quidditch, no Gryffindors... no Gryffindor seeker. The only one who could beat him.
His gaze halted at Gryffindor Tower. "Stupid, " he chided himself. Harry was certainly not there. He was down in Hogsmeade, having fun with Harry and Hermione. His heart gave a jolt. He thought of the Gryffindor trio, who were so close friends. They had been since First Year. He wondered sometimes if Harry and Ron... "You're not becoming jealous of that Redhead, are you?" His voice sounded strange in the big room, resonating from the walls as if it were not really his own voice, but the voice of someone – something – else, chiding him. He closed his eyes as heremembered his father.
"I don't care what you do, or who you fuck around with. I want an heir. And I want him to be a pure-blood. So as long as you marry Miss Parkinson, everything is alright. Is that understood, young man?" Draco had never felt so down in his whole life. He would never have had the heart to tell his parents who he really loved, who he slept with, but somehow they had found out.
They had found out that their son was gay. Draco had expected something much more evil from his father. But Lucius Malfoy had never been one to stir up a scandal. As long as there was a Malfoy-Parkinson marriage, and an heir, everything was alright.
Draco went back to bed, knotted his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
He had slept in this room for seven years. Seven years. Time had passed away so quickly. And now there was none left of it, he did not feel like celebrating that. After the finals, everyone would disappear. They would spread into every corner of the wizarding world, mostly without the chance of ever meeting again.
No, he didn't feel like celebrating.
"Eh, Potter? Always running around with the wrong sort of wizards. That's really a pity. Why are you still so attached to little Weasel, and our lovely Miss Mudblood Granger?"
"I can choose my friends myself, Malfoy. And I know who my friends are, and where we stand. I don't need a Death Eater to order me around."
A razor blade was dragged across skin that had been cut and re-cut so often that it seemed to consist solely of scar tissue. The blonde boy tilted his head backwards and cut on. The blood trickled out and slowly dyed the towel across his legs in a bright scarlet.
"It's freaking hot, Malfoy! Why are you still wearing long sleeves? And your robes?"
If only they'd stop their stupid questions. If only I could speak.
Seven years. Seven years of longing. Seven years of angst because of what I feel for you. Seven years of watching you, stealing glances at you across the classroom, or in the Quidditch pitch.
Seven years of hiding behind acrid remarks, aristocratic pride. Seven years of subduing to my father's will.
I made you hate me.
In the beginning, I picked on you because it was fun. But then it got out of hand, and I couldn't turn back. Now there is no way I can ever tell you what I feel for you. You wouldn't believe. Who'd believe a snake? Who'd love a snake? Who'd touch it? I can't even touch myself... unless...
The towel was soaked. Draco's slippery hand lost hold of the razor blade. It fell to the ground with a tingling sound. He picked it up again, leaving a small pool of blood on the floor.
I fucked him raw. I used him. I got used.
It's not that I didn't like it. But it meant nothing. Nothing.
He was the first who saw the scars though.
"Oh my God, where did you get these?" The brown-haired boy yielded and looked at Draco with sincerity. Draco was confused and angry. Why had he left the lights on anyway?
"Draco... I am sorry. I am so sorry..." It dawned on the boy what those wounds meant.
"Do you still do it?" Draco sighed. "No," he lied. "Don't let's talk about it. Please." He kissed the other boy. But the expression on his face lingered in his mind. Whenever he touched Draco, he would look at him as if he was going to cry.
"He can't really care that much about me," Draco thought. But that question had bothered him ever since he had broken up with him: How serious had it really been from the other's point of view?
But he had shed no tears then. He had cried in silence. He had cried, and he had cut.
I love you, Harry. He slahed his left wrist and took the blade in his left hand. His fingers trembled.
I will always love you. His right wrist subsided under the blade's pressure.
You'll never know. If I'd written a letter, you'd feel guilty for the rest of your life. I couldn't do that to you.
Draco leaned back and breathed out, watching the warm liquid flowing out of him. He was almost amused. Nothing mattered now.
His sight faded. Things blurred into fuzzy coloured spots.
I am free.
He shivered. The warmth of your arms envelops me.
He smiled. The feel of your lips on mine. He closed his eyes.
I am invincible.