I own nothing.
The lake swirled with discontent, mirroring Draco's emotions. The blond stood, up to his ankles in the cool water, staring up at the castle in the gathering darkness. The stars shone like diamonds against black velvet and the moon made an opal centre piece.
Draco came out here to think, or rather not to think, to clear his mind and close the door on dark imaginings.
He hummed softly to himself, a sound barely discernable over the crashing of the waves.
"You wait, little girl, on an empty stage." he murmured, "for fate to turn the light on."
Casting a glance over his shoulder, the blond stood suddenly and took few careful steps through the sticky mud.
"Your life, little girl, is an empty page
That men will want to write on," his voice was becoming stronger, not louder but ever more melodious.
"To write on..." he pitched his voice slightly higher, without being comical.
"You are sixteen, going on seventeen
Baby it's time to think!
Better beware, be canny and careful
Baby, you're on the brink," his bare, thin feet moving in a slow sort of tango on the sand.
"You are sixteen going on seventeen
Fellows will fall in line
Eager young lads and rogues and cads
Will offer you food and wine
Totally unprepared are you
To face a world of men
Timid and shy and scared are you
Of things beyond your ken," he was smiling now and moving in more rapid circles, wooing an imaginary Leisl.
"You need someone older and wiser
Telling you what to do
I am seventeen going on eighteen
I'll take care of you"
"Rolf couldn't take care of Leisl," Draco said bitterly, "he betrayed her in the end. Betrayed her with his cowardliness, his spinelessness, and for what? A crazy motherfucker and an ideal he probably didn't even believe in or understand."
He paused a moment, emotions growing more tumulus as the lake began to calm.
"My, my, my..." Draco smiled, "Rolf... were you a Malfoy? No, no, perhaps not. I am Rolf aren't I? What do I follow, in whom do I believe? Ah, Leisl save me too, will you? Take me with you, out of Austria, I'll go with you, I'll take your hand Captain..."
"I am sixteen, going on seventeen," He murmured kicking at the water.
"I know that I'm naive,
Fellows I meet may tell me I'm sweet
And willingly I fucking put out,
I am sixteen going on seventeen
Innocent, no
Bachelor dandies, drinkers of brandies
I know too much of those
Totally unprepared was I
To face a world of men
Timd and shy and scared am I
Of things I know too well
I need someone, older and wiser
Telling me what to do
You are like fucking forty
And I depended on you."
"Fuck," he waded deeper into the water, "fuck I'm a little bitch. What, change song lyrics with your juvenile rage, yes, cry your rage to the darkness. My, you are a cliché, aren't you."
The water was cold. But no, cold was an illusion, he'd learned that studying muggle sciences, it was simply his nerves perceiving the movement of heat energy out of his body and into the water. He walked a little further and his toes could no longer feel the sharp rocks beneath them.
It was up to his chest when he couldn't feel the cold anymore; maybe that was a bad thing. Maybe he didn't really care.
"Suicidal now, are we?" he laughed under his breath; it was like a bad teen novel. It was tacky, it was old, it had been done and it was so pointless. But he still did it, every so often it felt good to destroy innocent things, innocent lyrics, with his hatred. Do on to others and all that.
Except this wasn't a bad teen novel, if it was a secret crush would come running from the darkness and pull him to safety. He would be saved, he would fall in love and ride off into the glorious sunset. Oh, there would be angst along the way, he would tearfully confess his father's abuse, and they would confess their own fucked up childhood. And the fan girls would cry and swoon.
"Well?" he asked the darkness, "thank you. And good night."
He swam a bit further, treading water. It would be painful, no doubt, drowning. He wasn't looking forward to it.
So why are you doing it?
"No idea," he muttered and flipped to float on his back. The waves had died down almost completely, so he easily propelled himself through the water. Slowly, the cold began to cramp and knot his muscles. Paths of fire fled down his turning-blue cheeks.
A particularly large wave flipped him onto his stomach and Draco didn't have the strength to right himself.
So... this is dying?
No, another wave flipped him back, and he sobbed in the back of his throat. He didn't want to die, he wanted to be saved.
Fellows will fall in line... it wasn't about his father, it wasn't about feeling Fenrir's cock inside of him every time he closed his eyes, it was about being hopeless. He could get over his father's harshness, his mother's coldness and the Death Eater circle he had been passed around after his father's failure at the end of fifth year... or the one after he was marked.
No, it was deeper than that, there something inside of him that longed to break out. A bird that crawled under his skin and tore at his gut, trying to claw its way out of his rib cage. A dark hungry monster full of hate and fear, that Draco tried to feed with Gryffindors and mudbloods. It didn't work, with every taunt and every piece of brittle, black hatred that slipped from his pink lips the creature grew bigger and more ravenous, and no amount of cruelty could keep it from feasting on Draco's innards like a carrion crow.
He didn't know what it was, what was wrong with him. It was a sadness, a terrible thing that he couldn't put to words, but it made him feel as if he was drowning or falling down a hole without an end. How he longed to hit the bottom, to end his fall, to slam into hard ground, starving the monster of his living flesh. It would kill them both, he knew, but it was worth it for the pain to stop.
Something was splashing at his right, and moving rather quickly... perhaps he would be eaten, it was preferable to drowning. The thing grabbed him and tugged him back the way it came. Annoyed, Draco tried to elbow it, trying to fight his way back to a watery death.
"Stop it!" the thing snapped, tugging him harder.
Draco tried to focus his eyes, but failed. Darkness was waiting at the corners of his eyes, and sighing softly, he embraced it like the mother he never had.
The next thing he felt was sand, under his body and in his hair. He blinked stupidly and saw only dazzling emerald green.
"Malfoy! Fuck... Draco! Malfoy, listen to me you git!" he was being shaken.
"Stop," he whispered, "please stop..."
The swirling green became two pools in a pale face. He knew that face... he did, but he couldn't think who it was.
"We have to get you to the castle," Eyes said insistently.
"No," he rasped, but he couldn't move, "It's... cliché, stupid... novel."
"Why were you out there?" eyes lifted him in strong, warm arms, "Christ Malfoy, but you're skinny."
Against his better judgment, Draco rested his cheek against the warm chest and hummed, "Baby, you're on the brink... time to think..."
"You're not making sense."
"To write on..." he continued sadly. Tears fell silently, "kill me."
"That's why you were out there?" he sounded angry... he? Yes, no girl could lift him, save perhaps Millicent, but she wouldn't save him. "Trying to kill yourself?"
"Rolf... killing the coward," he sobbed and pain ripped through his chest, "hurts."
"Fucking hell, Malfoy," those eyes looked watery. They had stopped moving and Draco felt himself being placed on the ground, "what did you do to yourself?"
"Nothing," he muttered, "they marked me. But I followed... Hitler, couldn't save Leisl... take the hand."
"You're still not making sense," the eye leaned over him, "do you know who I am? Do you know who you are?"
"Eyes," Draco whispered, blinking, "you're eyes... you're Leisl... no, the Captain."
"I'm Potter," Eyes shook him, "Harry Potter. You're Draco Malfoy. You hate me."
"No," Draco trembled. "I hate Draco... I don't want to be Draco... Don't make me."
The eyes sighed and lifted him again. Draco, in a sudden burst of strength, put his arms around his rescuers neck.
"Still hurts," Draco told him softly a while later.
"Almost there, Draco." He grunted.
"Kill me," he muttered, "do it now. Sev—he won't forgive me. Father... kill me before he does."
"You're insane," eyes adjusted his grip on him.
"Potter!" the voice was quite loud and Draco flinched.
"Professor, thank Merlin," Eyes seemed relieved. Perhaps he didn't want him either, "I found him floating in the lake... I think he tried to kill himself."
The voice gasped, "Quickly, Potter."
Darkness took Draco again, and when he woke he was in a soft, white bed. He was confused for a moment, before his near suicide raced back to him.
Eyes... swirling, green and beautiful. And Potter's.
Potter, who had saved him. Potter who was sleeping in a chair next to his bed, looking like an over grown child. Who had carried Draco, soaking wet, though the cold March air all the way from the lake to the Hospital wing.
"Potter," his voice was hoarse and barely there, but the Golden Boy jumped from sleep immediately. He looked expectant, but almost fearful, as if he knew something was coming but wondered if he was going to like it. "I fucking hate you, you asshole."
"I saved your life," he raised a dark brow, though he looked rather hurt.
"I know." Draco rasped, "I made my choice."
"And I made mine," Potter snapped.
"You chose wrong, I'm a liability," he coughed pitifully and his eyes watered. "Hurts..."
The brunet's face broke, "I know Malfoy, that's your body's way of telling you no to kill it."
Draco sobbed brokenly, "why you, you fucker. Can't even let me die..."
"No, I can't," Harry murmured, leaning forward, "what the hell has gotten into you?"
"Many, many people," he muttered with a wet chuckle.
Potter paled, and Draco instantly regretted his words, "are you implying what I think you're implying?"
"You should have left me," Draco turned away and his eyes caught a sleeping potion on the bed table. Plan B.
"Don't even think it!" Harry snapped and grabbed his shoulder, flipping him over. A sob broke his lips as hot pain shot through his body, "oh, shit Draco, I'm sorry!"
"Draco?" the blond frowned through his tears, "you called..."
"Sorry," Potter muttered pushing Draco's bangs out of his face.
"Don't be..." he whispered. "But I'm still going to drink it when you leave."
"Then I won't leave."
And he didn't... for another sixty years, at least.
So it was a cliché, it was a bad romance novel... down to the stupidly happy ending, that implies more but lets the audience imagine, rather than spelling it out. But perhaps, Draco deserved this sort of ending, deserved to have his sad little dreams come true, if only for a few hundred words and a few minutes of your time. Perhaps we all do.