Summary: Draco thinks he loves Harry. But when he's transported to another
dimension, he finds that love is not what he expected. Meanwhile, a certain
elf finds himself in a strange world, and falls in love with a quiet man.
LOTR crossover. SLASH.
Rating: R for adult themes
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Draco scowled at his ceiling, fidgeting beneath the crisp white sheets of his bed. It had been a long day, avoiding those thoughts which crept into his head constantly, images of tousled brown hair and green eyes and a body lying next to him, a smile on his lips.
Only at night did he allow himself the guilty pleasure of these thoughts. He would run the day's events through his head, analyse every word, every look, every action, until he closed his eyes in exhaustion and fell into a sleep full of feverish dreams. He knew it was an infatuation, that he could turn it off with the switch of a button in his heart, but he found he didn't want to. Having Harry as an obsession kept his mind from swaying to less pleasurable subjects, his father, his dread at the visits to Azkaban, the emotional wreck that had once been his mother and was now a pitiful shell of a witch, crying in her bedroom all day, dressed in a nightgown that had long ago turned a dirty yellow from too much wear.
Better to think about Harry Potter than that.
But tonight, Draco's thoughts were on himself. He couldn't sleep, and when he couldn't sleep he became selfish, bitter. He imagined himself in his mind, listing everything he hated about his appearance. His hair was too blonde, grown too long. His eyes were blue, he hated blue eyes. They looked so weak and uninteresting. His lips, his nose, his cheekbones, his body, too lean, too thin, his skin too pale, made him look bleached by the sun.
He hated himself with a passion that frightened him as much as it thrilled him.
And lately the hate had grown, smothering him in an oppressive blanket that cut him off from the world, his own personal hell. He could see how everyone else hated him, despised him, feared him. And he understood why, because he hated him too. What hurt was that Harry hated him as well, and Harry was the only one he could convince himself he loved. Of course, he didn't truly love Harry. Harry was too good for him. But he could pretend to love him, for now, and maybe one day he could convince himself that Harry loved him too.
But maybe that day would never come.
The thought spread through his mind like wildfire. What if he ended it now? Ended the pain, the hate, the misery, the self manipulation, the mindless mechanical actions that defined his existence. He would never have to face the world when he finished school, would never have to face a lifetime of hate and fear from those around him when they learnt his name. The legacy of being a Malfoy had never seemed so dark, so real to him.
'There's a knife in the draw'
His mind whispered to him, urging him on, reminding him of everything he hated and everything that hated him. 'Do it'. So he reached for the cold steel knife, and as it bit into his wrist, the moon came out and shone on him like a beacon. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily as he felt himself being drawn downwards.
When he woke, the sun was shining.
Rating: R for adult themes
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Draco scowled at his ceiling, fidgeting beneath the crisp white sheets of his bed. It had been a long day, avoiding those thoughts which crept into his head constantly, images of tousled brown hair and green eyes and a body lying next to him, a smile on his lips.
Only at night did he allow himself the guilty pleasure of these thoughts. He would run the day's events through his head, analyse every word, every look, every action, until he closed his eyes in exhaustion and fell into a sleep full of feverish dreams. He knew it was an infatuation, that he could turn it off with the switch of a button in his heart, but he found he didn't want to. Having Harry as an obsession kept his mind from swaying to less pleasurable subjects, his father, his dread at the visits to Azkaban, the emotional wreck that had once been his mother and was now a pitiful shell of a witch, crying in her bedroom all day, dressed in a nightgown that had long ago turned a dirty yellow from too much wear.
Better to think about Harry Potter than that.
But tonight, Draco's thoughts were on himself. He couldn't sleep, and when he couldn't sleep he became selfish, bitter. He imagined himself in his mind, listing everything he hated about his appearance. His hair was too blonde, grown too long. His eyes were blue, he hated blue eyes. They looked so weak and uninteresting. His lips, his nose, his cheekbones, his body, too lean, too thin, his skin too pale, made him look bleached by the sun.
He hated himself with a passion that frightened him as much as it thrilled him.
And lately the hate had grown, smothering him in an oppressive blanket that cut him off from the world, his own personal hell. He could see how everyone else hated him, despised him, feared him. And he understood why, because he hated him too. What hurt was that Harry hated him as well, and Harry was the only one he could convince himself he loved. Of course, he didn't truly love Harry. Harry was too good for him. But he could pretend to love him, for now, and maybe one day he could convince himself that Harry loved him too.
But maybe that day would never come.
The thought spread through his mind like wildfire. What if he ended it now? Ended the pain, the hate, the misery, the self manipulation, the mindless mechanical actions that defined his existence. He would never have to face the world when he finished school, would never have to face a lifetime of hate and fear from those around him when they learnt his name. The legacy of being a Malfoy had never seemed so dark, so real to him.
'There's a knife in the draw'
His mind whispered to him, urging him on, reminding him of everything he hated and everything that hated him. 'Do it'. So he reached for the cold steel knife, and as it bit into his wrist, the moon came out and shone on him like a beacon. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily as he felt himself being drawn downwards.
When he woke, the sun was shining.