Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters or the books, or the movie. Or the actors.
Warnings: Slash (but very very mild); deathfic; probably some OOCness; and author's uninformed descriptions of potions and spells.
Notes: First off, sorry to those of you who're here cuz you thought there was going to be harry/draco. This is NOT a harry/draco fic. There are far more talented authors than me out there who write them :p this is basically a draco/ron – if you read to the end there's a slight reference. This is a sort of experiment, so I'm not very sure how it will turn out. Harry and Draco will appear, as something more than cameos, just not in this first bit ^_~ I would really appreciate it if you could read and leave a review.
Dedicated to: any and all Draco/Ron ficcers, for showing the world how right they can be for each other.
*Ron*
I don't want to do this anymore.
I can't do this anymore.
God, I'm so tired. So so tired. Always exhausted, teetering along the fine line between wakefulness and unconsciousness. It doesn't matter if I've blacked out for fourteen hours straight. When I open my eyes again, I'm plunged once again into the blur that's become my existence.
My existence for… for as long as I seem to remember.
No, that's not exactly true. There're some vague recollections of a time when I was alive and vibrant, joyful and passionate. I was tired then too, but it was a lethargy born of late nights up, talking and plotting, sneaking around in the dark in the name of friendship and good… I loved and hated, I laughed and cried – I FELT and experienced, with all of my being.
Thinking about it seems to spark something in me for a bit. I can feel the corners of my mouth twitch a little, as if trying to pay a nostalgic tribute to those days long past. The embers in my mind have stirred and reddened, glowing slightly, that is, until I glance at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser.
The ashes settle and I reach out a trembling hand to touch the smooth surface, tracing the outline of the gaunt image reflected within.
Is that really me? A face that's grown far too thin and haggard, cheekbones too defined.
Is that what they see in me? Skin that's lost its glow of health, bleached of everything save its ghastly pallor.
Is this what draws them? Eyes so lifeless, the colours gone murky, never ever expressing anything anymore, for their owner has nothing left within him to release.
Is this what makes them stay? Hair of flame dulled to tarnished copper, its sheen long gone.
Is this really me?
I close my eyes and for an instant I see a different likeness. I see myself younger and healthy, carefree, with no worries… happy.
But it's really… beyond me now. I've been leached slowly, over the days, months, years, steadily and inexorably drained.
And this is what is left. All the clichés apply. An empty husk, a hollow shell, the walking dead, a zombie… A Dementor could reach out and enfold me in its icy embrace and bestow me with its soul-stealing kiss and there would be no difference. I have nothing left for them to take.
But maybe, there might still be a difference. At least then I wouldn't be aware of how empty I was. Then I would BE a hollow husk, instead of just feeling like one.
It would be nice if one of them just drifted by right now. Save me the trouble for going through all the preparations. But since I'd have to go all the way to Azkaban to find one, I'll settle on the lesser of two evils.
All the ingredients and materials that I need have been laid out before me. I roll up my sleeves as I begin to gather the required amounts together to drop into the crystal pitcher I've bought especially for this purpose. The concoction starts to bubble and steam the moment the different elements come together. And then all I have to do is knock is back and chant the simple phrase.
It's almost too easy. But I've once heard that the simplest things are also the deadliest – all too fatal in the intensity of their purity. That is why the deepest secrets of the Dark Arts are so closely guarded. Anyone could perform a curse or hex, given enough inclination and determination.
The Avada Kedavra works on this principle. The fact that you HATE the object of your curse, with every fibre of your being, energises the dark magic woven into the words of the spell. Dark wizards wield it so much more effectively than the average magic-user because they harbour so much resentment and ill-will against the people and the world.
The spell I'm about to perform shares similar roots with Avada Kedavra, but the energy resultant, instead of striking a victim, is reversed and internally focused, annihilating the caster himself.
It's a curse that's rarely heard of: there're much easier ways to get rid of oneself, even if you're a wizard. But it wouldn't have the same impact. It wouldn't make as much sense to my weary, twisted mind if I were to depart this mortal coil in any other way.
This is the only method I can think of to let them see, to let them know what demons claw in my head. They would not understand otherwise.
I can only hope that they'll forgive me, once the shock wears off and comprehension sets in. How I would love to see, for once, all of them together in the same room, peacefully. Maybe what I'm about to do will accomplish that. Only I'll never be able to confirm it with my living eyes. And if it fails, well, I still won't be here to witness it, would I?
It's time. I can feel it. I can feel it, with a bone-deep clarity. The very air hums with it – thanatos, the energy of death, vibrating with tension, ready at the slightest moment to spring forth, and engulf its summoner in a life-draining vortex.
The potion changes colour as I add in one item after the next – traversing the entire spectrum, from it's original colourless, to yellow, orange, pink, brown, mauve, aqueous blue, deep indigo, royal purple, silver, until finally, with the last sprinkling of powdered asphodel, it settles on a bright, luminous green. The colour of life.
Snape would have been proud of me.
I lift the pitcher and close my eyes, the words of the spell flaring behind my eyelids the same instant they fall unerringly from my lips, emerald letters limned in blood.
When I look upon the potion again, it has undergone its final transformation. Now it appears almost oily – black, with sickly streaks of crimson roiling through it.
I feel myself shudder, but I can no longer be sure if it's out of trepidation or anticipation. The potion slides down my throat in one gulp.
And then…
And then – I don't feel anything.
I had thought it would be more of a blast than this.
And then I'm falling.
In the distance, there's the tinkle of splintering crystal as it hits the floor. But I'm dropping much swifter than that, receding into a place beyond any I've ever been before.
I glimpse a flash of brown hair, wild and untameable except by magic, as I soar past. I want to reach out and stroke it in farewell, but I don't know where my hands are anymore.
Over there to my right – jade. Jade green eyes, black hair. Green eyes widening in… horrified recognition? Can they see me? Can they see me as I am now?
It doesn't matter.
Nothing matters now, except I'm tumbling headlong through this vast, endless space. Falling, falling straight into strong arms. Firm, familiar embrace. Silver eyes. Blond hair.
And I am not afraid.
fin