Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The music and lyrics of Cake, DeVotchKa, Air, John Vanderslice, Beck, and Modest Mouse do not belong to me. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: Mature language.
Author's Note: Feedback is to me as breathing is to life.
- - -
The Reign of Theodore Nott
You're sitting there thinking your thoughts
They are not about what is but what is not
You are sitting there breathing in your breath
You are seldom breathing life but mostly death.
-Cake, "Commissioning a Symphony in C"
It was cold. There was a dripping noise, dull and persistent, the lake slowly leaking into the cold Slytherin common room. Draco's eyes flashed white in the dark and he wondered about death. Wondered about the lake, crushing in on him, heavy like a fist squeezing his heart, like someone shoving his head under water and holding him down. He thought about the pressure and the water, smothering him like a blanket or a pillow smashed and pinned against his face as he struggled for air, his gasping breath hot and uncomfortable as he choked. Or strangulation, a thin wire pressing tight against his skin, leaving a thin red line as he struggled for breath. What would it be like to have a knife held to his throat? To have it slit, bleeding out through his neck. It would run down and soak his chest. He thought about having a sword run through him, and imagined it would be icy and hot at the same time, a numb, dull sort of ache. If he moved it would pierce, burn. Sharp. He wondered if he would scream or if he would be able to bite back the tears and die like a man.
He thought about Avada Kadavra, and the flash of green light—he wondered if it would blind him momentarily before he fell. He wondered if there would even be time to register it or if he would just be…dead. The wand movements weren't complicated, and his wrist twitched beside him in the bed, miming the sharp little flick that could end it all. Would end it all. He pictured Dumbledore, old and grey and crumpled and wondered if he could do it, if he could really flick his wrist and say the curse. He wondered if the old Headmaster had ever lay in bed and wondered about death, or if he was always content, his eyes twinkling in that infuriating way, his long-fingered hands holding out a tin of lemon drops.
There was a heavy sigh from the bed beside Draco's and he turned to see Theodore Nott watching him.
"Fucking drip," Nott whispered on a breath of air, so quiet Draco almost didn't hear. Draco nodded silently. "Why are you awake?"
Draco jerked a shoulder and shook his head. "Don't know," he whispered back.
"Got to be some reason," Theodore challenged, still quiet and without venom.
"Death, I guess," Draco murmured, staring at the ceiling, a black thing that stretched up and up and up. He wondered if that's how it looked—if that's what Death was like, just some endless black thing.
"Aren't we all," Nott stated, propping himself up on his elbow to get a better look at Draco. "Yours? Or someone else's?"
Draco shook his head and was silent for a long time, his eyes on the black ceiling and Nott's black eyes on him. Finally, "Both."
Theodore slipped off his bed, quiet like a cat, and shoved Draco's shoulder. "Move over." Draco wasn't one to share a bed with anyone—not even Parkinson—but he obliged, silently shifting so he lay on only one side of the bed. Theodore climbed up and settled himself on top of the covers. "It was fucking dripping on me," he said by way of explanation. "Bloody fucking dungeons."
A startled laugh came from Draco's parted lips and Nott pressed his hand over his mouth. "Don't be waking the others, fool," Nott said, not unkindly. He removed his hand slowly and Draco looked at him.
"Don't be touching me," Draco whispered, narrowing his eyes slightly as he observed Nott. He was a skinny boy, with straight dark hair that hung in his black, black eyes. He was taller than Draco, by at least a few inches, but thinner, too. He had thin wrists and long fingers and Draco didn't want to think about them pressing over his mouth.
"So who died? Or who's going to die?" Theodore asked, putting his arm behind his head and staring up at the ceiling as Draco had done moments earlier.
"None of your business. You can go back to your own bed and let it drip on you."
"I don't want to."
Draco decided he didn't really care, just so long as he kept his hands to himself. "Keep your hands to yourself," he whispered, a fierce note creeping into his tone.
"You afraid of a boy?" Nott whispered. "Afraid you'll like it?" He was leaning in close, his nose almost touching Draco's. Draco's jaw stiffened and they glared at one another. "I'm not like that," Nott said and pulled away, settling back onto his pillow. "So you can just stop your pussy-footing around and accept the fact that I'm in your bed and not attracted to you."
Draco snorted and rolled so his back was to Theodore.
"Oh, better not do that!" Theodore said mockingly. "Never know when I'll decide to grab you and go at it."
"Get out of my bed," Draco hissed, flipping to face Nott. He jabbed his finger into Nott's arm, prodding him. "G'on, get out."
Theodore jabbed his own finger into Draco's chest. "Malfoy, you have entirely too much ego." He gave him a firm poke and rolled out of the bed. "Sweet dreams, lover," he cooed after having crawled back under the covers of his own bed.
Draco shifted so he was in the middle of his bed again, pulling the covers to his chin and pressing his teeth into his lower lip, hard, to keep from cursing the other boy.
"It's still fucking dripping on me," Nott whispered and Draco rolled over so his back was to the other boy's bed and shut his eyes tight, drowning out the sound the way he drowned in his dreams.
- - -
Theodore was a quiet boy and he ate slightly apart from the others, near the end of the table, his hand resting near his glass of pumpkin juice as he moved his eggs around with his fork.
Draco turned to Pansy and rested his chin on his fist. She was saying something, her voice low as she confided in the girl next to her.
"I could only think she was joking. It was positively hideous…" Pansy caught Draco's eye briefly before returning her gaze to the other girl. Draco could tell she wasn't listening—she would nod and murmur, "mm-hm," but kept sneaking glances at him out of the corner of her eye. Her foot bumped up against his beneath the table, the toe of her shoe nudging his own toes, a secret little hello meant only for him. He nudged her back and turned to look once more at Nott, sitting sullen and grey, still moving his eggs around but not eating any of them.
"Nott," Draco called. "Everything okay?"
Theodore looked up and raised an eyebrow. Draco noticed the dark circles underlining his black eyes. "Just tired," he replied and set down his fork, trading it for his glass of pumpkin juice. "Ceiling dripped all fucking night; I didn't get a wink of sleep." Something quirked the slightest corner of his mouth upward.
Draco cocked his head, unsure how to reply. Pansy nudged his foot again. "Draco," she said. "We're still going to the lake later, right? After classes?" She bit her lip and raised an eyebrow.
Of course they were going to the lake later. "Okay," he said instead, coolly nonchalant, secretly looking forward to their little meeting very much. Nothing like Pansy's soft lips against his, her small frame tucked up under his arm as they watched the fireflies. She smiled, a small lift of her lips, just for him.
Draco felt that he was being watched and turned to see Theodore, something on his face that he couldn't quite read. Theodore smirked suddenly, his glance flicking to Pansy before he shook his head slightly and gave Draco a knowing look.
- - -
Draco was nearly rigid with impatience as Professor Binns wound up the end of History. He wanted to see Pansy. The doddering old man had already run over time. She was probably already waiting by the lake. Draco shifted restlessly, his books already packed in his bag to go. Other students were starting to shuffle, now, too, and Binns shook his head sadly before waving them all away.
Originally, it had been Draco's plan to drop off his book bag at the dorms and then meet up with Pansy, but he figured since Binns had used the little extra time Draco had allowed himself, he ought just go straight to the lake.
He found Pansy sitting at the edge of the water, her legs folded beneath her, plucking at the stems of grass and dropping them onto the surface of the lake, watching them float and sway.
"Parkinson," Draco said by way of greeting and settled himself beside her, close enough to touch with his shoulder if he leaned just a little.
She turned with a smile. "Malfoy," she drawled, slow and content, enjoying their game. She held out a piece of grass to him. He took it and twirled it, fast between his fingers.
"So…" she said. After a moment, Draco kissed her, enjoying the plush pressure of her mouth on his as she kissed him back, leaning into him, a hand gently resting on his arm. They pulled away after a moment and Draco dotted kisses, like whispers, along her jaw line, down her neck, a breath of a kiss on her collarbone. She put a finger on the underside of his chin and guided him back to her lips, more persistent this time than the first kiss had been, pushing him back so he was leaning on his elbows, his head lifted to meet her mouth. Her hands were in his hair, buried in the fine strands, coarsened by the wind. He bit playfully at her lower lip and she made a noise in the back of her throat, encouraging him to continue. It was lovely, but the thought came, unbidden, of the stick-thin boy clambering into his bed and asking about death, his dark, dark eyes sullen and bruised like the sky just before a storm.
"Draco?" Pansy's voice, rising in a question, returned him with a startle to his present situation. Her pretty face, delicate and small, was hovering over his, shrewd brown eyes studying his expression. "Lost you for a moment there," she whispered, her lips brushing the top of his ear.
"Sorry," he murmured and his fingers pressed a little harder into her side, enjoying the soft feel of something solid and warm. He focused on that, as well as the warm evening breeze, which was a rarity.
They went in not long after because the breeze turned chilly and the sun disappeared, casting everything into varying shades of the same repressing monotone.
- - -
Despite the fact everyone said Pansy adored him—and she said it herself, too—she didn't spend every waking moment at his side, and Draco felt—if not incomplete, at least a bit chilly—when she was gone. Every common room had a fireplace, but the Slytherin chambers were of a rather harsher temperature, due to the icy water of the lake pressing in on them always. It never really got warm. He wondered what it would really be like to be burned to death.
Abandoning the common room for a place with blankets he could use and glad to be done with the required reading for History, Draco sat on his bed, staring dully at his shoes and listening to the muted, strangely heavy thump of water dripping in from the outside world.
"Fucking drip again."
Draco knew before he turned that it was Theodore.
"I mean, look at what it's done. And I told Filch about it, too. Told him to fix the fucking hole." He didn't sound particularly angry, but he was frowning down at his bed, more disconcerted than irritated. He saw Draco looking and gestured to the large wet spot near the head of the bed. "See?"
"Fix it yourself," Draco suggested.
"Can't do that. Magic won't let me—trust me, I've tried." His mouth twisted a bit, either in the memory of something amusing or in contemplation. The emotions didn't look so different on his face. "No, if they let students fix any old thing they wanted we'd have bits of ceiling constantly shifting about. I told Filch."
Draco kicked off his shoes and lay down, shutting his eyes as a few other boys drifted in, rummaged in their trunks, pulled back their covers, muttered to themselves and each other. One of them coughed, as if stumbling on his own breath.
Draco wondered what it would be like to choke, everything closing up, getting awkward in panic. He didn't realize until he was done imagining the whole thing that he had been holding his breath. He let it out slowly, focusing on the feel of his lungs expanding as he drew in air, cold and damp.
"So who's dying?"
Draco opened one eye. Theodore was pulling his sweater off in exchange for his nightshirt and looked at Draco when he didn't respond.
"Everyone," Draco finally decided and Theodore wrinkled his nose.
"Too logical."
"Well, I'm glad to have your verdict."
"No, you're not." Theodore shoved under his blankets with a shiver, swatting uselessly once or twice at the wet spot. "You don't care."
"Okay," Draco said, wishing the conversation would be over. He wondered what it would be like to die and have no one care.
The other boys had all turned out their lights, the room swathed in a thick darkness until his eyes adjusted and it became thinner, silhouettes visible. He could see Theodore shifting uncomfortably, turning over and over and over in an endless cycle of discomfort. Draco figured his eyes would tell the story of his sleeplessness in the morning.
Suddenly Theodore was still. There was a moment of what felt like absolute silence. Then, "Are you asleep?" he whispered.
Draco pretended to be.
- - -
Draco decided his life was a disquieting cycle of waking, breakfast, thinking about death, and falling asleep to what had become the lulling sound of the lake slowly emptying itself onto Theodore's bed.
He took a sip of pumpkin juice and wondered what it would be like to be poisoned. If the house elves turned into rebels, hungering for revenge. No, that was too funny to imagine the short green elves dancing in their pillowcases, emptying vats of poison into student's pumpkin juice. If he were really to die of poison, it wouldn't happen like that. It wouldn't necessarily be anything more significant than a house elf tipping the phial into his drink, but it wouldn't be the raucous celebration his mind had suggested, butter tarts flying through the air as the elves hollered and whooped. It would be simple and effective. He would sip it. He imagined it might burn his throat, or run like ice in his veins, making the blue of them stand out. Or perhaps it would be innocuous, not a big affair at all. Perhaps he'd break out in a slight sweat and think the juice simply hadn't settled well with him. He would buckle, he thought, some part of him giving way and he would slide down the bench, underneath the table. He would hit his chin on the tabletop—or maybe the back of his head on his seat. It wouldn't be graceful.
Someone jostled him as they crowded in on the bench. He looked around, noticing the table had filled up fairly quickly, but that Theodore wasn't there; a break in the routine, no matter how slight. He was unsettled to think that particular break wasn't entirely welcome.
- - -
It's time to go and you already know, yeah, you already know how this will end.
-DeVotchKa, "How It Ends"
Draco had never thought to look for Theodore in his classes before and when he mentioned to Pansy they literally had no classes with him, she looked at him strangely.
"Yes, we do." She frowned and then smiled quizzically at Draco as if perhaps he was pulling a skewed sort of joke. "He sits in the back," she said. Draco twisted immediately and found Theodore in the back, in the corner, his dark head bent over a piece of parchment, his quill moving in short, jagged bursts. Draco wondered what his handwriting looked like because he couldn't remember a time he had ever seen it.
"So he does," Draco murmured and turned round again. "I never noticed."
True to routine, Draco was huddled beneath his covers after meeting Pansy at the lake. She had playfully splashed him with water, but shrieked and retreated when the giant squid came too near. The chill of the icy water hadn't quite faded and Draco wondered what it would be like to freeze to death. It would start with his toes, he decided, and his fingers. Going cold, then numb. It would work his way up his calves, up his thighs. His shoulders would shake, but soon he wouldn't feel it. He wondered if he would feel calmer and calmer the less he could feel, his heart rate slowing to a sluggish pace, tired and weary of pumping, pumping, pumping, and heating, heating, heating until it simply gave up, threw down the jumping rope and quit. He would die, blue and huddled in on himself.
"I need some fucking sleep."
Draco jerked and thrashed for a moment, startled. He narrowed his eyes at Theodore, who had gotten close without him noticing, bent slightly, already half on the bed. Draco let out a little breath of air—almost a hiss, almost a word—but rolled to one side of the mattress anyway.
It wasn't as awkward as Draco had prepared himself for. Theodore lay on one side, Draco on the other, nothing touching but their upper arms and elbows. And Theodore was thin, so thin he hardly took up any space at all. Draco wondered how much he weighed and what it would be like to die from wasting away. He wasn't sure how that would feel, couldn't imagine a scenario to fit it, couldn't pretend to feel the hollow pit he supposed would be his stomach, his chest. He fell asleep, one hand over his heart as if feeling the vibration in his palm.
In the morning, Theodore wasn't in Draco's bed—when Draco twisted to look, he saw that he wasn't in his own bed, either. Not too fussed about it, but curious all the same, Draco checked for him at the breakfast table. He wasn't there.
Pansy looked especially pretty today, her pink lips curling slightly every time she caught Draco's eye. He buttered her biscuit for her and watched her eat it, the honey dripping on to her chin. She winced and laughed, embarrassed, but he reached across the table and caught the drip with his thumb.
"You look nice," he said. She blushed with a duck of her head and tried to catch the crumbs cascading from the biscuit and onto her lap.
Draco scanned the table again, swept the room—by the door. Theodore looked grey and rumpled, a bit like an old man, but there was an air about him—tired though it was—that suggested lightness in the step, or a weight off the shoulders.
At the close of breakfast, Draco purposely chose a route that would take him closest to Nott. He let their elbows bump with the natural shift of walking. Theodore glanced at him.
"You came late," Draco observed. Something in Theodore's face shifted, but it was so subtle Draco couldn't pinpoint the difference and then the other boy smiled quizzically, the same look Pansy had given him just the other day.
"Time for a new set of eyes, eh?" Theodore nudged Draco's side almost playfully with his sharp elbow and cast a crooked smile that didn't end up looking happy. He looked away, the smile tightening. The air of lightness was gone. "I've been here the whole time."
Liar.
Theodore veered off, away from Draco when the usual swarm of students headed, laughing, for their classrooms. Draco didn't ask where he was going—he knew he wouldn't be in class. He wasn't.
Later, when Draco darted down to the Slytherin dungeons to grab a forgotten book, he found Theodore reading, sitting by the window, a weak sunlight casting a bit of color on his face. Draco narrowed his eyes when he leaned across his bed to grab his own book from the nightstand and his covers felt warm, as though someone had just left.
"Good book?" Draco asked tightly. Theodore's eyes seemed to focus harder on the pages in front of him.
"Yes." His nostrils flared.
"Has someone been sitting on my bed?"
"Nope." Theodore's eyes were still trained away, as though unready to let go of a lingering word. He finally glanced at Draco. "I'd have seen."
Draco left.
- - -
Lunch period and the rest of classes went by surprisingly quickly. Theodore didn't show his face for any of those, either. By the time dinner came round and Draco hadn't seen evidence that Theodore even existed within the halls of the school, he pocketed two dinner rolls and carefully wrapped one of the small pot pies in napkins before setting off for the Slytherin dungeons.
Theodore's back was to the door, but he was in much the same spot as when Draco had discovered him earlier. He wasn't much farther into his book. Draco watched him—unnoticed, he thought—but Theodore shifted slightly and asked, "What?" without turning around. It took Draco a moment to think of something to say.
"You'll never find out how it ends if you continue to read so slow," he said, instead of something tactful. Theodore continued looking at his book but Draco sensed that he wasn't reading now.
"I already know how it ends. I'm in no hurry to get there," he responded finally. Draco had a feeling he wasn't just talking about the book.
Draco set the food he'd brought down on the nightstand and shoved it toward Theodore a little. Theodore glanced at it and then at Draco, something almost like a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. He checked the page number and closed his book, setting it aside and turning to look more fully at Draco.
"So who's dying?" he asked. Draco shrugged and glanced at the food.
"I brought it for you." He touched the edge of one of the napkins, as if he were going to do something more, like uncover it and pass it to the other boy. But he didn't. Draco grabbed one of the biscuits and tossed it to him instead. "You're wasting away." The shadow of a smile slipped from Theodore's face. It was the wrong thing to say. Theodore hadn't caught the biscuit and he didn't respond. There was an awkward silence. "So who's dying?" Draco asked jokingly, trying to lighten the suddenly woolen mood. Theodore's black eyes caught onto his own, studying them, seeming to absorb all the light in the room.
"I am."
- - -
Five, four, three, two, one—no one can stop me to go. You'll never see me again."
-Air, "Surfing on a Rocket"
In the millisecond before Theodore spoke, Draco had understood. He definitely hadn't been talking about the book earlier. I already know how it ends. I'm in no hurry to get there.
Something clenched in his chest—panic, sorrow, urgency to say something, anything meaningful that might convey what he was feeling for the other boy. But he wasn't even sure what that was himself. For once, he didn't wonder what it would be like to be dying but instead wondered what it would be like to be Theodore Nott. Same thing, he supposed. It wasn't so much the dying that he was considering, though. It was the fact that Theodore was sitting on his bed, his feet not quite touching the floor, lake water dripping in from the ceiling and landing just next to his hand. It was the fact that his face looked nothing more than neutral. That was what he wondered about.
The kind of statement that declares the impending death of at least one person in the room calls for a response and Draco had none. He opened his mouth, willing something to come out—he decided it didn't even have to be that meaningful—something as simple as I'm sorry would work for now. It didn't come. It was too hard to say what he wanted and all he could think was Theodore. The words caught at the back of his throat and tasted like bile.
"I got what I wanted," Theodore said, still watching Draco struggle for words and air. Then, "Fuck," almost under his breath. "I don't want this to be a wordy confession of any sort," Theodore said firmly, calmly. It was like a list. "First: no, I didn't want this—" he gestured to himself. Draco took that to mean the dying aspect, "Second: yes, this—" he made a motion with his hand that drew an invisible line between himself and Draco as if connecting them with a sort of translucent string, "is what I wanted. A selfish boy's desire for a connection—some sort, any sort." Theodore's mouth returned to a tight line and Draco felt there was something he was leaving out. It really wasn't the sort of time to hold back, he thought, but he wasn't sure he could listen to more. The back of his throat was burning. "Third—" Theodore's voice broke on the word and Draco realized the back of his throat might be burning, too. "Third," he stated again. It came out steadier. Firm. Calm. "I only have a month."
Draco bit the inside of his cheek, hard. Drew blood. Salty. Warm. His hands gripped the edge of his mattress, every muscle in his body taut, tense, ready to run. He didn't want to hear this, he didn't want to hear this, he didn't want to care, it was painful and he didn't know why. He bit down harder. More blood. Saltier. He swallowed. He could do this. He could handle it. He could stay. "Okay." He ran.
- - -
Let it fall down, I'm ready for the end.
-John Vanderslice, "Exodus Damage"
The water looked cold, and it was dark, its edges lapping toward his feet, urging him to join the waves. It was a chilly breeze that caused Theodore to wrap his arms around his shoulders, to glance back at the castle. It was icy breath that lifted the hair from his forehead and stung his cheeks. He felt alive with the blood rising to his cheeks, with the shiver that ran from the crown of his head down, down, down his spine. His fingers curled tighter around his robes and he enjoyed the movement of muscle and brain and nerves all working as one. He focused closely, so as to feel every movement, as he bent his fingers slowly, one by one into the material, clutching it in his palm and shaking his shoulders for warmth. Stamping his feet and delighting in the impact they made on the ground. If he had to die, it was the breakfasts he'd skipped, too busy retching into a toilet bowl, that he didn't want. It was the slow wasting away he didn't want.
Breathing the frigid air deeply, so deeply, his lungs were so full. He held it in, braced himself for the freezing water and stepped in, farther and farther until the rocky sand dropped away and he was left sinking. He held his eyes open.
It was beautiful, the strange water plants waving silently, stretching like dancers toward the surface; the huge rocks that rested at the bottom of the lake, still so far—the lake was much bigger than it looked from above. It was wonderful. He exhaled the huge gulp of air he had taken earlier, watching the large, clear bubbles float upward and he reveled in the idea that he had created something so beautiful without a wand—pearly spheres rising through the dark water, the black water.
His lungs were starting to burn and he took one last look at the huge, dark, calm expanse around him before inhaling, welcoming the cold water into his mouth, into his lungs as his heavy robes pulled him down, his arms spread like wings, his hair swept from his face.
- - -
They can't hold you anymore.
-Beck, "Already Dead"
They found him, later. The Herbology class.
Draco had been in Potions at the time. Professor Sprout was white as she stood in the doorway, calling Snape away—immediately, immediately; it's a boy—drowned—
Classes didn't continue.
Draco didn't know what to do; he stared out one of the windows at the lake—huge and black—the thing that had swallowed Theodore. His nails bit into his palm and he thought about Theodore tying his shoelaces that morning. Buttoning his shirt. Fastening his robe. Checking his hair in the mirror. The back of his throat was burning again and it was the stupid small things that didn't matter. Something hot blazed down his face and his hand shot up so fast a few students passing by startled with a jump. He furiously scrubbed his hand over his cheeks, over his eyes. That wasn't a tear. He wasn't crying.
He ended up in the Slytherin dorm, standing numbly amongst the other boys who were talking in hushed voices. Theodore's bed was very empty.
Someone yelled. The lake was raining in through the ceiling and while everyone else realized what Draco had been saying all along—that it was a bad idea to store students beneath a lake—Draco could only think Theodore and try to catch drops in his outstretched hands. The water was creating quickly-growing puddles on the floor as if a heavy sprinkler had been set off. Students were clambering over beds, splashing through the water, yelling at one another, yelling for a teacher. Draco stood and wondered what it would be like to be crushed; have the ceiling come caving in on him, pummeling him into the ground, bending him awkwardly, pressing him in on himself.
A single drop landed on his lip and it tickled like a first kiss as it slid down his chin. It was then that he saw the small piece of paper, folded carefully into quarters and resting at the head of Theodore's bed. Draco held the thin paper between his thumb and index fingers, breathing for a moment before turning out the edges.
It was his writing. His handwriting. The burning was back. They were evenly spaced, but the individual letters themselves seemed cramped and angular.
I had to have some reason to stay awake. Something to remember me by?
The ink began running down the parchment like mascara down a face. At first Draco didn't know what Theodore had meant and then he realized the water splashing down on the note was the water from the original drip in the ceiling. Of course, of course, of course. He carefully refolded the piece of paper and tucked it inside his robes. He turned his face upward, enjoying the feel of the lake dropping in on him.
Most of the other students had panicked and fled, but there were two left—boys Draco couldn't put names to. Their wands were out, pointed toward the ceiling and they were mumbling and certain areas of the ceiling became dry again; they were stopping up the water. Draco could only think students weren't allowed to do that—bits of ceiling would be constantly shifting about—
"Stop," Draco yelled as one boy pointed his wand to the ceiling above Theodore's bed. Draco grabbed the boy's wrist and forced his arm down. He didn't care that Theodore had lied about the ceiling. "That one has to stay." Something to remember me by? Draco would have used the drip as an excuse to be awake, too. I'm not awake because I'm dying; I'm awake because the lake is fucking dripping on me.
And now Theodore was raining down, still slowly flooding the dorm despite the nameless boys' best efforts. Theodore was not done just yet.
Draco spread his arms wide and circled slowly, his face lifted, mouth open, catching as much as he could, swallowing and swallowing and swallowing the tears and the lake and Theodore. The embrace he'd never given. The words he'd left unsaid.
- - -
It's true that the clouds just hung around like black Cadillacs outside a funeral.
-Modest Mouse, "Black Cadillacs"
The funeral was held at Theodore's house. He was going to be buried in the family cemetery. Draco didn't know many of the people there.
It was an open casket and Draco approached slowly, unsettled at the thought of looking down at a dead boy who had been in his bed days ago.
People looked different in death. Theodore was pale—but he had always been pale, and his hair had always been dark. That was the same. His eyes were closed and the quirk from the edge of his mouth was missing, though—that tiny, almost unnoticeable lift that said so much. He supposed that part was the soul. Draco glanced over his shoulder. He was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to touch dead people. He rested his hand lightly over Theodore's anyway, surprised to find that he wasn't unnerved by the cold fingers beneath his. He bit his lip and after a moment brought his hand away from the casket, pressed his lips lightly to his fingers and turned his palm upward, letting the breeze carry the kiss.
It took him a moment to realize that he was crying, that the dampness on his face came from his eyes and that the strange rasping noise he heard was coming from his chest, his mouth…he stumbled backward, eager to get away from anyone that might look askance at him. Anyone that might notice he was crying at all. He didn't make it very far, ending up on his knees beside the casket, his head bent toward his chest, his fingers gripping the grass as though he might be flung away unless he held on.
He lost any display of decorum he might have had before that moment, giving into the painful shudders that seized his lungs as he sobbed uncomfortably, out of practice. He thought of Theodore locked away in that box, nailed in, suffocation, suffocation, his own lungs were burning and he gasped, the ground swaying beneath him. His face was in the grass and he was still shuddering, but the tears had slowed slightly, he was regaining control.
With death right beside him, he didn't have to wonder what it would be like to drown, to be poisoned, to have a sword run through him, but instead swelled with appreciation that emotion was coursing through him in painful waves and that his breathing was ragged, hitching in his throat, that his face was sticky and red with tears, that he got to experience these things. He was alive and for once he didn't wonder about the alternative. For once he breathed life. And Theodore was the one who had breathed it into him.
- - -
Fin.