Disclaimer: Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Ginny, Daphne, Ron, Hermione, Voldie, Snape and Harry all belong to JK Rowling, as does Slytherin House.
Warning: Contains suicide, drugs, child abuse, rape, sex, alcohol, unrequited love, and far too much angst. Rated M for all of the above.
Summary: "My name is Draco Malfoy and I will die today… There
is no turning back."
No turning back
Kyra
My name is Draco Malfoy and I will die today. I have known this for a long time, and it no longer concerns me. After all, what is there to live for? The boy I love hates me. No one will care that I am gone, and no one will mourn me. I am nothing but useless space, and it will benefit everyone when I am gone. So why do I hesitate?
I hesitate because I love him. How can I not? Ever since last year, when he cornered me, eyes blazing, wand outstretched, tear marks fresh on his cheeks I have loved him. My raven-haired love, the only one to whom I can ever give my heart, and he does not see me anymore. He walks right past me, seeing neither the sneer on my face nor the pain in my heart. And I watch him, wondering just how much longer I can bear this.
Pansy knows. I told her in a moment of weakness, and she only nodded knowingly. I suspect that she knew long before I did. Yet none of this helps. It does not matter how many kind looks she throws my way, how many times she assures me that he is not worth it and never will be. I cannot forget him. And why should I? After all, everyone else loves him. Who am I but another victim, another person who has been swept up and left to drown by the force that is the savior of the wizarding world?
Ironically, the only one who will ever truly understand is Ginny Weasley. She knows what it's like. She knows what it's like to watch him and to know that he will never be yours. At least she had a chance. Then again, maybe it's better for me. After all, my heart has been broken once. That is more than enough for me, but hers has been shattered more times than any can count. Sometimes, watching her curl up in the library, watching him with tear-filled eyes, I wonder if it's even possible to put her back together.
What if I were to try? We would be well matched, after all. Both of us long for the one person we can never have, and neither of us will ever admit it. Yes, we would be well matched. But is there a point? She wouldn't have me, and I would never offer. The prime daughter of the lion would never have the Prince of Slytherin, and I would never consider taking her. It is only in weaker moments, of which this is one, that I even think of the idea.
I stand here now, looking at myself in the mirror, wondering just what everyone sees. Do they see what I see? Do they see the same frightened boy staring at them? Vanity leads me to hope not, and realism tells me that no one looks closely enough to be able to tell. Pansy might know, but Pansy is so far into her own world that she wouldn't do anything about it even if she could. I have seen her the mornings after sessions of overindulgence, her eyes unfocused and her mind wandering. I do not ask myself why she does things like this to herself; it is not hard to imagine. Slytherin House is hard on its sons and daughters, and Pansy never was especially strong.
Nor is she the only one. I came down the other night to find Blaise Zabini inducting Daphne Greenglass, shy, mousy Daphne, into the art of injecting oneself with all manner of illegal substances. And not muggle drugs either. Those have very little effect on wizards, and they are far too hard to get these days. I should know; I've tried. Die hards like Zabini prefer to make their own, and distribute them to the younger students for a modest price. Not that Zabini needs the money – his fortune is almost equal to my own – but it's always nice to be appreciated.
I have never tried. Not that I've never wanted to, but I have never quite been able to bring myself to do it. I've often wondered why. It is not the pain. I can take far more pain than anyone imagine, courtesy of my upbringing. Being the only heir to the richest family in Britain has its downsides, oft' drunken fathers among them. I learned long ago to handle pain, and the thought of sticking a needle into myself is not nearly as frightening as that of fists doubling into my stomach.
Nor is it vanity that stops me. I have my pride, true, but who needs pride when everyone else is high? What use is there in feeling smugly superior when you know they don't give a damn? It is pretty well useless in that situation, and I am not naïve enough to think otherwise.
I am far from naïve about anything. I knew how babies were made at four, and was inducted into the mystic world of sex at twice that. My father did it, of course. At the time, I didn't know what was happening, and I fought him. I soon stopped that, and learned to take his periodic visits to my room in silence. Locking charms only make him angrier, and the angrier he is, the longer it takes. It's better just to suffer in silence and then silently perform as many healing charms as I dare once he has left.
So it can only be one thing that stops me from picking up the needle on those nights of mutual inebriation: fear. I fear what he will think of me afterwards, and so take refuge in other forms of escape. Alcohol is particularly effective. It is easier to get than the drugs, and it lasts longer. Besides, I can pretend that I know what I'm doing as I take a swig from the bottle and watch Zabini carefully inject the needle into Pansy's arm. They say that they're in love, and who am I to say otherwise? Maybe, at four in the morning as they finish their grotesque parody of the act of love, they do. Then again, who am I to judge what love it? The boy I have chosen to love has never even seen me as anything other than an annoyance, nothing more than something to be brushed aside without looking more closely.
Maybe I should have tried the drugs. Maybe, at four in the morning, writhing on the ground with Pansy and Zabini, I could have convinced myself that I did not care. Perhaps, in those scant few hours of darkness, I would have been truly without fear. I do not know; I was too afraid to try. Maybe it would just have made it worse.
And so I stand here, blade in hand, looking at myself one last time in the mirror. Will he miss me? No, of course he won't. If anything, he will be relived that yet another irritation has been destroyed. Does it make me sad that I am nothing more than that to him? Yes, but not as much as it has before. Standing here, poised to make the irreversible move to end my life, I know that it was hopeless. He would never have had me, and I would never have accepted him. After all, I have my standards. Would I truly have wanted a boy who ranked me fourth in his list of priorities? I would have been after the Dark Lord, after Weasley, and after Granger. Could I have born it? No, I know that I could not have. My pride, the very pride that I try to suppress in the common room, will not let me. I must be first or nothing. I will never be first, so I must by default be nothing.
Will you fight him for me? Will you fight the Dark Lord and kill him? It would be the least you could do, you know. After all, I did tell you where he was. Your eyes burned holes in my retreating figure, but I didn't look back. You have no idea how hard that was, you know. I ached to throw myself at you, ached to beg you to take me, but I couldn't. I can never tell you how I feel. You would never accept it, and I would never allow myself to. My walls are far thicker than anyone – not even you – can imagine. They were built up over years of pain and fear, and it's not the love of one Gryffindor Posterboy that is going to tear them down. I wouldn't let you, anyway. They are too much a part of me to come down now.
Why do I hesitate? I came here to accomplish something, and now I stand in front of the mirror, wondering if there is another way. I know full well that there isn't, yet I still try and find one. With a swift, sharp movement, my body decides for me. The blade sinks easily through my skin, filling me with a blinding pain that is almost as much bliss as it is agony. Is this how they feel, those students who mix drug-induced nirvana with pain-created hell? I have never seen the appeal myself but now, with my life's blood dripping from my wrist to the ground, I realize what they search for. It is ironic that, now that I have found it, I cannot share my discoveries with those who could use them. I will never share anything else with them again. I don't mind terribly. Pansy will mourn, when she remembers. Her mind is far too far gone with sex, drugs, and fear to be of much use anymore. Soon she will give out completely, and Zabini will find a new playtoy. I have never figured out if he deliberately poisons them, or if it is an unavoidable side-effect of the substances he sells.
The air is growing colder, or maybe my body heat is flowing away with my blood. Maybe it's both. I can feel myself start to weaken, and know that it won't be long now. Out of pride, I lock my knees and watch as the blood drains from my flesh. Watching it in the mirror, it is almost as though it is happening to someone else. Am I really watching myself, or am I seeing someone else? Does it matter? My vision grays, and I smile slightly. It feels far better than I had anticipated, which is a welcome surprise. It is yet another irony that the one time a surprise is good is when it is the last one. I will never be surprised again, and I feel good about it. It's fitting that a life of hell should end with joy. Or, if not joy, then peace. Or maybe it's yet another irony. My mind is too fogged by now to tell.
My knees give way at last, and I collapse gracefully into the growing pool of red liquid. Who knew that I had that much blood in me? You would never know, to look at me. My eyes stare up at the cracked ceiling, wondering which of them will find me. Pansy, trashed and vomiting? Snape, unsurprised and cold? Zabini, devious and emotionless? Or… him? Will he be the one to find me? It would be the crowning irony, after all. Wouldn't it be something if he came across my corpse and discovered that he did love me after all? Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part. Why would he care? He will never love me, and that is that. There is no point in disguising truths from myself. Not anymore. Not now that the gray has vanished and a bright light has appeared.
I have mere moments left, I know. The smile that adorns my lips is one of sadness and mockery. Sadness that I was reduced to this, and mockery of the fate that put me here. What is it but a mockery that caused me to fall for the one person I could never have? What is it but fate that drove me to this bathroom; what but cruel irony that put the knife into my hand? My eyes flicker closed for the last time, and I step out of the world and into the light, knowing as I do so that there is no turning back.