Walk Me Through These Darkest Hours
Summary:
He whirled, unbalanced and infirm, through the changing paths of his disabled consciousness; like the child he could never be, lost in a place he could never escape. Draco Malfoy was spiraling down to an unthinkable demise, and it showed. (Dramione)
Rating:
T - M
Plot:
(Does not follow the last few books)
Disclaimer:
I do not own Hairy Potter or any of the other characters from J.K. Rowling's books.
Story
Chapter One
He had witnessed the unbearable, the unthinkable, and it remained, a permanent recording in his mentality. The shatter of the pleas, the screams, and the silence. The feel of sweaty, warm hands tugging on his shivering pale ones, those foreign words he couldn't understand, the tears that fell in madness from justified fears. . .
The screams. . .
Those awful screams
Unending screams. . .
and the trail of blood that followed suit, which sprayed, a rainfall of scarlet remorse, onto his 'pure' features.
The laughter he had not joined.
The cringe of his paralytic corpse.
And,
The losing of his soul.
"M'aidez. . ."
"M'aider, je vous mendie, . . . m'aidez"
The snow fell that same night, yet the soft white pleasantries brought no comfort to the one person who needed, the one person who laid across messy, silken sheets in horror and dismay. He allowed the cold atmosphere strike him, too shaken to care, too pain ridden to cover up, too lost in the horrific daymare to struggle against his throbbing sub-consciousness.
The window banged harshly against the chilling green decorative wall, as the midnight wind, carrying a collective abundance of wet, transparent particles and sparkling, unblemished snowflakes, whispered soft whispers of the chilling, of the dead. The window made its way back to its counterpart, slightly touching the inner frame before bouncing once, twice, and with an unexpected howl of the wind, reacquainting itself with the familiar wall. The sudden bang, at last, brought the "vegetable" back from his blackened thoughts, back from the cloud of tightening terrors and grasping woes.
"M'aidez. . ."
His dulled orbs of sullen gray closed, as he begged the high and mighty for sleep.
"M'aidez. . ."
The voices were softer this time, distorted, sweet even, if not for the gloomy after tone.
". .je vous mendie,"
Harsher, of more demand, sending his body into a state of continuous trembles; however, perhaps that was just the small, nippy pounce of several snowflakes on their skyward landing onto the ruddy skin of his distinguished, slopped nose.
He blinked, one shut of his black lashes for every snowflake that landed onto his bare skin. Once, on the chest. Again, on his arm. And another, and another, and another. Again, again, again.
Stop, stop, stop.
His mind screamed for release; an easement from the fusion of ice, which formed an imperceptible outer layer over his bloodless profile; from the haunts of vocal proportions.
Scream. Growing colder. Scream. Colder. Scream. Colder. Colder. Colder. Scream.
It was driving him insane.
With a trembling lip, he rose, stiff, cold, crazed, plastering his baby-skinned fingers to his forehead. His mind jumbled, scrambling and scolding with each forward movement.
"Slower," he inaudibly spoke, barely above the haunting hum of the ongoing breeze.
Laggard, he placed his barren toes to the hard wood floor; they stung as the blisters gave threatening warning to bleed, with nothing but the thin over skin opposing the menace.
His niggling stride to the window caused a series of afflictive grunts; placing his stoned fingers onto the icy frame, he poked his head out. Nothing.
It was a dead paradise, much like himself. It was beautiful, but cold. It was alluring, but shrouded in falsehood. It was a mystery. It was nature's representation of cruelty and hardship, so much like he was such in a fleshed form.
Again, nothing; he shut his steel hued eyes, before cracking them open just barely. Nothing, but a chilling picture of what was to come.
He shut the window, and the cold subsided, to a degree.
He shut the window, and the voices were hushed.
