Disclaimer I do not own Harry Potter. It all belongs to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury, etc.
Author's Note I have no clue where this came from. I promise I'm not as demented as this fic. Comments are love, constructive comms are especially heartwarming.
Thrill Me
"Kill me," she pleads.
He cannot kill her. He loves her.
"Kill me," she pleads.
She wants to die. She loves him.
"I can't." His voice is choked by the sobs not yet willing to spill forth from his wretched throat. He grips the knife tightly in his hand.
She begins to cry. She begins to scream and yell and she won't be silenced. He is tempted to throw the knife at her flailing form, much like a dagger, and to silence her forever. But he loves her, and he won't kill her.
"Kill me!" she screams.
"I will not!"
She begins to cry harder. She smashes her fists against the wall. She begins to bleed. She watches the blood drip, drip, drip onto the carpet. She enjoys the pain. She is no longer normal. She is no longer sane.
"It's over," she whispers, "they are coming for us."
"Let them come."
"Don't you understand? They are coming here to kill us! Do you want a death with dignity or do you want to be murdered in front of millions, in front of the laughing faces of the children whose parents you disposed of?"
He doesn't say anything. He is not willing to take his own life.
"Kill me and kill yourself."
He raises his head to look at her, the tears beginning to form. "I cannot kill you."
"You're the only person I trust," she says in a harsh whisper. A sob follows. She means what she says. "You're the only person I trust to take my life."
He begins to cry in earnest. Grips the knife tighter.
"Kiss me."
He complies almost suddenly, almost too suddenly. Their lips crash together. Crush together. Mould together. His tongue slips inside her mouth, her tongue rushes against his, their lips working a steady rhythm. His hand flies to her hair, hers to his hand. She grips the knife.
His eyes flutter open. Too late.
In one fluid motion, the knife is out of his grip and into his stomach. Plunging. Seeking. The blood pours. He's gasping, crying, screaming: "Why?"
"I love you," she whispers. She stabs him again. The wound is deeper and the blood is darker. His eyes flutter open and shut. He's gaping and gasping. The pain is unbelievable. He cannot form coherent words. He's sobbing, and still screaming. All he can manage is screams. Over and over.
"Stop," he gasps. "Stop."
She shakes her head. She tears the wound, twists the knife. He lets out an animalistic howl. This is torture. This is repayment for ruining her life. This is what he is given for making her fall in love with him.
"Draco, do you promise to die with dignity?"
He doesn't say a word. He is willing to let go now. Anything, anything, just so the pain will stop . . .
"Do you promise you'll always love me?"
What other choice does he have? Even as the knife tears his insides once more, he can't help but marvel at her beauty. Her anger. Her concentration.
"Do you promise?"
"I'm forever promising you."
The knife drops to the floor. The carpet is soaked with blood. Her blood and now his. It's a gruesome mess. He vaguely thinks he should go to the kitchen, collect a sponge . . .
"I'm forever grateful."
The wand now, the worst weapon.
"Avada kedavra."
The green light. The dull drop of the dead body.
"Hermione," he moans. He grieves. Hot tears slip from his tears into his gaping mouth. There is not a single breath left in her body. She is dead—she is what she hoped to be.
There is a knock on the door. "Malfoy," comes a stern voice, "Granger. We know you're in there."
He wishes to die with dignity; not in front of millions, not in shame.
He reaches for the wand.
"We're coming in."
His stomach tears. His insides rip. He sobs loudly. The wand is in his grasp. He points it to his head, just as his love had done.
"Avada kedavra!"
But it is not he who speaks the words.
Harry Potter examines the two dead bodies—one of suicide, another of murder.
Draco Malfoy did not die with dignity, after all.