Summary: You didn't want to fight, but he was there, and fear made you do the first thing that popped in your mind. A variation of the Sectumsempra scene.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, just my thoughts.
The title may not make sense, so if you're confused by it, feel free to leave a review or PM me. This is something that just occurred to me, and the words just came spilling out, hardly edited at all. Please be nice, both to me and it, and leave a review.
You come back to consciousness with a pained gasp as you feel the world explode and throb in pain. Your throat is parched, and yet contains the telltale taste of Blood Replenishing potions. Everywhere hurts, your face, arms, torso and legs. You try to move your toes only to be engulfed in a fiery wave shooting up your legs, straight to your heart. You take in a ragged breath and will mind to grow more detached from your body, to grow impervious to the pain.
But oh gods, did it hurt. And every time you close your eyes, the scene plays over again and again, like a broken record. The crushing despair that showed in the sunken eyes, the fatigue depicted in the gaunt face of the scared boy staring back at you in the mirror. The several tears of desperation that you finally allowed to trickle down your face, because didn't you deserve at least that much?
Apparently not.
But he just had to go and follow you here. To the one refuge you had left to yourself. And from there, you feel the prickle of tears as the events replay again in horrible clarity.
Looking up and realizing with no small amount of shock that he was there, and that he had seen you in such a dirty, ugly, vulnerable state. Feeling what little amount of blood left drain from your face, and turning around so fast that you resist your urge to clutch your head while it spins.
You didn't want to fight, but he was there, and fear made you do the first thing that popped in your mind. You whip out your wand as your chest beats wildly, and while a small part of your mind is telling to stop, just stop, this is a big mistake- the much larger portion is screaming, oh god, oh god oh god he knows I'm going to die no stop help me please somebody-
Your realize that your hand is shaking so badly that your wand could easily slip out of your sweat soaked palms, but your death grip on the piece of wood makes that impossible anyway. The first jinx that your mind could come up with shoots out of your wand, and you see with no small amount of horror that it misses him by mere inches. You think you hear someone screaming for it to stop, but you doubt it, hardly hearing anything over the rush of blood roaring in your ears. You run behind the toilet stalls quickly, never hiding at one for more than a few seconds. You almost slip on the large pool of water and mentally curse yourself, gripping onto every stall door afterwards for support. The rest of the bath is quiet except for the occasional creak, and the sounds of footsteps wading and padding through water.
Your heart gallops away at a breakneck pace, as one of his spells rockets towards you. Almost clumsily you deflect it and throw another curse at him, its contact with a bin causing a loud explosion. You mouth curls in a silent snarl as a spell shoots near your ear, but you thankfully dodge it in time to let it ricochet off the wall behind you. It hits one of those cisterns near the ghost, who is still screaming as water immediately gushes out of it. Gods, will she ever shut up? The mundane thought causes you to almost laugh hysterically, so you clamp your teeth onto your lips so hard a generous stream of blood wells out and floods your mouth with the atrocious but familiar coppery flavor.
You make the mistake of glancing down at the water, through the ripples and splashes you capture a glimpse of your distorted reflection. But even as you look back up, training all your senses back on the impending danger, your mind doesn't shake off the image of the unnaturally bright silver eyes-possibly with a hint of madness-looking back, wide with fear and, and the face streaked with tears, water and blood dribbling down its chin. The image is burned onto your retinas, and you can't help comparing yourself to a wild animal that's being chased by the hunter, and is quickly being cornered.
He slips, and dimly you realize that this is your chance, you could finally get rid of him once and for all. But even as your mind screams for you to stop, that this isn't what you want, you see your wand pointing at him. Your face contorts in anguish, the only part of your body still in your possession at the moment, as a primal part of you that is tinged darkness takes over the rest. Your mouth opens, and one of the curses that you vowed never to use tumbles out of your torn lips.
"Cruci-"
"Sectumsempra!"
You are fast, but even as he has the disadvantage, he is faster.
He yells the foreign spell desperately, his wand moving wildly around. Somehow, it miraculously hits his target, faster than you would have ever reckoned, as the world is suddenly tinted a gloriously bloody scarlet.
You take a few steps backward, seeing your view tilt towards the ceiling, and somewhere you hear two dull thuds as two somethings hit the floor. Somebody better pick those up, you note dully. You open your mouth to scream out your pain but all that comes out is a choked gurgle and a mouthful of blood.
It hurts.
From there, your memory gets a bit hazy. You feel a sting of hurt and betrayal, but even as your mind insists that you have no idea where the unjustified emotions came from, your heart knows better. You hear a voice talking to you, and footfalls indicating that someone is coming closer, but everything sounds like you're hearing it underwater. Blinking your eyes in a vain attempt to make the blurriness go away, you see a blob hovering next to you. You try with all your strength to get away, but your body feels as heavy as lead. And even if you could move, the pain was too immobilizing to make you want to anyway.
You close your eyes for what seemed like a moment, but could have been minutes, or hours. When you open them, you see him kneeling beside you, his face wet with something that didn't seem to be water, because it was coming out from his eyes. Must be a dream then, because the last thing the he would do was to cry over little old you. Through the fog blanketing your thought processes, you manage to curve your mouth in a gruesome smile. On his glasses, you see that your teeth are stained with blood. For some reason, seeing this only made imaginary him cry harder, his shoulders shaking violently and his breath coming out in gasps and hiccups. You try to laugh at the irony, but end up choking on your own blood. You should be the one crying, after all. What right did he have to take even that away from you? Taking a ridiculous amount of energy, you spit out whatever blood had begun to pool in your mouth again, causing your white shirt to turn from pink to a shade more closer to that of the very liquid staining it.
"W…" You manage that one sound before coughing weakly. His eyes, which had been previously shut, snap open and stare at you. Taking in another gulp of breath, you try again.
"What have I done to you now?" The shaking stops, and he stares at you, utterly still.
You narrow your eyes, but not so much as they are almost closed already anyway. What, now he couldn't even answer a simple question?
"You… you h-heard me. What did I do to deserve this?" He is near tears again, which irks you, but for some reason not as much as you expect it should. Turning your gaze away from him, your eyes grow cloudy again, as though looking through a haze.
All I did was cry, can't I just get that, at least? You think in wonder. I thought that I had finally borne my load, that I had finally done enough. Surely that deserves some kind of reward? I never wanted this anyway.
You turn back to look at Imaginary Him, only to find him looking away from you and opening his mouth. Probably calling for someone to come, but your ears no longer register any sound. Well, you mentally shrug, at least my imagination is kind enough to do this for me. Real him would probably just be calling over his sidekicks so they could stand together and laugh at the stupid pureblood who couldn't even protect himself.
Imaginary Him has finally stopped wasting his breath over a useless endeavour. Instead, he's clutching your face with already stained hands. You don't so much feel as see the change in position, your body has long grown numb. In fact, his shirt, and the whole front of him is splattered with blots of your blood.
Blood brothers now, you think, and you chuckle a bit at the thought. He seems to have stilled a bit after that last one, but he couldn't possibly have heard you, right? That would just be more unfairness in this stupidly biased world. Imaginary Him is now talking to you, it seems, but hasn't he realized that you can't hear him? Stupid Gryffindor.
He smiles wanly at that, and you wonder if your traitorous mind really has turned its back on you too, now, allowing Imaginary Him access to your thoughts. No matter, because this isn't real anyway. And since this isn't real…
You open your mouth, spit out more blood, and try talking to Imaginary Him.
"You were s'pposed to save me, y'know. When I was young, I w-wr-wrote letters to you, dreaming about making… friends, with you and helping you save the world, and me too." You smile ruefully, more a twitch of the lips than anything else. "Guess I can't be saved now, huh Harr'?"
Imaginary Him is doing that leaky eyes thing again, and you give a him a pathetic echo of your usual scowl. For some reason, your ears haven't completely given up on you and decide to work again. "No, not Harry, remember? It's Potter." His voice cracks on the last word.
This time your smile is more of amusement. "No, not Potter," you say and weakly try to lift your right hand, which is mysteriously missing your wand. All you manage is a weak tremble, but Imaginary Him, ever the reliable one, catches the movement and grabs your hand in his. Your eyes decide to work better, too. Your gaze is clearer, sharper as you look at Imaginary Him, and think, "Never Potter. Harry."
Leaky eyes, again? That should be Imaginary Him's trademark feature. Your eyes slide shut, and you find it tremendously difficult to open them again. The world is getting darker, the sounds murky once again. In a last attempt to convey your thoughts to him, you say and think as hard as you can, "Did you know that I never hated you, Harry? Not one bit." You're not sure if you got the message across, or if you even managed to mouth the words, but you find that you don't really care all that much. Imaginary Him, now a blob once more, sees your eyes closing again and seems to panic, shaking you vigorously. This time, you don't even have the energy to moan as it brings another wave of pain upon you.
Do you know what that means, Harry?
The last thing you see is another black blob standing on the other side of you before you enter the painless darkness.
Opening your eyes, you are mortified to hear a sob coming out of your throat. Thankfully, no other sounds emerge as tremors rock your weak frame in your bed in the Infirmary. The curtains have not been closed, and they tell you that you are currently the sole resident here. Opposite your bed is the window, a gigantic one which offers a great view of the starless night. It seems that even the stars have deserted you, not willing to let you wish on them.
Time passes, you couldn't tell how long, and you calm down and stare blankly at the arms resting in your lap, feeling oddly empty. Every inch of your skin seems to be covered in bandages. You don't blink, you don't even think, you just breathe; inhale, exhale, repeat. The action brings a cold rush of air into your seemingly hollow chest. When you look up, you see Him sitting in the chair placed beside your bed, but you feel nothing towards Him, and so do nothing to Him.
He seems unnerved with your blank stare, but is not undeterred from whatever reason He has decided to come here. As He seems to prepare himself for whatever He is going to do, you look but don't really take in his ragged appearance. The fact that His eyes are bloodshot and that He has not changed out of His damp and bloody clothing does not linger in your mind. The fact that He is here does, for some reason, and you ask Him that in a flat, emotionless tone.
He starts, as if having forgotten just where He was and looks at you with… guilt? You stare back at Him unblinking, waiting patiently for your answer. He looks at your torso, and you follow His gaze to find several long bandages wrapped across it, the longest one starting from your left collarbone and going all the way down to the right side of your waist. Without thinking, your hand comes up to it and pokes, and you wince slightly from the flash of pain that adds to the dulled ache radiating throughout your body. Glancing up, you see that His hand has reached towards yours in a bid to stop you from further hampering your recovery. He puts down His hand, flushing slightly.
"Look, I just… I came here to say I'm sorry." He finally answers in a small voice laced with regret. You cock your head to one side, the only action that shows any emotion at all.
"Why?" You ask, and unnecessarily take note that the word is spoken in a conversational voice. "You wanted to, right? After all, I deserved it." You state this in a matter-of-fact tone.
His eyes flash angrily and He hisses, "What makes you think that you, or anyone would deserve…" He reiterates His point by gesturing to your body, mostly hidden under the blanket. You feel an urge to peek under it, but that goes as quickly as it comes.
This time, your voice belies genuine curiosity, as well as confusion. "Why not? Everything I ever do is bad, and even when it's not, I get punished for it." He does that Leaky Eye Thing ™ which was supposed to be Imaginary Him's feature, but apparently he and Him have more in common besides just appearance.
"No, no Draco, I never meant that-"
"Why are you calling me Draco, Potter?" Normally this would have called for a sneer, but the new you that is utterly devoid of emotion sees no need to do so.
He mumbles something, and you ask Him to repeat it again. What He tells you causes your already too pale face to become as white as snow.
"You said before that it was never Potter, but Harry."
Your eyes get impossibly wider and you look for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights of a Muggle car, a phrase that you read from some book before. That's it, you think dumbly, I have nothing now. No secrets, no family who actually cares, no friends because they've become closer to minions. No home.
No love.
Love.
Love.
You close your eyes briefly, and when you open them your expression is painfully blank once more. The way it should be, and every agonized cell in your body agrees. You look back at Him, and notice that He hasn't looked away since you started this conversation. Your chest squeezes around the gaping emptiness inside it each time your supposedly nonexistent heart beats.
"Right… Harry." The name slips past your lips, foreign and weird sounding. Suddenly you have the irrational thought that you can't possibly say anything if you keep looking at him, but you entertain that notion nonetheless, fixing your dead gaze on the wall opposite you, right next to that big cruel window.
"You know, I thought that I was dreaming when I said those things, because you were crying, and who cries when their enemy is struck down?" You laugh softly, the sound scratchy. Like you, it held no mirth, no emotion. "Honestly, with your rats' nest on your head that you call hair," gesture vaguely to it, "your dirty face," wave a limp hand to your own, "and even your ruined clothes," not bothering anymore so simply placing your bandaged hand back in your lap, "you are still beautiful."
His breath catches, the sound just barely being picked up by your ears.
"And I tried, you know? I really tried to stop it. But of course, you take that power away from me too." Another mirthless laugh, shorter this time. "My father told me to get close to you, did you know that? 'Become one of his best friends, Draco, win over his trust. And when you do…' " You clench a fist so tightly that the sound of flesh being squeezed is audible, and your fingers dig in so tightly that four crescent moons shimmering red appear when you open your palm. You hardly notice, however, and only do when he hurriedly pulls out his wand and heals the cuts. You continue regardless of your injuries.
"Even from such a young age, I knew that manic gleam in his eyes. And how could I possibly hand over the one who was going to save m… the world, to evil? When you refused my hand, I was hurt, but relieved all the same. I began to taunt you, become your enemy instead, so you would never ever be handed over to my father. And Voldemort," without any fear, the name slips past your lips easily, "wouldn't get you, or at least it wouldn't be easier for him to. I have faith that he won't."
Suddenly, a gut-wrenching sense of terror seizes you, and your dull eyes grow insanely bright once again, fixing on Him. You lunge forwards, the fact that it sets your chest on your fire irrelevant, and bring His face to yours. Your foreheads touching together, your eyes locked on each other's.
"You have to understand Harry, that I didn't want to hurt you! Oh gods, I never wanted to, but I had to, you have to believe me!" And suddenly the eyes before you are no longer green and filled with worry, but blue and icy, mocking you with false warmth. You are no longer in the infirmary, instead you are back in your house, in the dungeons where your father is torturing you for the simple mistake of not bowing to your- not yours, never yours but his - lord, and the dreaded word is spoken by him as though he was simply saying any other. You scream and arch your back dangerously, your nerves set alight for the hundredth or thousandth time; you've already lost count. Your back remains bowed, to the point where it could very possibly snap in half, and your mouth remains open in a silent scream even though your throat has long been screamed raw.
It goes on for forever.
When the pain suddenly recedes you whimper and inch away from this monster who is no longer your father. Your back hits something and your fear spikes to new levels, but still you try to escape and press as flat as you can against the surface. Your chest seems to be on fire again (probably from the whip marks your father placed on you before the curse), but the rest of your body isn't, and you don't care; you curl in on yourself and wrap your arms around your head for protection, sobbing, "Please, don't hurt me, no more, I'm sorry, please I didn't mean it, please oh please…"
You feel a hand on your shoulder and you flinch violently and cry even harder, your entire person shaking as though you were in a seizure. You shake your head back and forth and whisper, "No, no no no no nonononono…" And you keep shaking your head, with your eyes squeezed shut, but they fly open when you hear a pained whisper, "Shh, it's okay Draco, you're safe now, it's alright, it's alright, shh…"
With your head still pressed against your knees you mutter, "No, not safe. Never safe. He's not going to save me. No one is. No one would bother." When you turn up to tell the still soft voice so, you blink in confusion when you take in the frantic green eyes of your savior. You look around in find yourself in blessed Hogwarts grounds once again; far away from that madman (the other one, the one related to you by blood) and the house that was once a home. Looking down, you see that your wounds have reopened, the bandages around your torso dotted with colour.
The laugh that you've held in for so long, the final nail in your coffin, the last bit of sanity that you desperately cling to, finally bubbles out, and with it your final dredges of pride. It begins with a small chuckle and escalates to loud guffaws, your eyes awash with fresh tears, hands clutching at your sides from the twisted agony.
You've finally been saved by Him.
You're still laughing, eyes squinted, chest fighting to breathe at the same time, when he runs out for help. And you're still laughing when he doesn't return, but Madame Pomfrey and Professor Snape come in his place.
You're still laughing as they try futilely to make you stop, right until Professor Snape looks at you with remorse and resignation in his obsidian eyes as he waves his wand and puts you to sleep.
You dream of a world in red, of a different future, and of a friendship that could have been. And you are afraid to wake up, to come back to what is.