Title: Please (Say It Again)
Author: Dala
Rating: REALLY strong R for violence and language
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy (although this is really not slashy)
Archive: Ask and it's yours, but put it with the first "Please", please? :)
Spoilers: My fic entitled "Please". This one really won't make much sense unless you read the other one first.
Feedback: Smacks my ass. Can't get enough of it.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to J.K. Rowling and Co. I'm not making any money off this, blahblahblah. The song lyrics at the end belong to U2.
Author's Note and Attempt at Explanation: I'm warning you, this is dark, really unpleasant, and possibly out of character (I don't know about that, you be the judge). It features a SeverelyUnhinged!Harry, takes place at the part of "Please" where Harry is dying. None of this is actually happening, it's all in Harry's head. I realize that he couldn't possibly have time to form all these thoughts in a few quick seconds, but pretend if you will that there is a little pocket in the time/space continuum where (along with a stick of Wrigleys and a few toothpicks) these words went. Also, recall that he *is* dying here and so can't be faulted for possibly confusing tense switches and transitions. That said, on with the bloody fic which is scarcely longer than this introduction.
~~~~~~~~
I want to slit your throat.
I want to feel your blood soaking into my clothes, pouring over me in a crimson spray, your life draining away under my hands like I can feel mine draining away right now.
But I'd save that for last. First...oh, where to start? Your hands, maybe. Those pale, fine, perfectly-manicured nails would come off one by one. Then I would break each finger individually. You'd never hold a wand, or form a fist, again. Perhaps I would smash your kneecaps. You should not be standing. Standing indicates pride and I want to strip you of that most of all, because it is pride in all the wrong things.
I'd have a small knife by then, something decorative with jewels glittering along the handle, and I would start with the small shallow cuts, avoiding arteries. They aren't very painful, really. This stage is about fear. I want you to shake with terror when you see the blood seeping from your corrupted skin. You will beg me, plead with me to stop. You'll offer up your fortune, your wife, your only son, even your master. And I will laugh softly, because none of that is yours to give me. I tried to take something that once belonged to you and he slipped through my fingers like sand.
Did you take him to the beach as a child? He said something about loving the smell of salt air once, so I think you must have. God knows he'd never answer any questions about you directly. He talked about his mother now and then, with both scorn and affection, but never you. The only reason I know how you treated him -- at least the only reason I know for sure; I filled in many of the blanks later -- is because he talks in his sleep. I'd lie beside him on those rare nights we stayed out under the stars, my arms around him, trying to break into his dreams with my voice and my kisses.
But I could never touch him there. You always held dominion over his sleep, you bastard.
He would toss around, jerk his limbs under him in a fetal position. "No, Father, please, I'm sorry…"
I've opened a deep slice on the bottom of your left foot.
"I didn't mean to! Mama, please help me…"
I've cut off your right testicle and slit your cock down the middle.
"I can be good, Father, I promise…I promise…" And he would flinch, in anticipation of your blows or as a result of one, I don't know.
You know, Lucius, I think I hate you more than I hate Voldemort. He destroyed my past, but *you*…You took the first step toward annihilating my future about eighteen years ago, when Narcissa conceived a child from your seed. Some people might say that the blame is half hers for allowing the beatings to take place, but I think that's bullshit. My opinion is, of course, skewed -- he was still reaching out for her and I let that affect me. At least she wasn't my aunt; at least she tried to comfort him when you'd left the room, instead of participating in the abuse.
Not that I'm comparing myself to him. The psychological havoc you wreaked on him is so far removed from my own childhood that I might as well have been raised on daisies and blueberry muffins.
What's that you're saying? It was for his own good? It made him stronger? You crazy old fuckhead. It taught him to expect nothing but pain from life, and if that is strength, may I burn in every level of every hell our species has ever invented.
Intellectually, I know that to hate you is to bring myself down to your level. Well, fuck that, I'm dying and I deserve my bloody spot of violence.
Running my blade across your stomach and lifting out some of your guts may look pretty ghastly and feel even worse, but don't worry, it won't kill you. At least not quickly.
I love your son, Lucius. Look into my eyes when I say it. *I love him.* I would take a bullet for him without a second thought, I'd go willingly into Voldemort's arms if he asked me to, I'd hold this knife to my own pulse if it was what he wished. And I know he would do the same for me. But you had him before I did, you twisted him until even with all my love I couldn't undo the ruin you inflicted. Or maybe, given time, I could -- but we'll never know because you killed me. He pushed me off those stairs, yes, but it was the result of a defense mechanism you installed in his psyche. A cherished gift from Father. A razor stuck fast in the apple of the Malfoy name.
The right -- no, the left. Yes. A quick plunge and you are blinded in that eye. Does it hurt, Lucius? Is that why you're screaming? But you can still see me -- open the other eye before I do that one too, *look* at me, look at what you've done you wretched brutal savage!
I think we've had enough of the knife for now. How about flame? Yes, the blistering heat should burn away all the villainy inside you. I strike the match and hold it to your smooth pale chest. So much like your son's, except that he is slender where you are barrel-shaped. I'm sure you beat him for that too. I wager you made him stuff his face in an effort to put weight and muscle on him. Muscle he has now, but still not much weight. And he has always been a finicky eater.
Damn, Lucius, don't you know any other words besides "please"?
Alright, the match has burned down to my fingers. It stings a little, though between you and me I think I have the better deal.
No, I am not done, silly git. I haven't even started to kill you yet.
To the knife again. I'm imagining it, Lucius, aren't you? The clean slide from ear to ear, the sudden slick gush of bright blood, the wet gasping sound you'll make because you can't scream. It will be beautiful.
I press the blade to your throat, feeling you clench your teeth in fear. This is for Draco, this is for my love--
Moments pass.
Why can't I do it? You deserve to have it done. He deserves to have me do it.
I *want* to.
The knife falls from my fingers. No. I can't. I can't because he couldn't, because when I am dead he'll run back to you. Because you are his father and I can't break that bond, even though I love him more than anyone ever will and I know you are the touch of evil upon him.
I know this.
And the rest is silence.
~you had to wait
you couldn't just pass
the smartest ass
at the top of the class
your flying colours
your family tree
and all your lessons in history
so love is hard and love is tough
but love is not what you're thinking of~
--U2, "Please"
~~~~~~~~
Author: Dala
Rating: REALLY strong R for violence and language
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy (although this is really not slashy)
Archive: Ask and it's yours, but put it with the first "Please", please? :)
Spoilers: My fic entitled "Please". This one really won't make much sense unless you read the other one first.
Feedback: Smacks my ass. Can't get enough of it.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to J.K. Rowling and Co. I'm not making any money off this, blahblahblah. The song lyrics at the end belong to U2.
Author's Note and Attempt at Explanation: I'm warning you, this is dark, really unpleasant, and possibly out of character (I don't know about that, you be the judge). It features a SeverelyUnhinged!Harry, takes place at the part of "Please" where Harry is dying. None of this is actually happening, it's all in Harry's head. I realize that he couldn't possibly have time to form all these thoughts in a few quick seconds, but pretend if you will that there is a little pocket in the time/space continuum where (along with a stick of Wrigleys and a few toothpicks) these words went. Also, recall that he *is* dying here and so can't be faulted for possibly confusing tense switches and transitions. That said, on with the bloody fic which is scarcely longer than this introduction.
~~~~~~~~
I want to slit your throat.
I want to feel your blood soaking into my clothes, pouring over me in a crimson spray, your life draining away under my hands like I can feel mine draining away right now.
But I'd save that for last. First...oh, where to start? Your hands, maybe. Those pale, fine, perfectly-manicured nails would come off one by one. Then I would break each finger individually. You'd never hold a wand, or form a fist, again. Perhaps I would smash your kneecaps. You should not be standing. Standing indicates pride and I want to strip you of that most of all, because it is pride in all the wrong things.
I'd have a small knife by then, something decorative with jewels glittering along the handle, and I would start with the small shallow cuts, avoiding arteries. They aren't very painful, really. This stage is about fear. I want you to shake with terror when you see the blood seeping from your corrupted skin. You will beg me, plead with me to stop. You'll offer up your fortune, your wife, your only son, even your master. And I will laugh softly, because none of that is yours to give me. I tried to take something that once belonged to you and he slipped through my fingers like sand.
Did you take him to the beach as a child? He said something about loving the smell of salt air once, so I think you must have. God knows he'd never answer any questions about you directly. He talked about his mother now and then, with both scorn and affection, but never you. The only reason I know how you treated him -- at least the only reason I know for sure; I filled in many of the blanks later -- is because he talks in his sleep. I'd lie beside him on those rare nights we stayed out under the stars, my arms around him, trying to break into his dreams with my voice and my kisses.
But I could never touch him there. You always held dominion over his sleep, you bastard.
He would toss around, jerk his limbs under him in a fetal position. "No, Father, please, I'm sorry…"
I've opened a deep slice on the bottom of your left foot.
"I didn't mean to! Mama, please help me…"
I've cut off your right testicle and slit your cock down the middle.
"I can be good, Father, I promise…I promise…" And he would flinch, in anticipation of your blows or as a result of one, I don't know.
You know, Lucius, I think I hate you more than I hate Voldemort. He destroyed my past, but *you*…You took the first step toward annihilating my future about eighteen years ago, when Narcissa conceived a child from your seed. Some people might say that the blame is half hers for allowing the beatings to take place, but I think that's bullshit. My opinion is, of course, skewed -- he was still reaching out for her and I let that affect me. At least she wasn't my aunt; at least she tried to comfort him when you'd left the room, instead of participating in the abuse.
Not that I'm comparing myself to him. The psychological havoc you wreaked on him is so far removed from my own childhood that I might as well have been raised on daisies and blueberry muffins.
What's that you're saying? It was for his own good? It made him stronger? You crazy old fuckhead. It taught him to expect nothing but pain from life, and if that is strength, may I burn in every level of every hell our species has ever invented.
Intellectually, I know that to hate you is to bring myself down to your level. Well, fuck that, I'm dying and I deserve my bloody spot of violence.
Running my blade across your stomach and lifting out some of your guts may look pretty ghastly and feel even worse, but don't worry, it won't kill you. At least not quickly.
I love your son, Lucius. Look into my eyes when I say it. *I love him.* I would take a bullet for him without a second thought, I'd go willingly into Voldemort's arms if he asked me to, I'd hold this knife to my own pulse if it was what he wished. And I know he would do the same for me. But you had him before I did, you twisted him until even with all my love I couldn't undo the ruin you inflicted. Or maybe, given time, I could -- but we'll never know because you killed me. He pushed me off those stairs, yes, but it was the result of a defense mechanism you installed in his psyche. A cherished gift from Father. A razor stuck fast in the apple of the Malfoy name.
The right -- no, the left. Yes. A quick plunge and you are blinded in that eye. Does it hurt, Lucius? Is that why you're screaming? But you can still see me -- open the other eye before I do that one too, *look* at me, look at what you've done you wretched brutal savage!
I think we've had enough of the knife for now. How about flame? Yes, the blistering heat should burn away all the villainy inside you. I strike the match and hold it to your smooth pale chest. So much like your son's, except that he is slender where you are barrel-shaped. I'm sure you beat him for that too. I wager you made him stuff his face in an effort to put weight and muscle on him. Muscle he has now, but still not much weight. And he has always been a finicky eater.
Damn, Lucius, don't you know any other words besides "please"?
Alright, the match has burned down to my fingers. It stings a little, though between you and me I think I have the better deal.
No, I am not done, silly git. I haven't even started to kill you yet.
To the knife again. I'm imagining it, Lucius, aren't you? The clean slide from ear to ear, the sudden slick gush of bright blood, the wet gasping sound you'll make because you can't scream. It will be beautiful.
I press the blade to your throat, feeling you clench your teeth in fear. This is for Draco, this is for my love--
Moments pass.
Why can't I do it? You deserve to have it done. He deserves to have me do it.
I *want* to.
The knife falls from my fingers. No. I can't. I can't because he couldn't, because when I am dead he'll run back to you. Because you are his father and I can't break that bond, even though I love him more than anyone ever will and I know you are the touch of evil upon him.
I know this.
And the rest is silence.
~you had to wait
you couldn't just pass
the smartest ass
at the top of the class
your flying colours
your family tree
and all your lessons in history
so love is hard and love is tough
but love is not what you're thinking of~
--U2, "Please"
~~~~~~~~