Never Meant
by infamouslastwords
"I know how it feels to have such a weight on your shoulders, I really do," her head floating somewhere behind your right shoulder, bespectacled face commiserative and reaching. Your stomach's sick with the clenching of your abdominals, fists all bite and bone against the ceramic basin's edge. "You feel crushed underneath it."
You chew the inside of your cheek, molars vicious calcium, nerves paralyzed to the point of minute, whole-body tremors. It would be something to pace, to stretch so far your skin screams with something besides this perspiration, but there are already countless footsteps worn into the rug at the base of your bed back in the dungeons, toes digging aimlessly into the base of your shoes. You take them off sometimes, not thinking—just to feel something other than the humidity within Italian leather, the strange slimy coldness that covers them when bare.
The only response you can muster is a low grinding; stress fractures have surely made their fissures into your jaw with the pressure you've exerted, wanting to speak but not having the energy to even begin a search for syllables which would sum up your condition. The girl-ghost comforts you, sometimes, as tangibly as anyone has ever been able to—this contradiction would madden you if it weren't the only thing you had to hold on to. Crabbe and Goyle spend their time idiocy-immune on the common room couch, and there are no conversations which need your input besides the infrequent, petty, insulting (insulating?) opinion, ones said three or four times before about topics mentioned just as often. Now Blaise and Pansy drift away, too afraid of you and your potential to succeed, your potential to fail. And in all the replies to letters from your mother, soothing words pour from the quill for her sake and not your own; the hand that writes them trembles with trepidation for the future.
So you sink, splashing water from the leaking faucet onto your face until you realize it's impossible to drown this way. Myrtle reaches for your arms and you feel her icy vapors chill your physical flesh. As she withdraws, whinging for you to stop it, Draco, stop it, your thoughts go once more to your father's face, half-lit by the family room hearth's kindling fire.
"You're a Malfoy, Draco," his drawl lower, more urgent each time you recall the memory; insistent, hissing. It took a long time to recognize the same fear there you see in your own eyes now—only Dad's had anger rimming them red, while the color you see most is some sad grey, some nightingale gone sooty with despair-sickness: the color of the marble halls reflecting outside sky; the taste of every meal, Monday on; the feeling of breathing and having your chest too tight to take it in, too small for song or sweetness.
And now there's Myrtle, the poor transparent thing, commiserating for maybe the first time in her existence with someone real—but your talks remind you of times before you were, before you are now. What is real? Hearing her voice is like sitting in a history lecture (long skipped, along with all your other classes, lately) and not trusting that those years before your birth were inhabited by the breathing, because you had not yet begun to. In the same way the things she says come from somewhere unreal, somewhere that reminds you just as you were thrust into this world, so you can be taken away. How inconsequential you are, yet how monumental of a role you have been trusted with.
Just like the things she says to you, Myrtle, trying so hard to help. Last week, on about some way you could reach out to someone alive (as if asking guidance would make the world whole, heal the wound), someone who doesn't spend their free time in the S-bend waiting for the world to whisk by without her.
"I know someone who could help," she says. "He always sticks up for what is right and defends those who need defending—Harry Potter—"
You had reeled off a sparse handful of hysterical shrieks of laughter before realizing the sound was of your own volition. Then, in the ringing silence, you let yourself hold on to this shining possibility for one moment, if only to try the way it felt hidden between molar and cheek; to not just have the Golden Boy's help, but if anyone could intervene on your behalf, save you, drag you bodily and souly away from this position. If someone could be your savior… to witness them standing in front of you, between what you are trying to be and the evil that is making you its own; some impenetrable goodness.
After this suggestion from Myrtle you began to look at Potter differently; as if he were backlit at all times, the deep shadows of small smiles when with friends, the strength of his seriousness stood out suddenly. You had never seen him before in your life, it seemed. You had never seen him before in this light. The way he held his silverware in the Great Hall during meals—even these movements were significant, whispering of a secret held underneath the skin. When you'd be caught, he'd stare back with a steeliness that closed your throat around the last bite you had been swallowing tepidly at best. Spitting silently into the napkin across your knee, you'd excuse yourself from friends only aware of your terseness, unable to breathe until behind the barrier of the Hall and your back to the hallway beginning the descent into the dungeons. Some tightness laced your body by an invisible hand, bound. You watched a single soul come from the direction you had just fled; jet black hair and eyes burning in the torch fire lighting the way. He searched, rotating on the spot, but you had hidden yourself into the darkness, free to see the angle of his neck dip beneath the collar of his robes, silver clasp undoubtedly cool against his pale throat. He swallowed and you had, too, thoughts straying to the first year when you had stood in this very hall and held out your hand in an offering. Where would he be, Potter, if he had taken your hand then? Where would you be?
A minute passed. Weasley and Granger, suspecting an absence lasting too long, had come to meet Potter in the middle of the hall, where after some worried words the Golden Boy stalked off, leaving his friends to exchange dark glances at his behavior. They had never been quick to understand, you recall, from some spats that had spilled over into shared classes with the Slytherins. Silent treatments, momentary lapses of the soul. You had never cared for Crabbe or Goyle so you acted accordingly in terms of how you treated them, but in this new light you realized how foolhardy these people had been—to not trust this wizard immediately, in every action and reaction he has. To fight with him. To forsake him, even just for a second. Had he taken your hand….
First, your father would have used him bodily as a bargaining chip, hissing some sinister strategy into your eleven-year-old year. Second, your early-age inability to show any form of affection that did not involve your mother surely would have left him battered and bruised by ill-fitting, backhanded remarks, would have put a divide between the two of you based on your insistence on the importance of aesthetics and power over bravery and integrity. But these were learned traits, you had been taught poorly—if you didn't realize this every time you witnessed Potter making some noble rescue or some big escape from evil and felt how he was tearing down everything you had believed to be true and integral to the world (your steadfast belief in your father, for instance, draining away bit by bit) and became infuriated that someone who wouldn't even shake your hand could change your world so wholly, so completely, from the inside out, then surely you realized this staring at those moments over the years you had caught him acting out of this wealth of goodness, extended to everyone but yourself. Which means third, he would have been poisoned by you, sucked dry of all higher human notions; you would have lied to him as you were lied to, tried to have cheat him as you were cheated; and eventually, along the way, he would have ended up smeared across the sky at the opposite end of Voldemort's wand, ensuring the world dark, dark days—darker, even, than before, because no new Boy Wonder would have come out of the woodwork like he had, miraculously, magically, to save the world. He was it, the one and only, and in this waking dream Myrtle had fueled you found the root of what was wrong, what had always been wrong.
Every day, you carried around the unrealized guilt of turning this boy you only sneered at sour. How this had almost happened, all of it—the good times and the bad times, the grisly end that would have resulted. You think, then, that you would have thrown yourself in the path of whatever had tried to hurt him, if only to save such a shining beacon. But bravery was never welcome in your heart; you made it into a sick joke, like everything you had been too terrified or too ill-equipped to possess yourself. Instead, Granger and Weasley hovered around him always; the memory of his mother, his father; Sirius Black; Hagrid, the oaf; and yes, Dumbledore—especially Dumbledore. You saw the wealth of love that spread radially from him, an infinity circuit of give and take. You hated him like you've never hated anything at the moment you fully admitted this to yourself—this love that protected Potter even as an infant, and provides impenetrable support now… You, at one time, had a chance for the same love. Oh, your blood boiled at this fact above all else.
He had forsaken you.
You look down and see the silver drain shining in the candlelight; Myrtle had fled from your side. In the silence she had left you, floating away and sinking steadily down the tube of the toilet, thinking she had trespassed too far. You step away from the sink for a moment, hands shaking. The headache is starting again; you've known these facts for so long, the impact gets less and less with each time your brain antagonizes over them; just a dull ache in your heart, a throbbing between your ears. The low, maddening hum of life constant. This doesn't stop the few tears from sliding down your cheeks, hot and stinging, but unaccompanied by sobs. Here was the storm breaking—the calm of not being able to do anything. Most times you were alive with energy, contrary to being stuck in this situation; but some precious few times you got still, could hear the wind howling across the castle walls, smell the ancient, earthy mildew between the stones, appreciate the way your cloak felt against your skin, and shed it quietly.
You almost think it's Myrtle come back to comfort you again when you hear the footsteps at the opening of the lavatory corridor, and then you realize the girl-ghost floats when she moves. In the mirror it is the half-face of your thoughts that you see—one green eye, glasses, jet black hair. From peripherals your own specter appears—white blond hair, one grey eye, sick-tinged paleness; almost at once these two images are compared, juxtaposed. His health and your weakness. His righteousness and your cowardice. His ability and your misguided anger.
You almost think he's extended an arm for help when he starts to walk toward you, eyes intent. You think that he has figured out what's going on like he has always figured things out, miles ahead of everyone else (even you, about yourself). You imagine that his fingertips brush the edge of your fallen fringe away from your sweaty forehead, your clammy skin warmed by the touch. You can almost feel the magic that pulses through him, what everyone who isn't Granger or Weasley whispers about after accidentally bumping into him, after asking to borrow a quill and accidentally coming into contact with what is being freely offered to you now. He tucks stray hairs around the shell of your ear and he's looking at you with neither gentle pity nor steely scorn, and you swear you're seeing and feeling in him what the Muggles refer to as God.
That's when he kisses you. Without words, your body barricaded, held up between the edge of the sink and his own soft imposition. He's touching the edge of your jaw slightly; he's shorter than you, you realize at first. That he smells of hay and the clean cut of winter wind is the second observation; third, how earnestly you've been waiting to know what the clinging of his lips to yours is like. So you kiss back.
But you're so much needier than he is, and the rhythm is off just enough to knock your tooth into his. He breaks away from you after a moment of trying to remedy this, then brushes your tearstained cheekbone with a thumb and starts back in after a small flicker of his eyes to yours. You go more slowly, you let him lead until you've gained enough ground to match his mouth as an equal; the magic in him consuming you, surrounding you, cradling you. When he slips his tongue into your mouth you shift slightly against him, and that miniscule movement makes all the difference. You feel him, his body, seal to your own bit by bit. What's amazing to you, striking you over and over with each centimeter gained, is how well he fits, how well you both fit unto each other; every bend of Quidditch-made muscle, every nook from thoughts finding food unappealing. He goes out where you go in and vice versa—like you were cut from the same sheet. Made to fit, to be a complete set of one faraway truth. When you snake your fingers into his hair, brushing soft strand and scalp alike, you realize that maybe this is why you were around at all; to oppose Potter, to be his opposite, but to make a bigger whole together.
He's kissing your neck when you reach up to unclasp his robe. The heavy black fabric falls into a pool around his feet: underneath there is a jumper three times too big for the frame it envelops and a pair of jeans that one more washing would deem too snug. He pulls the jumper off, bringing his eyes back to yours as it piles on top of his robes. You're nervous to touch him and you notice him notice this, still able to feel the pressure on your heat-collecting lips.
The mouth that had removed itself from you is set in a line from concentration as your own robe clasp is undone, the material pushed to and over your shoulders by his good palms. Deft fingers unbutton the navy collared shirt you're left wearing, spreading themselves curiously but knowingly against your skin as it is revealed. You shiver. How can this sixteen year old seem to be unassuming and knowing at once—you feel that this has already happened many times between you two, and yet every moment you are left breathless by how new it all is. By how much you want it; have wanted it, will want it still even after it is over. In this way the experience seems to last forever, even as you knew the beginning began the ending.
You shake off the shirt from your arms and it drapes over some pipes beneath the sink, using this movement to lean down against Potter and take his mouth once more onto yours. The kiss is different now, hot and rapid, like contracting atoms ricocheting off one another. You bend to acclimate to him, just as he tilts his chin upward in order to match you. His hands on your forearms, your arms draped around his waist, you kiss blindly, wantonly. You don't realize how hard you are until he is pressing up against you himself. You don't realize how full of purpose you are until you've switched positions with him, pressing him against the sink's edge as you pass a hand over his cock, through faded denim. When he moans, breath cool on your cheek, you think that if only you could make him make that sound, over and over and over, it would resonate so deeply inside the cave of your body that the cosmos would shift to smear themselves against the insides of your eye's lids, and you would see every secret there.
Hurriedly you pull him out of his pants, leaving them unzipped around his hips as you reach down to unzip your own. The sleek material slithers to your ankles, but you don't care enough to step out because you're encircling both of your pricks with you left hand, thrusting up against him, against your own palm. He's slick with precum and you let your thumb dance over the wet head of his cock, his gorgeous red head, and he leans against your shoulder with the curve of his nose in the crook of your neck. His back reflected into the sink's cracked mirror, spine emerging here and there as he takes in air—sharply, to let you know he's impatient, and shakily, to let you know you're making him come undone. You groan, sounding in the depths of your throat, and clutch at his ass cheek to pull him closer still. He's the one undoing you.
You murmur his name into his ear and he looks up at you, eyes half-lidded but glowing past his glasses. Your fingers, applying pressure, slide all the way from the junction of ass and abdomen to glide up his spine—watching your own hand over his skin in the mirror from your peripherals reminds you of a pale water snake. When his hair is within your grasp you once again claim it between your fingers, gently tugging so his jugular is a stark roadmap outline against the contours of his neck. He thrusts against you and your left hand with renewed vigor as your mouth suctions to where that road disappears right between his jaw and ear, moaning once more. This time a word is wrapped in the noise; your name. It seems some incantation to a spell when it tumbles from his lips, when it sounds so clear yet filled with sexual wanting, with a desire to be brought to the edge by your body, by you. He moans it again and brings his right hand to help your left one; you had no idea that anything could make you feel this good. His left hand brushes through your hair and you're incapacitated momentarily with sensational pleasure—Potter's warm body; the growing orgasm tingling in your belly, your prick; the far-off familiar feeling of magic that is surrounding you both, pulsing gently in the air. The incantation of your moaned name brings you back, and Potter's hand fingers cock make your breath catch in your throat and before you know it he's tugging you to the edge and over it—eyes on yours for every second of it.
When the calm catches up to you, you move your forehead from Potter's shoulder and he gently nudges your cheek with his nose before clinging to your bottom lip lightly, lovingly with his own. It seems like you've just spoken with him, traded words; he's told you everything you've been thinking about, and just to hear it from his mouth makes everything real. You're no longer hyper, crazed with the ideas throwing themselves around your body cavity. As Potter's kissing you, stomachs sticky, everything is okay. He will tell you, has told you, is telling you everything you need to know, need to hear. He moves to embrace you, hooking his chin over your shoulder, before turning around with a slight self-serving smile to twist the tap on, biting his bottom lip and looking up at you in the mirror. From over his shoulder you see the half of your face unobscured by fractures, and the half of his with green eyes light from orgasming, black hair mussed over his lightning scar, and see the difference. You see what could be as it begins to disappear, as his face turns ashen and stony, as yours reverts to old nerves and paleness. For one shining second all of your years at Hogwarts alongside Potter are validated; the one moment you realize you had been waiting for the whole time. You and he, different sides of one coin. Sameness and difference.
And then he hurts you, suddenly, from meters away. It is not graceful, the way you feel the spell hitting you, the way you fall from it, the way you whimper on the floor as the blood begins to seep into your underclothes, your robes. It is not noble how you fail to stand up and face him, how your mouth flings any intelligible thought and circumstance toward the other wizard. It does not drown out your fears when Potter's look of abject horror down at your body rises to the surface of his features, or when Snape starts pushing him aside to fall to the floor next to your body and possibly save it, save you. Even as your vision begins to ebb away into darkness, all you can feel with every fiber is thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
Often, older, you think of that instance. Despite its cleansing you still were scoured by the penultimate position you were forced to hold in reality: even the one small lenience, in your eyes, was not enough—how could you not recognize that face, even stung? But a familiar feeling washed over you as soon as you saw him; safety, opportunity, wholeness, all vestiges of that made-up memory from what seemed like so long ago. With the same hand Potter refused to offer he had refused to let you down; he had refused to set the world in motion toward the same darkness you were heading toward yourself. He had pulled sleep over you like a blanket, lying next to you like truth. Not then, you knew, but sometime in the future the hatred would burn itself away—and then you could face the world a new man, past the decisions that were made for you and the decisions you couldn't make yourself. Potter would never know it, but the blood he released from your body that night had made you clean again. New.
Even now you hold wisps of this fact close to your heart; lying next to your wife at night, your son sleeping in his room down the hall. Between-times your thoughts don't stray, but every year when the time comes to take Scorpius to the platform, you tuck your hands into your pockets and wait for him and that Weasley girl, watch him interact with his boys as you say goodbye to your own. You wait to see if he recognizes some part of something that never happened, was never meant.