Disclaimer: The characters of the Harry Potter books belong to J.K. Rowling and other affiliates. We are borrowing them for the sheer pleasure of fan fiction. Also, the title for this chapter is from the song "My Last Breath" by Evanescence.

Authors' Note: No, your eyes are not deceiving you. Authors—as in plural. You might know Jamie (Mrs. Witter) and Priya (IndianSpice) from the GG fandom. After reading a lot of HP stories and stalling for a while, we decided to join evil forces when Jamie's muse gave her the idea for this story. The rest- as they say- is history. Without further ado, we present to you The Charmed Life.

Enjoy! (And if you really do enjoy, we would love some feedback!)

-&-

:The Charmed Life:

/…you pray your dreams will leave you here…

"Do you smell it, boy?"

He feels his head being jerked towards the sky with such violence that even his veins throb with pain. Transfixed, he gazes into the onyx eyes, barely breathing, barely moving.

"W-what?" he gasps out, instantly realizing in terror that the painful fire in his limbs turns frigid as the serpent approaches near.

"Death."

On cue, the flames rise again, licking the world around him, although he rests in a cocoon, seeing visions of carnage that should make his body churn with disgust. Instead his head lolls back and his eyes close peacefully.

He is deathly numb but the pounding in his head increases; the screams become louder and the pain…unbearable. 'What deception is this?' he tries to speak. 'How can I feel…if I am numb?'

The serpent's eyes flash as he penetrates the boy's mind and answers him. "Death."

He can smell it now.

It clings to the black air, that thick and coppery scent lingering in the crevices of his mind, prickling him. He can taste it. His eyes fly open in panic, colliding with those of the serpent. He is pinned down by the hypnotizing stare. The spring green becomes jaded with mists of poison as the serpent swallows Harry's sight, his soul.

"Stop," the boy moans in Parseltongue, "I want to feel..."

"Do not wish to touch life when you, boy, are nothing but the cause of destruction." The serpent fades away. Or he is still there. Harry cannot see. He does not care.

He is drained of his soul and the world goes black.

The darkness in his veins fizzes with acidity, moving throughout his body. He feels the glorious, tangible, human blood flowing through him once more.

He smiles.

The blood is thrumming more quickly; he can feel his heart hammering in his chest.

A rush of blood to his head - his scar is alive again - burning manically. His body shakes uncontrollably and he clenches his hands, marking his palms with half moons. Self-hatred and turmoil boils rapidly like a lake of lava in the center of his body, tightening his throat.

He cannot breathe, but still he laughs.

He laughs until blood is streaming out of his scar, his mouth, every fiber of his being, seeping into the cracks and crevices and filling them with an acidic elixir that erases any source of life as it is destined to. As he is destined to.

Destruction, he remembers the serpent saying. Destruction.

He bleeds until he stains the sky crimson.

-&-

It's too dark.

He can't see anything ahead of him but he feels the ground under his feet, soft and murky. It's approaching, too quickly, too all-consuming. His legs pump faster and he runs, unsure and terrified. He can smell the wet soil as the rain slaps down viciously.

There's blood; on him, around him. He doesn't know if it is his.

"There is no point in running," the voice calls out, resonating and loud. A voice he knows too well. "You cannot escape what is in you, boy. It consumes you."

Lightening strikes, streaks across the black sky, illuminating it so that he can see the Dark Mark, clear and distinct like a beacon. It challenges him to defy, ready to smite him if he does. As quickly as it came, it disappears and he's left with the smell of blood.

He feels weak, his legs are ready to give out but he knows he can't stop. To stop would be instant death.

"Foolish boy. You do not have any control. You are powerless."

"No!" he yells, his lungs aching as if he's underwater and cannot breathe. "You can't touch me."

"I am in your blood," the Dark Lord hisses. "Do not fight it."

A brilliant light floods space and time, enabling him to see a serpent, long and threatening, approach him with red eyes gleaming brightly. He falls to the ground, into the blood, and watches in numb horror as the creature slithers closer and crawls over his leg. His body is now acutely aware of every movement, every breath, every hiss the serpent makes. He can feel a pulsating heart beat, which he knows not to be his own, slowly at first, then pounding louder and louder and creeping its way into his body. The heart of a serpent.

"Stop," he commands in weak voice, his own heart hammering against his ribcage. The serpent merely pauses as if considering the request. His head slumps back, he tries to fight the wild fire in his veins, the rage in his heart. "I can't."

"Weakness!" a voice, a new one, hollers. "I will not tolerate weakness."

"Lucius..."

His eyes open and he sees the paleness of his father's hair, the dark madness in his mercuric eyes. "The Dark Lord awaits, son."

"No!"

The serpent is now on his chest and pain shoots through him, robbing him of speech. Without control, he watches as his arm lifts into the air and the serpent strikes, fast as the lightening in the sky. They dance in unison until the deed is done.

Blood pours again, rivulets down his body, crimson. He can smell the scent in the air, the coppery scent of death. He tries to scream, tries to escape but he is too weak, too numb to move.

"You are mine, boy," the serpent hisses in Parseltongue and yet he understands. "Power is yours." Draco sees it then, clearly on his skin, black and searing against the soft, marble white: the Dark Mark.

Destruction.

-&-

She knows this can't be real. Even as she runs, even as she feels the blood, warm and sticky on her hands, she knows that this can't really be true. She is the smartest witch of her generation, she is as sure of this as she is of her name. And every instinct she possesses screams that she's in a nightmare.

And yet, it doesn't stop the mind-numbing pain from spinning its web around her, dark and ugly.

She sees faces, randomly, of people she knows. They're hazy and liquid, flowing before her eyes in a mess. But she sees them, in pain and anguish, crying out even though she cannot hear what they are saying.

She is deaf to life.

She feels a whisper of a touch; a solitary finger traces the curve of her cheek, chilling her very bones. She shudders violently, the contact causing the senses in her body to become overly alert and sensitive to her surroundings. She gasps when the same finger lifts her chin towards the bleeding sky, which she soon realizes to be eyes.

"Look at me, beauty." The voice is a deathless song; it pulls her like a puppet.

"Beautiful…beautiful skin," the voice whispers slowly in amazement, and a hand flutters to her face. "Exquisite." She tries to blink away, but the crimson eyes hold her gaze. The hand travels to her forehead and the eyes flicker with interest. "And…intelligence…knowledge…a wit to be unrivaled with." As soon as it came, the interest abandons the voice, instead it snarls with hatred, "Almost perfect in creation. It is a shame that the blood that courses through your body is dirty. Filthy, impure blood. What a tragic disgrace."

The eyes flash again as visions of her parents flood her mind. Lying limp on the ground, bruised and bloodied. Dead. "No!" she screams, uselessly, pain searing through her as bruises mirroring her mother appear on her own skin.

"There is no room for disgrace in this world. There is no room for filthy blood."

Tears stream down her face and she tries to reach out to her parents…to help them.

"You cannot save them. You have no power, Mudblood, a pathetic excuse for a witch."

Leave them alone, she thinks for she cannot speak. They're innocent.

"They are fools," the voice answers, dripping with contempt. "Death is too good for fools." Before she can protest, lightening illuminates the sky, a frightening shade of silver. And she sees the beholder of the voice—a cloaked figure transforming into a horrifyingly real serpent, slithering towards her. Its venomous eyes narrowed in angry slits. "You know who I am, Mudblood?"

"Voldemort," she answers and her voice breaks at the last syllable. She feels weak and insignificant.

The serpent hisses, raises its head and strikes her leg. White-hot pain shoots through her, numbing her again. She has been marked.

Suddenly, she feels like she's falling. Unsuccessfully grasping for something, anything to hold on to, she wants to scream but no sound comes out, the a darkness spreading through her, over her heart.

She's poisoned.

Something – no, someone grabs her. Gasping for breath, she looks up to see her savior.

Harry.

Relief floods through her and horror soon follows. His face, is covered in blood, their hands interlocked are bleeding, crimson streams running over flesh. She looks into his eyes, once a bright, misty green now dull and almost lifeless.

And before her eyes, the green changes to icy grey, mercuric and vivid. She's seen that color before, somewhere, she realizes. There's a voice in her head, screaming, but she can't hear it through the fog.

"Who are you?" Hermione moans as she twists her body, no longer falling into the deep abyss. "I know you."

"Granger." The voice is silky and as familiar as the steely eyes. He's calling her name, incessantly now; she feels his hand on her shoulder as he gently shakes her. "Wake up."

Confusions clouds her mind as her eyes open and she loses herself in grey. Her lips part slowly, as illusion and reality blend together. Reaching for him to make sure he's real, she grabs onto his shoulder, and meets those haunting eyes again.

A flash of silver.

"Draco."

-&-

To be continued…