He had been sobbing unrelentingly, when he had walked in.
"Don't," Crooned Moaning Myrtle, from one of the far cubicles. "Don't... tell me what's wrong... I can help you..." Malfoy's pale face had turned red, blond head bowed over the sinks. It was useless, a waste of his time, crying. People always acted like they knew how to help when they couldn't, and nothing struck him as more fucking hopeless-
"No one can help me." He gritted his teeth, squaring off his shoulders, as much as they shook, "I can't do it. I can't... It won't work - and if I don't do it soon..." He swallowed back thickly, voice thick with fear as he uttered his next words, "He'll kill me." He squeezed his eyes shut, strong, but skinny arms shaking as they held up the weight of Draco's whole world.
He hadn't realised the tall, dark haired figure stood behind him, gawking at him as though he were some circus freak. Draco Malfoy? Crying? This is an outrage! He isn't capable of emotions!
Apparently not, until they flooded his face when he did notice. The shock and horror that his weakest moment had been witnessed by none other than the most popular boy to ever live, perfect Potter, combined with the shame of allowing himself to be so weak. Anger surged through him, and his face turned redder than Weasley's hair as he wheeled around, whipping out his wand, and instinctively firing a hex in Harry's direction. Naturally, he defended what little was left of his pride.
Get out!
It missed Harry's face by mere inches, shattering the lamp behind him, and as the green-eyed boy threw himself sideways, the young Malfoy, seething with rage and offended by Harry's staring, readied himself again, alarmingly quickly, blocking his retaliating jinx, violently throwing it aside. His silver eyes were aflame with hostility as he raised his wand again.
Moaning Myrtle screamed something that he didn't quite process, too focused on making the other boy pay...
He shouted something he may have regretted, the bin behind Harry exploding, and - as he began the first utterance of an unforgivable curse - something had been shouted at him in return. Something that sounded like hissing, like parseltongue, and it was violently colliding with Latin. For a moment, he'd jokingly thought the other to be summoning another basilisk. Almost quipped at him.
'Opening the Chamber again, Potter?'
Knew it would get on his nerves, perhaps piss him off enough to run away, or kill him. Perhaps killing him would be doing him a -
Pain.
Excruciating agony.
Inside, he was screaming, and at first, he thought he had been hit with the cruciatus curse, until he realised that a thousand blades were skinning him from the inside out, pushing up through his marble white, unbreakable, perfect skin, hot, sticky redness coming thinly at first, before thick, slow-flowing ribbons of blood began oozing out of him. The screams he thought he had been making were elicited as little more than strangled gurgles as blood began to bubble up his throat, into his mouth. Blood spurted from his face, and his useless hands scrabbled frantically at his cuts, as the deep slashes began to surface on his chest and stomach, too. He choked, stumbling backwards, his eyes rolling back as the angel eventually fell, jolting and jumping around on the floor in shock, silver eyes wide and horrified.
It was only meant to be a few hexes.
Not... not this.
Tears streamed down his pale cheeks as the floor beneath him, once transparent with water, became dark and opaque with his body.
He knew he had fucked up by giving the necklace to Katie to deliver to Dumbledore. It was meant to kill him. But had he truly wanted to kill Dumbledore? The obvious, logical decision would have been to deliver it himself, if he had. To ensure that there would be no excuse for a slip up. But no. He was frightened, and Dumbledore didn't deserve this, but the pressure upon his young shoulders was almost too great to turn away from. He was crumbling under the stress and expectations... Worse, in front of Potter. He'd been quick to tease him about his struggles, quick to poke him when vulnerable, yet it was all compensating for the deep loathing within him. He had to express it somehow, even if putting himself on an even higher podium than the 'Boy Who Lived' was the way to go about it. To make himself feel better. He was bitter, though. Terror had made him cruel, and had twisted him into being something that he was not.
And Mr. Malfoy did not like losing control of things that could be controlled. His life was one of those things. It was his right to control that... not Voldemort's, not Snape's, not his parent's. His.
He was the Boy Who Suffered in Silence, and now Potter... Potter seemed to be soaking up this rare display of utter vulnerability like a sponge.
There was a rough, quiet laugh in his brain, as he bled out. Of course, this was the perfect revenge, wasn't it?
He looked at Harry, and his expression became forever engraved behind his ivy green eyes. Happy now, Potter?
"No-" He felt like the air had been ripped from his lungs. If only the air was to aid the boy on the floor...
He could almost hear the scornful spit behind those eyes, ablaze. He was an inferno, and yet not burning. The blood around him was the fire, and he himself was a marble sculpture. Hear the hiss of the snake.
Help me... please...
His eyes were less bitter, now, and more scared. Terrified. Crying for help. In the end, no matter how much he rationalised, he still feared death.
What had he done to him?
It was only meant to be to disarm him. Perhaps impress him with something he hadn't heard before.
Showing his best enemy a cool trick.
Not really an enemy.
Just a bit of childish banter.
That's all.
Right?
"No, I didn't-"
Didn't what? Didn't mean it? Sectumsempra, for enemies. For enemies. Malfoy was his enemy, wasn't he?
The Potter boy took a step forwards, and in a fleeting moment, his hands were all over Draco's chest, which was shining scarlet in the dim light of the waterlogged bathroom. Draco's blood, on his hands, splashing up from the floor where he fell to his knees, staining his shirt, soaking into his trousers.
His pure blood, metallic and bittersweet.
Malfoy was shaking uncontrollably, blood bubbling up and sputtering out of his twitching mouth, his teeth stained red, tongue, too. Even in this state, he was struggling to maintain his dignity, his eyes screaming out for aid, but his body not wanting to be touched. He shuddered away from Harry's hands, the screaming in his mind numbing out most of his thoughts as the pain increased. He was gasping for air, his eyes wide and glossy, his chest juddering with each ragged breath.
Please leave. Don't watch. Don't act like you can help.
No, stay - please, stay- don't leave me alone like this, Potter!
Each time Potter's hands touched one of the gashes, it was like being burnt with a white hot stick of metal. He sobbed again, and a hand slid under his head, the back of his hair wet and stiff with blood.
Harry's eyes were glittering with despair. Draco's mind quipped again.
Scared, Potter?
He was in a vicious battle, half of his brain wanting to set free his demons for a moment, to share them with Harry, to let loose his struggles, and the other half was ripping him away from all that, smothering his pain with bitter, sarcastic, dry humour and hatred. He was flipping between the two chaotically, between the lamb and the wolf, not knowing which one to feed. He was comfortable with the wolf, an attitude he had always owned and festered with, but part of him wanted to embrace the lamb for once, to take the risk and show his goddamn emotions.
If he could have, he'd have held Harry's hand, squeezed it until he nearly broke his fingers, for some sort of comfort. There was only so much he could take...
His vision began to turn black. Was he dying...? The screams were so loud, mixing with those from the ghost, who was shrieking blue murder.
The door crashed open, and his head began to spin. As Harry turned and recoiled, he made an attempt to grab for him, his stomach flipping uncomfortably at the thought of more and more people coming to witness him in all of his condemning dishonour.
Go away...! Don't look at me!
Someone shoved Harry out of the way, and he waited for the laughs of a thousand Gryffindors. Waited for the dread to wash through him.
Instead, he heard the voice of his assigned guardian, Severus Snape.
Malfoy became passive, his mind at war again, between whether he would rather the Gryffindors over Snape. This would get back to his mother, who would lecture him again, pour over him like a baby, patronising him... and Merlin help him if his father ever heard about this.
He was crying again, and he would have fought Snape if he had been strong enough, as he was lifted off the floor into a half-standing position, his wounds beginning to knit together.
Snape's incantation had taken away the blood, but it didn't take away any of the pain. Not a single wretched, crippling ounce of it.
Draco could feel his guardian's shaken heartbeat, betraying his usually cool and composed face. He risked looking, and Snape was livid.
He closed his eyes again, and the sound of blood rushing around both of their veins, through Snape's pasty white neck almost made him vomit. It was so loud...
His mouth was dry, and all he could taste was blood, fear and regret. He forced himself to walk, attempting to go on his own before Snape's grip on him tightened, and shackled his dignity. His voice was more gentle, talking to Draco. Something about dittany and scars. He didn't care.
The frost bit back at Harry, however, and Draco knew that the fate awaiting Potter would be unyielding and perhaps little less than torture.