Cravings and Carvings
As I stand here in the moonlight, I listen for the sound of your voice. You said you'd meet me here. You aren't coming. I can tell. I've been waiting years for this moment that will never come to be. My craving.
I knew you wouldn't come. I brought something with me. I was ready to show you. But you aren't here. You won't ever know now. I reach into my pocket, my eyes still on the path. My fingers touch the smooth metal of the razor in my pocket. I pull it out. The sleek metal glints in the silvery light.
Carvings. They're etched upon my flesh. Anywhere inconspicuous there are carvings. I put the sharp blade up to my arm. Slowly, your name forms.
Draco Malfoy
My new carving. I crave to carve. I crave you.
I know it's awkward for a Gryffindor and a Slytherin to be in love. It's even more awkward if we are the same gender. But I know you. You wouldn't care. I've seen the way you look at me across the Great Hall. I know you.
I'm only hoping that you know me. I need your help. I can't stop myself. If I go on much longer, I may never get the chance to kiss you. To feel your tender, soft lips on mine. I need you. Why aren't you here?
It's late. I should be getting back to the castle. I'm not supposed to be here anyways. The forest is forbidden to students. You knew that. Maybe that's why you didn't come. I stand up from my seat on a fallen log, making sure to wrap my arm in my cloak. As I walk towards the school, I watch for you still. I know in my heart you aren't coming. But my mind wants so much to know that you are.
When I reach the edge of the forest, I pull out my invisibility cloak. It's stained with blood. I quickly pull it over my head and continue my journey back to the common room.
When I enter the castle, I search for you as I climb the stairs to the towers. You are nowhere to be found. I reach the portrait and say the password.
"Harry Potter," she says. "What are you doing out so late?" I ignore her. Upon entering the common room, I see you there, sitting by the fireplace. My eyes light up.
"You're here," I whisper. You smile and bring your index finger to your lips, signaling me to be quiet. I ask how long you've been waiting. You don't reply.
As things get heated, I notice that you don't seem to be in the mood tonight. I stop. You stop. We stare at each other for a few minutes, then you reach for my wand arm. My carved arm.
I don't try to stop you. I don't know why I let you. You hold my wrist with pale hands and pull my cloak sleeve up to reveal my works of art. You look into my eyes. Those deep, gray eyes. Staring at me. Hypnotizing me.
The rest of the night passes in a haze. I'm watching you and I argue. You're yelling at me. I'm quietly defending myself. We draw attention. Students descend from the dorms. Teachers arrive. They take you away. They try to take me away also. I won't let them.
I run from them. I don't know where. I just run. The wind going through my air feels as if I'm on my broom, flying next to you. I know I'm not. I make it to the Room of Requirement, somehow. I quickly walk back and forth in front of it and a door appears. I enter.
Inside is a strange room, made of smooth tile. It's perfect. On one wall there are lots of bandages.
That's good, I think. I'll need them.
I spend the night in that room. I add more dots and dashes to my artwork. I'm a troubled child.
The next morning I emerge from my getaway place. I walk amongst students. They point. They stare. They laugh. They gasp. They're scared. They think that I'm not normal. Which, of course, I'm not. But no one besides you and me needs to know that. Our little secret.
You aren't in your first class. Remember, we have double Herbology first. You weren't there. I couldn't pay attention. I skip my next class. I find my way down to the Slytherin common room underneath my magical cloak.
When a student comes along, I slipped into the damp room behind them. The girl I followed heads up to the girl's dormitory. I head for the boy's and, hopefully, you.
As I climb the stairs, I listen. For your voice, mostly, but for any other sound. But all is quiet. Nothing is there to be heard. When I arrive at your room, I open the door. I see you.
You're face-down on your bed. I ask if you're okay. You don't reply. I figure that you're still mad from last night.
The first thing I realize is that you have maroon-colored blankets. I ask you why you have a Gryffindor bed-set. You don't reply.
The second thing I realize is that the maroon color is blood. My breath speeds up. My heart pounds in my ears.
The third and final thing I realize is that you are not breathing. I rush to your side. I flip you over and search desperately for a pulse. I do not prevail.
I see the world through a haze again. I try desperately to wake you up. I do not succeed. I begin to wail out of grief. The screams penetrate the silence like a knife through butter. It attracts people. I don't want to be around people. I begin to run.
I run as fast and as far as my legs can take me. After what seems like hours, I am on the far side of the lake. I collapse onto my hands and knees. Scrambling to the edge of the water, I take large gulps of the cool liquid. I peer across the lake and see one of the giant squid's tentacles trailing along just below the surface of the water.
I reach into my pocket. There it is. My life raft. I pull out the sharp utensil and look at it. I've used it so many times that I know exactly where all of the scratches, dents, and markings are on it.
I decide what I'm going to do. I hold the razor in my hand. It feels cool and smooth. I place it next to my wrist. No more drawings. No more carvings. No more. No more.
I tug at the razor. I'm going a different way than normal. This is more painful. My breath comes out in short gasps. I tug harder. My blood spills into the lake. I lift the razor up and examine my work.
It's beautiful. A large streak of red runs from my wrist to my elbow. I can see my arms and legs growing pale. I know my face is too. My head feels light. I fight to keep my eyes open.
Slowly, I lay down on the ground, my back towards the dreaded school. The blood keeps coming. The darkness keeps coming. As my vision blackens, I utter my final words.
"The Boy Who Lived is no more."