Disclaimer: This one-shot is based on characters and situations created by JK Rowling and those she has licensed her creations to, including without limitation: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
SELFISH
The back of the Dark Lord's hand tasted of blood and death when Draco kissed it.
He released his hold; and the dusty, crumbling fingers ghosted over his skin before resting to tilt his chin.
Voldemort's irises were gone, replaced by a black disease the color of a Thestral.
"You called, my Lord?"
Draco eyes betrayed nothing, as always.
And as always, when Voldemort spoke, he hissed.
"Yess," He smiled, more like the stretching of dead skin.
The room chilled.
"We have captured the Boy-Who-Now-Dies."
In retrospect it was rather amusing that Voldemort had been the one to deliver the information to him – almost as if their roles had been reversed – but, of course, humor was not one of the qualities the Dark Lord owned.
He had been given a task.
There were consequences when one fails to accomplish them.
But this assignment was almost too painless, too effortless – no, he was certain he would encounter no difficulties.
But then again, Potter was a difficulty all by himself.
When Draco finally sees Potter, he is chained and caged in a cold, lonely cell.
Draco didn't bother with the Deatheater mask; no, he thinks that he rather likes the fact that Potter will know exactly who he facing. Potter will know precisely how far he has fallen, because Draco Malfoy finally, finally, has the upper hand.
Potter still looks entirely too innocent to be the supposed nemesis of the Dark Lord.
He is still slender, with his waif-like frame; strangely petite huddled in the shadows of a dim corner. His flawless skin, still cream and rose; his hair, still a mess of dark tresses hiding a thin, pink line of a scar shaped in a lightening bolt.
His jade eyes still flash with odium – precisely as they always have did and will – when he recognizes his interrogator as Draco Malfoy.
His lips, however, are thin with disappointment; and secretly – with regret.
Draco thinks: some things in the world never change.
There would be no need to exchange any pleasantries.
Potter stares down at the knotted fingers in his lap, and refuses to respond.
Draco almost sighs.
"Talk, or I will be forced to hurt you."
Potter laughs at the understatement, unexpectedly, hollowly; and Draco is suddenly reminded of all the reasons why he despises the dim-witted brat.
"It's all right, Malfoy. It wouldn't be anything new. In case you've forgotten, I'm already acquainted with this sort of twisted thing that you Death Eaters find so entertaining. Look – I still have the scars."
For a second Draco thinks that Potter is referring to the one on his forehead, but he isn't.
He lifts his hands, palms spread and fingers splayed, and Draco is repulsed by the sight that greets him. Potter's fingertips appear to have been burnt off.
Draco turns his face away.
"Want to see the scars on my thighs?"
His sneer doesn't suit his face.
"That's enough, Potter."
And perhaps only half-aware of his actions, Draco's eyes flicker to the Mark on his left arm. One that suddenly seemed inerasable.
"These are the people you chose as allies," Potter says, his voice an accusation.
Draco backhands him in the face, and the sound that resounds throughout the room is unbearably loud, even to his own ears.
"Don't you dare denigrate my decisions. Save your bollocks for someone who cares. I already know of your inconsequential army; and I know that you are the lead. Tell me about the disposition, Potter."
It isn't like he's really expecting an answer – the boy hero will probably kill himself before spilling any information that might imperil his friends.
But Potter surprises him.
His scruffy head drops, and Draco catches a glimpse of them – wet, glistening pearls rolling off his inflamed cheek and falling onto the unforgiving stones.
He knows that either way – he will die.
It isn't redemption he's searching for when Draco speaks.
"It doesn't have to be this way."
Potter looks up, eyes glazed and damp.
He whispers, "Yeah, it does."
And he is right.
Draco casts the Cruciatus.
The sound of Potter's screams fills the room, and Draco is all too familiar with this – and so he smirks, and feels pleased with himself.
When Draco visits him the following day, Potter is not in his cell.
Draco tells himself that the feeling in his stomach is not anxiety, and certainly not concern.
He refuses to believe that there is anything wrong, even as his unwilling feet carry him to the dreaded destination, even as cold perspiration breaks across his forehead, even as his blood begins to freeze in his veins, even when Draco enters the chamber and sees Potter's broken, naked body, discarded on the stone slabs like an unwanted piece of filth.
He refuses to acknowledge the substance smeared between Potter's thighs, refuses to conceive of the picture that Potter made – skin torn open, legs spread apart, bruised and bloodied.
These are the people you chose as allies.
Draco doesn't feel so pleased anymore.
Draco dreams of Potter doing a victory lap around the pitch, holding the golden snitch in his right hand, smiling and beaming and grinning all at once. He is alive and sweating and glorious – the sea-green color of his eyes never looked more vibrant. But the next second he is falling down, falling falling and Draco thinks he might fall forever, but he doesn't, no, he doesn't; instead, he hits the ground, and the sound of his vertebrae snapping clean in half echoes and reverberates endlessly, until Draco is awake and skin slick with cold sweat.
Draco counts Harry's eyelashes.
He is up to 153, 154, 155, 156 – until, all of a sudden, there is emerald.
"Malfoy?" Harry whispers, and immediately his face contorts in pain pain pain –
Draco waits impatiently until Harry is done coughing crimson stains, before grasping his frail neck and pouring a potion down his throat.
It burns – and Harry squeezes his eyes as if to shut out the agony – but in an instant it is gone, along with the rest of the aching.
"What –?"
But Draco silences him with a finger pressed to his lips, and Harry just wants to die so everything would be over.
"Why are you helping me?" Harry manages to croak, musing aloud.
He thinks of his shattered ribs and wants to laugh.
For a brief second Draco wants to shout indignantly, 'I'm not!' But he is no longer a third year and no longer wishes to emit hollow deception.
"Because no one else can. You can't save yourself this time, Potter."
It isn't even a proper answer, but Harry does not disagree.
Draco wishes the healing would go faster – and it is ironic because it feels like he has spent his entire life chasing after Potter, who, now, refuses to move forth at all.
It is a steady slope of slipping downhill, and Potter is wasting away, day after day after day.
It is hard to ignore the sunken face, jutting cheekbones, and alarming pallor.
His eyes remain green, nevertheless, like moss.
"I can't see clearly without my glasses," he says one day.
Draco remembers Potter's glasses perfectly – and he also remembers how it lay crushed and splintered on that first night while Harry twisted and writhed at his feet beneath the curse.
He cradles Harry's face in his arms, gently; draws out his wand and murmurs an incantation.
Harry blinks up at him owlishly, and smiles.
Draco pulls away before he could do anything stupid – like smiling back.
Potter's face is vulnerable in his slumber.
His forehead is smooth, lips slightly parted; and if Draco leans close enough he would feel and taste Harry's quivering breath.
When Draco is through counting eyelashes (there are 197 on the left eyelid and 193 on the right), he moves on to examine other features.
He discovers that there are exactly 14 freckles on each of Potter's cheeks, curiously enough; though two freckles might often appear to be one.
Potter also has faded dents on the bridge of his nose.
Occasionally, while he marvels at Potter's lack of facial hair, Draco Malfoy can't help but lick a path along Potter's narrow jaw – and Harry's skin is always faintly bitter, on his tongue.
Draco cannot specifically identify the turning point of their – for lack of better word – acquaintance; but in the blink of an eye he had lost the undeclared battle waging in his subconscious.
He wanted the grief in Potter's eyes to fade and disperse. He wanted to brush his fingertips over the ticklish black hairs on Potter's eyelids. He wanted to see (soft, pink) lips curve into a gentle smile, and linger there, perhaps for an eternity.
He wanted to hold him, to own him, to never let go.
This was weakness, he knew, so he steered clear of prying eyes.
Draco was subtle, he had always been discreet; he was the son of Lucius Malfoy after all. And so nobody took notice; they spared a glance at his cruel beauty and thought: cold-blooded murderer.
Draco wanted to think they were right, but it was a hopeless case.
He wonders why he is keeping Potter alive – it isn't as if it is doing much good, and he knows in the end everything is futile; but in his dreams it's always Harry's eyes and Harry's smile that is surfacing surfacing surfacing through the murky waters, illuminating his entire world in less than a second. And there is nothing more beautiful.
He should have known it wouldn't last.
After all, Voldemort is not known for his patience.
Their fleeting serenity is shattered into a million pieces; into shards of fractured trust.
They enter Potter's cell, and it pains him to see Harry's eyes, wide and filled with green confusion; but Draco recognizes that other emotion, and it somehow all becomes worse – resignation, the final acceptance of fate, no matter how unwelcome.
They are orders, and he carries them out.
He doesn't attempt to look at the expression on Harry's face; he knows what those horrible eyes would contain – the utter anguish of betrayal.
When he is finished, he stands by the Dark Lord.
He stays immobilized as he watches them all over him, tearing off his tattered robes to reveal parchment-white skin, pinching and licking and biting, shoving his shaking thighs apart, heedless of his terrible, heartbreaking cries.
Draco thinks that he would simply like to cease to exist, to flee from this hideous nightmare, but he is (oh Merlin) afraid, and hates himself because of it.
Harry arches off the floor; arches and arches and then screams for an eternity.
They tear him apart again, wounds that have never fully healed, stabbing into his mouth and into his body, hard and fast and brutal and Draco stares at his father as he chuckles and comes.
Draco doesn't bother with apologizing or excusing himself – because he knew that no amount of apology could ever suffice.
All he could do was spell away the blood and dress up the wounds as best as he can.
Harry won't look at him; his body is curled in on himself, his face pressed into his knees, lines of hurt and exhaustion like cravings on granite.
Harry's lips were trembling, and Draco felt his heart clench tightly in his chest, as if an invisible fist was trying to squeeze the life out of him.
And maybe he deserved it, to die for his sins.
Harry just lay there, for perhaps an hour, a century - and then the saline tears leaked and ran down his gray cheeks. He made no sound.
Draco opened his mouth.
But all he does, in the end, is wrap his arms around Potter's body, and rock him off to slumber.
Draco is exasperated – and desperate.
"They'll kill you," He pleads, "Must you always play the martyr?"
"I'm going to die, either way."
"The Dark Lord has already promised you freedom."
"I can't betray my friends. They're all I've got."
"And what of yourself? Curse your hero-complex; now is not the time for foolish acts of valor!"
"I'm sorry."
"Be selfish, for once in your life!"
"What for?"
Draco is bewildered. Doesn't Potter understand the definition of 'selfish'?
"For yourself. For the future."
For me. For us, he wants to say, but doesn't.
Instead, he leans forward and kisses Harry softly.
In the end his silence was for naught.
Without Potter, the rest of the group was pitiful.
Draco thought it gratuitous to describe the details of the deaths, so he neglected to mention anything at all.
He knows what he has to do.
Draco unlocked the cell with a complicated charm, and removed all the wards.
He bent over Harry's form, and shook his shoulder gently.
"It's time to go."
Harry's eyes widen impossibly; he took in the open door and his wand, held in Draco's outstretched hand in one disbelieving glance.
"Listen, Potter, I need you to concentrate. I'm giving you a portkey. You'll find yourself in Hogwarts," he took a deep breath. "I'm…setting you free."
Harry stood up with difficulty.
"Why?"
To the very end, Draco refused to think of the possibilities; but somewhere in a warm corner of his heart, one that Harry had lit up; he already knew the answer.
He did not tell Harry that they'd probably never meet again.
But perhaps Harry understood, because his eyes were welling up with enormous tears.
"You deserve to live."
Harry started sobbing. "But so do you."
Draco wanted to say, "Yes I do", but he knew he probably didn't.
He held out the portkey.
"I'll come back for you," Harry said, almost hysterically, convincing perhaps himself.
Draco nodded absently.
"Promise me, Draco; promise me that you'll be here when I come back –"
But he never quite got to finish his sentence, because the portkey had already activated.
He left nothing but a sliver of purity on the dirt encrusted ground, glistening diamonds fallen from wet eyes.
"I promise," Draco whispered, staring at the space that Potter no longer occupied.
There was the unmistakable cacophony of running feet and shouted words, pounding louder and louder until it was nothing but a blur, sounding from a distance, and he closed his eyelids and welcomed the end.
And in the last seconds of his life, he wished the world was beautiful again.
-Fin