Yesterday's Resistance
Summary: Harry takes the one thing Draco Malfoy loves in the world, his own life. DM/HP Slash. AU. Post Hogwarts.
Warning: SLASH, if you don't know what that means, or dont like,hit the pretty back button.
A/N: This is written much like Ugly, starting at the end and going towards the beginning. The story is going to be told through flashbacks.
The Artists Last Reckoning
Timing is everything when you are looking for the perfect, down right most beautiful moment in which to kill yourself. Death, like life, is a work of art—a dazzling display of what is, what was, and what can be. Your body is your canvass—paint it in life with ink…or mutilate it elegantly in death. Be true to yourself, let your soul shine through—let the world see you through your canvass. Let them all see.
Scars on your arms, from wrist to elbow, across skin so pale, moonlight is a callous upon the eye—blue and black, red and white, light pink to silver shards…let them all come together to form your grand masterpiece. Let them all merge into one—let them scream to the world…
This is who I am!
Hold the knife, or swallow the pills, pull the trigger, or admire the landscape…make your choice, hope for the best, and take that one last deep breath. We're all waiting, we're all waiting for you to show us—show us your soul, show us who you really are.
Show us your canvass.
Harry did indeed tighten his grip on the sweat-slicked blade in his palm. It was poised, above his arm, ready to cut deep gashes, ready to let the waterfalls run free…
It was poised above his arm, as it had been for the last half hour. The green glow of his watch alerted him to this fact. Half an hour ago he'd decided to die. Half an hour later, he was still here, what a disappointment. He couldn't even kill himself in a timely fashion. Of course, a majority—or minority—of the wizarding world, believed that his death, to be in accord of a timely fashion, was well over due. Twenty years overdue, if truth be told. And Harry, whether they would believe him or not, agreed full heartedly.
He had nothing to live for.
He didn't want war. His friends—they had family, other friends, they'd found love. They didn't need him. He needed them. But they sure as hell did not depend on him.
What he wanted wasn't about to come to him—not in a timely fashion anyway. So…press harder, Harry thought, moving his hand, trying to get a grip as the pressure increased. Just a little harder…harder…harder.
The knife blade slid slowly, ever so slowly, across the soft underside of his arm. He traced the winding blue river that carried his life-blood, letting it flow free—letting it fall from his body to go wherever it pleased to be—releasing it.
He was releasing his soul.
And in good time, enough was gone for his eyes to flutter, his stomach to clench, his breath to falter...in time, his strength failed him, his will long gone, and the heart with which he had loved, stopped—there was nothing, in time, left for it to live for.
He'd been dying for years. And his heart just now realized that it really had nothing at all to survive for, there was no need to work. It had only taken a sharp blade and a determined mind to finally convince that heart that there was nothing—nothing in him…anymore.
Slipping slowly, your mind a dark world, a blank canvass, as if you were starting anew—but you know better. It's not starting once more; you are merely erasing what was there. A whirl of emotions that you had, once…they all slip. Slip slowly away. You crave that darkness, that world where life, like death, is nothing. It simply does not exist. You do not exist. No longer. No longer here, no longer…
Thank whatever god or goddess you want. Believe what you will, thank everyone who is finally releasing you, letting you go. Letting go.
Sometimes, it is forever.
Say goodbye, and close your eyes. You haven't left a note, you would never have. The mystery will be pain for some, and you crave that. Especially for one. Too bad, you won't ever know that pain, but you can die knowing, knowing that you will, in time, cause pain so deep that…
In time, he will let you go. As he should have…years and years ago, the moment he left, the time he came back, every time, he should have let you go…
But he hung on, clung like a bur, and now, you're escaping him—causing him the pain he gave you, in the cruelest way.
He'll never get to say, "I'm sorry" he'll never get to ask "why" and he'll never be able to hold you again. You know it's malicious, but you can't be bothered to care, you are already dead.
He just doesn't know that yet.
Hermione screamed, her voice the only sound in a deathly silent apartment. There was blood, so much blood, so much…
Her hands moved frantically, wand waving as spells were muttered by a less than calm voice. Her hair somehow, somehow, his blood coated several strands—maybe it was when she leaned over him, maybe it was when she pulled him to her, tears and sobs racking her body, maybe it was then, that his blood had tangled in her hair.
After she'd known that there was nothing she could do, after she tried with all her heart and mind and body and soul. After she'd tried with all the knowledge she'd ever had, Hermione cradled the head of her best friend in her lap, rocking back and forth, unable to stop the misery. Her body shook and she didn't mind the blood that coated her hands, she didn't mind that it was smeared over her face, in her hair, over her clothes. His head lay limp on her lap. His eyes weren't quite closed and she could see the lifeless green that they had been—no longer brilliant and shining. No long that captivating color that could swallow you whole, envelop you in a sense of love and warmth—Harry was no longer there, and his eyes were just dull and dead.
She'd known this would happen, one day, in time, they'd both known Harry would do it—they'd talked about it, and in the end…
He'd chosen it.
She couldn't be enough of a friend to stop him—he'd needed more, he'd needed someone to need him. And they'd thought…once…they'd thought he'd found that someone.
Once.
Now he lay in her lap, pale and drained—he'd tried this thrice before, each time, she'd come, reminded him of what there was to live for. Reminded him of hope—even if she herself did not believe in such things. After all, she was just as lost as Harry…but her pain, was not that of Harry's. Her pain was looking for the one and only person who could make her complete—pain that he hadn't shown up yet. Harry's pain was that of one who had known, loved, and lost. Loss by death, Harry would have been able to live with, he'd lived with it so many times before. But this was not pain of loss, this was a pain of waking up every day and going to bed every night knowing—knowing that you weren't enough, that he wanted more than you could give, knowing that he toyed with you every single moment of every god damn day and smiled while he twisted your fragile hold on life with a sneer.
He'd broken Harry…in a way he'd never been broken before. The boy had been broken and patched so many times…Hermione had almost believed he was growing strong enough to deal with him. But…as she stroked his blood-crusted hair, strands that used to be silky and black, she knew…
She knew that Harry hadn't been strong enough to outlast the cold-hearted man who held on to him—never letting him go.
But…
She also knew why, after all, Harry had just taken the one thing in the world Draco Malfoy loved. He'd taken his own life.
Now, Draco would finally feel the pain he'd caused Harry—he'd see first hand what exactly his inability to commit had caused, and he'd never get to say any of the things he'd told Hermione he wanted to say to Harry.
Harry, had in the end, won.
He'd painted his life story in a gory masterpiece, his mutilated body in the center of it all…
Now he just waited for his story to be told…
For his soul to be revealed…
It was an artists last work.
And his greatest.
Please tell me what you think, if anyone has a suggestion for a better title, I'd love to hear it.
Best of luck to you all,
jd.