Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter...um...duh?
Pairings: Draco/Harry (previous) Harry/Tom (current) Harry/Voldemort (Not decided) Severus? (you decide)
Rating: M for later sex, and self abuse, and language and probably graphic ick.
Notes: Draco centric...Dead!Draco, Good!Tom, etc. Give me five reviews, people, and you'll have yourself a second chapter.
When I was little I used to say my prayers every night, so I could get to heaven when I died. My mother told me the only way was to pray, every night, and be the best person I could be. I was never the best person. But I always wanted to get to heaven.
He was screaming. Thin cuts, like spider webs of red covered his body, tearing him. His voice was loud and pained. He was calling, calling out to the man that stood there, silent, resigned, blank faced. He was screaming so loud, he wondered how the other man couldn't hear him.
There was blood rushing out of his mouth, muffling his cries. His arms ached, but he couldn't move, his legs bent, knees digging into the ground, trying to keep himself up. His hair hung in his eyes, long and stringy, sticking to his face with sweat and blood. He wasn't sure if he was breathing, but he knew he was coughing and screaming. Blood and words, coating the words with blood, muffling them, distorting them, making them dirty, oh so dirty. He couldn't breathe.
A searing pain rode down his back, and he screamed again. He felt a slight tremor run up his spine, like the calm before a storm and he closed his eyes.
Then it was over. It was all over. He looked around and all he could see was white. Not a harsh white like the hospital's he had been sent to, but a pinkish white, a comforting, warm white. He as though he were floating and realized that there was no place for him to put his feet. He looked around wildly, and a soft voice spoke to him.
"If you wished it, you could save the one who you cry for."
"Am I dead?" he cried, trying to find the voice, or an exit, or anything at all, the warm white suddenly feeling more oppressive than comforting. "Did I die? I don't remember dying!"
"You could save him."
He was running, trying to get away from the voice, but Merlin, there were no exits. He was running, running, and his legs were burning, and he saw all the tiny slivers of red begin to reappear on his arms and legs and chest and he was screaming again, because it burned, oh Merlin it burned.
"You could help him, save him, and all you would have to do is ask. You could be the one to help Harry Potter."
"What's the catch," he cried, voice breaking as he fell again to his knees, trying to get the pain to end, to disappear and leave him be.
"You would have to stay by his side, no matter what state you are in."
There it was, he was almost thinking clearly enough to realize what the voice meant, but he was too far in love to care. He closed his eyes and nodded, slowly, trying to control his pain wracked body.
Then it was gone, he was back on the hill, blood covering his body and the grass. He was screaming, and crying. He felt the pain in his back grow and a sob wrenched it's way from his throat. A sickeningly loud rip and the scream that followed was that was left. A naked figure rose from the once proud figure who lay still and bleeding. He stood and moved towards the other man, slowly, still adapting to his body. His hair was long and black, and his eyes strikingly green with an undeniable red tint to them.
As soon as he stood he fell down again, his legs to weak to support him. He looked down at the mess of blood and flesh he had rose out of and shrieked loudly, scrambling to get away from the dead body.
The other man looked at him in slight disbelief. "But I killed you," he whispered, rubbing the scar on his forehead, and watching the man desperately looking away from the dead body.
I wanted to get to heaven. I stayed because I loved him. I don't think he even noticed that I died. I may never get to heaven now. Shame, really. When I was little I used to say my prayers every night, so I could get to heaven when I died.