Dying for You
Disclaimer: After reading this, you'll be older than you have ever remembered. So why waste your life reading disclaimers that you should already know?
Warning: If you do not like pieces dealing with pain, loss, sadness, angst and death and you can click on the "back" button of your browser now. Also, this piece contains slash.
Enjoy.
~ September 2001 ~
"Calm down. Now. Deep breath."
"Get away from me," came the angry reply.
"You know you have to take your medicine. Why did you stop?" Harry's last question was more accusatory than he had expected. He closed his eyes. His patience was wearing thin.
Draco stared into the distance, an uncomprehending and distant look in his eyes. Sparing a glance at Draco's shaking hands, Harry sighed and lit a cigarette, his own hands faltering slightly. He stole a puff, breathing in with deep relief as he slowly relaxed into the familiar taste and numbing feeling. He passed another cigarette to Draco, who leaned over and lit the fag on the glowing tip of Harry's cigarette .
When the trembling ceased to an occasional shudder, Harry tenderly held Draco hand, while swiftly giving him a jab. The tranquillizer would suppress the irrational paranoia in Draco, but it would not block out the delusions. Harry literally felt the seconds tick by as he watched Draco's face contort while fighting his inner demons. He felt an unconscious surge of protectiveness overcome him and shifted forward, letting Draco lean onto his chest. It was the only thing he could do, and the only thing he knew how to.
"What would father say if he knew I was not just 'a little' neurotic?" Draco mumbled, his voice sending deep vibrations into Harry's chest.
Harry sucked in and kept quiet, stroking Draco's hair gently. Lucius had most likely died in sometime in the war, but Draco's mind had adamantly refused to accept that. Instead, in his own warped world, Draco had fabricated a non-existent memory that Lucius was merely away on "official business", as he was often so in Draco's childhood. A lie, doubtless, but Harry had not the heart to tell the truth.
Despite the lingering irritation he suppressed, Harry knew the reason while Draco did not take his medication. Countless times he had turned the bottles over in his hands, squinting at the faint fine-print that revealed each pill's side effects. They made Draco less alert, emotionally drugged on a numbing stanza that would only lead to heady crashes when the dosage wore out. Harry had curiously popped a couple down his throat, half wanting to avoid his own nightmares, half trying to be sympathetic. The ignorance was blissful, the numbness soothing; for about twenty minutes. Afterward he felt dazed, trapped in a mind that slipped away from him. He tried using magic under them, and he felt the energy flowing from him into the wand was a weak refrain rather than a steady thrum. Knowing how Draco suffered, and yet managing to maintain the veneer he had on in public, made Harry admire the other man's inner strength.
"I hate being drugged up on medication. Do you even know what it is like?" Draco pilfered yet another cigarette and lit it with his wand. "Some days I can't even move. No, don't you interrupt. You don't understand. I just can't move. Even my fingers do not feel like mine."
Sympathetically Harry gave a small sigh. He had been with Draco through the years after the war and knew him like the back of his palm. He had been there when Draco overdosed on the pills that were supposed to suppress the excess dopamine released in his brain. After that incident, Draco had lingered in a heavy bout of depression, where he had tried to kill himself at least five times. Perhaps Muggle anti-depressants did not work so well on wizards; Harry did not know. Painstakingly, Harry had sat through tomes of medical books, hoping to find a suitable spell or potion to cure Draco, if only a little. But even in magic, there were limitations. He found no solutions, and in anger, had set fire to his library, only to regret it moments later. He wished Snape was still alive.
Before the war, Narcissa had brought Draco to a retired wizard therapist living in the Muggle world, in a desperate attempt to curb his psychological problems. Snape had secretly brewed him calming droughts and suppressants. a Now that Lucius was dead, would it not be easier to seek another professional potion brewer? Maybe they could find a suitable alternative. (Or not, if the potion brewers hated past Deatheaters.) Still, maybe it would work better on Draco. Maybe Draco could take his medication and live a normal life. Maybe they could be together.
But Maybes, there were so many of them. How could they live on maybes alone?
Draco pushed himself up from Harry's chest. "I'm cold," he stated blandly, his unfocused eyes slowly connecting with Harry's.
Looking at the vulnerability etched on his lover's face, Harry carefully shifted Draco back onto the bed. He wanted to hold Draco in his arms for eternity, and discard reality. Throwing a blanket over the man, Harry crawled under the covers and curled an arm around Draco waist. Drawing him close, Harry shut his eyes and let his thoughts drift. The smell of Draco's soft silvery blond hair soothed Harry. He nuzzled Draco's neck and heard him give a small sigh of contentment. He remembered when contact like this used to make Draco flinch invariably. It had hurt Harry to be rejected even in so subtle a way, but they had finally managed to overcome that barrier. Sleep would take the both of them soon and he nuzzled Draco's hair, the familiar tang of Draco's shampoo lingering and filling his nostrils.
Do not fall for him, Hermione had warned, but through a twisted flurry of events, Harry had opened his heart extensively for Draco.
~ September 1998 ~
As Harry approached the Malfoy manor, the door was opened by one of the house elves who welcomed him with a glass of wine and disappeared. Harry wandered along the hallways slowly, getting accustomed to the dark. As he strode up the elegant stairwells to look for Malfoy, he overhead a portrait lamenting to another The poor thing! He was always mummy's little boy. Who will look after him now? Harry sighed, dragging his feet along the thick carpet until he found Malfoy's room. He knocked, but there was no answer. He knew Malfoy was in from the weak magical presence floating to his senses, so he gently pushed open the heavy mahogany door. Malfoy sat in the bed, sheets bunched around his bare waist, an empty glass in his hand. His eyes vacantly stared at a spot a thousand yards away.
"Hey," Harry whispered, as if anything louder would break the man.
Malfoy heaved a sigh. "Why are you here?"
Harry shrugged. He noticed Malfoy didn't even have the energy to ask him if he was here to mock, to laugh. Narcissa had saved his life. Now that she was gone, he felt he owed Malfoy at least a visit. The animosity between them lingered, but during the war, Harry had saved him, and Malfoy seemed indifferent afterward. Besides, without the childish school rivalries between them, any undisplaced anger seemed empty. "May I sit?" he asked instead.
"Yeah."
Harry sat on the chair beside the bed, watching Malfoy's bare chest heave with each breath. He traced the lines of Malfoy's bony shoulders to his skeletal fingers, lying limpy on the side. They sat in silence for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts, the war's scars fresh in their minds. Harry cast a quiet Incendio as the fire burned to embers. He shifted closer, and held Malfoy's outstretched hand in his. It was cold, sharp angles jutting in the wrong way, but Malfoy didn't jerk or move away. They watched till the fire burned down to embers again.
Even in the dim light, Harry could see that Malfoy's eyes were wet. Malfoy moved for the first time since Harry had been in the room. He opened a side drawer, and pulled out a red vial of liquid, before sharply downing all of it. He winced from the taste, and a drop slides down his chin and down the middle of the chest. Harry watches, fascinated at the dark red, which eventually leaves a dot on the sheet. As if noticing he curious attention he was getting, Malfoy got up. "I guess I'll shower. I'm not sure why you're here Potter. You should go."
"I don't know myself," Harry manages a shaky laugh. "But it's not so bad is it?"
"No. No it isn't. Some habits are just hard to break."
"Like calling me Potter?"
"I don't think calling you by name would change anything."
Harry gave as casual a shrug he could manage. He knew it would change a lot of things, but he didn't dare suggest it.
•
"Master Malfoy hasn't left his room," the elf curtly replied, bowed and disappeared.
Harry padded through the hallways and knocked Malfoy's door before entering.
"Ah! To what honour do I owe this fine specimen's presence? Death and glory? Something of that sort?" Malfoy smirked.
Harry was relieved, glad that a little spark of the old Malfoy seemed to be back. The relief however, was quashed with the realization that Malfoy was drunk. Very drunk. Great. Malfoy patted gaily to a spot to the right of him and asked Harry to have a sit, and a glass of wine. Ah what the hell, though Harry. If he could think of anything that could be more fulfilling than spending the evening with a drunk, maniacal ex-Death eater, he'd leave. The problem was he couldn't. Harry downed the glass offered to him and flopped onto the bed. He might as well make the best of the situation.
There were peals of drunken laughter echoing from Malfoy's room all the way till midnight.
"I'm hungry," Malfoy whined as the clock chimed twelve. He called for the house elves to bring him some food, and two plates of an elegant but simple dish of steak appeared before them. They ate in silence, suddenly sober. The awkwardness returned, and Harry cleared his throat as the house elves cleared away the empty plates and bottles.
"So."
"So," Harry ran a hand through his hair, "I guess I should leave."
"I'll show you out, it's late."
"No, you should get some rest," Harry mumurs under his breath, noticing the pronounce dark circles around Malfoy's eyes.
"It's raining though, and cold."
"I don't think you believe the rain will kill me Malfoy, though I feel like I'm too tired to Apparate."
"Oh. You could..."
"Hmm?"
"Stay?" Malfoy's words come out in an almost imperceptible whisper.
"I ... guess," Harry hadn't realized he wanted to, until the words were out of Malfoys lips. "I will, if it's not too much of a bother."
"No, of course not."
"I'll transfigure the chair into a bed," Harry offers, pulling out his wand.
Malfoy's fingers are on his wrist before he could utter a spell. "There's room enough for both of us on the bed." He drops his hand. "Besides, you might ruin the couch, it's from the Victorian era," he adds, a mediated afterthought.
Harry smirks, Malfoy's fake disdain was somehow soothing. "If you insist, your highness." It brought out the familiar annoyance in Malfoy's face that made Harry laugh in relief as he crawled into the huge bed as Malfoy dimmed the light. They lay in the dark, shoulders almost touching. Harry stared into the ceiling, Malfoy's steady breathing strangely comforting. He wants to say. He wanted to start a conversation - it had felt so good to laugh, but he was afraid to say something incredibly stupid, and ruin the moment. It was Malfoy though, who ventures the first word, a quiet Thanks. Harry nods, and is silent for a bit. The silence stretches into a deafening loneliness and Harry tries to crack a joke, a desperate bid for communication.
"I hope the manor has wards against reporters, imagine the field day they would have if they found us here, sleeping in the same bed."
Malfoy managed a tiny snort "How ironic would it be to wake up to the headline Harry Potter in bed with Devastatingly Handsome Childhood Rival!" Draco laughs, "Even then, rumours are only worrying if they are true."
Harry bit his lip. "Ha-ha."
"Unless there's something to be really worried about."
Harry paused indefinitely, he wasn't sure he wanted this conversation in the direction it was heading. "Maybe."
It was Draco's turn to pause, before he whispered. "I never hated you Potter. I thought it was hate then, I was angry, you were everywhere, taking everything from me. But I realized, after all of that, I still didn't really hate you."
"I don't, I ... I don't hate you, was obsessed, maybe, wish you'd been less of an asshole in my life, but no, I don't hate you either."
Malfoy turned his body ever so slightly. It wasn't embarrassingly needy, or painfully obvious. But it was enough. Harry reached his hand out and touched Malfoy's cheek. He closed the distance between their faces, feeling Malfoy's breath ghost upon his lips. Then, he kissed him. Gently. Painstakingly slowly. A fragile kiss.
"I .. I just... "
Malfoy let his hands traverse Harry's face before settling into Harry's hair.
"It's ok. We'll be ok. You'll be fine," Harry whispers, and lets Draco touch him lightly, his feathery touches exploring Harry hesitantly. Their foreheads touch, and the only sound is the cackle of the fireplace, and their uneven breaths caressing each other. Harry slowly wraps his arms around Draco. It's the only way he can stop himself from crying.
•
"I'm sorry."
Draco stepped into the shower with him. "I'm sorry."
Harry does not respond, Draco's betrayal fresh in his mind.
"I'm sorry Harry. Argh! I didn't mean it. I didn't think. I.."
Harry let the scalding water burn his skin.
"I'm sorry. I really am."
And Harry felt Draco's weight slump against him, trapping him between the cold tiles and the rushing hot water. Draco skin is hot warm against him, a sensation that is pleasuring and confusing at the same time. Draco hugs him tightly. "I'm sorry Harry. I really am. Sorry."
They stand in an embrace, full of hurt and unsaid words and foreign feelings; and the water gushes over them till the hot becomes cold, and their skin changes from red and raw to blue and wrinkled, and still they stand.
Harry had never felt so naked in his life.
•
"I'm not Granger or Weasley, so there is NO way you are going to convince me to do that."
"It's not so bad, I promise!"
"But it's so cold tonight, I'll freeze and die of pneumonia!"
"You won't, I'll even cuddle you to sleep tonight."
Draco pouts. "Promise?"
Harry nods.
"And I want hot chocolate too."
Harry smiles in victory. "Let's go."
And they run across the Malfoy gardens and straight through the shimmering waters of the fountain. Snowflakes dance in the air around, and the moonlight frames Draco's hair in a beautiful halo. Draco's eyes are so bright they burn a beautiful footprint in Harry's mind that he knows he'll remember till he dies.
~ December 2001 ~
Harry trailed alongside Draco along the streets of Diagon Alley. Even after the years had passed, the wizarding word was still recovering. Deep down, Harry knew the reason for the prolonged war was partially his fault, and it had impaired the entire community. Living each day with such guilt was a heavy burden - even if he had eventually "saved" them all; sometimes he had to ask himself - at what cost. But it was the war that had brought him to Draco, and he was glad, for the blond was there for him. Even if they lived in denial (to protect their own sanity? or was it some warped kind of principles?) and pretended that it was physical lust, Harry knew it currently amounted to more than just sex.
It was a cold day, and added to that was the lingering smell of abandon, so it kept the people off the narrow lanes. Harry let his fingers accidentally purposely brush against Draco's before intertwining them. Their relationship would seem rather odd from an outsider's perspective. Both of them were so dominant, and yet so dependent.
"Not a very lovely morning, is it?" Draco commented blithely.
Choosing not to reply, Harry shifted a little closer. They wore glamour charms to partially disguise their looks, but there was hardly a necessity. The streets looked as if they had been revisited by a group of Deatheaters all over again. The snow fell like rain, seeping into the cracks of the stone pavement before swiftly melting into their own separate rivulets. Hopping onto one foot, Harry shot Draco a hesitant glance. Lattices of light shone from the nearby café, as Harry poised his question. "Do you mind eating here?" he asked even as his mind was elsewhere, to the time when this corner of the shop was occupied by Fred and George's joke store. Now Fred was gone, but not from memory. Gosh, it really was cold, Harry thought as a chill wind ghosted across his face and whipped at the ends of his cloak.
Draco seemed to notice the drop in temperature as his grip around Harry's hand tightened. Stepping into the café, they saw the shop owner visibly stiffen but they ignored him. Apparently glamour charms did not work as well as rumours. They would need a new look if they wanted to avoid public attention.
On some days, Harry could swear the media was decisively worse than Azkaban.
The coffee soon arrived but it was forgotten when Harry planted a chaste kiss on his companion's lips. Draco deepened the kiss and as Harry felt a wave of nostalgia rush over him, he smiled into the kiss and willingly accepted Draco's tongue when it pleaded for entrance.
Heaven.
It brought back so much memories of their first time. Draco had avoided Harry for weeks after, embarrassed by his actions, locked himself in his room and threw tantrums only the Malfoy elves could bear. But, yet, play it down to Gryffindor persistence, or that raw need, and they had sought each other out. Tentatively. Achingly. Bruising and empty and desperate and all kinds of feelings that Harry had felt completely unhinged. It more was what they needed. Every claiming kiss, a heated release; every hurting touch a healing moment. Harry needed Draco, was trapped in Draco's need for him as well. He noticed he was staring at Draco's collarbone, and Draco winked.
"Desire is what you imagine, not what you see."
Draco's laugh, which sounded like the bells that tinkled when the cafe's door opened, flooded into Harry's ears as he made that remark. Harry faintly remembered the embarrassing fantasies he had of Draco when they had been apart. A warm coat of tenderness hung above the couple and in the moments that followed, both of them sipped their coffee in a companionable silence.
"You know, Draco, I lo-"
A polite cough interrupted Harry's speech as a waiter came over to refill their cups. Orchestrated bad timing, it would seem. It was odd how this café seemed more Muggle-like than others. However it had a good atmosphere - cosy, and yet not suffocating. Chiding himself mentally for turning so soft, Harry turned his mind on the snowflakes genially drifting beyond the window. How could something be so beautiful, and yet so cold and harsh?
Harry let his thoughts wonder, remembering the time when Draco had accompanied him to Ginny's funeral. Throughout the whole ceremony, Draco had gently held his hand, massaging his frayed nerves. When Harry reached home, he had got hold of a knife, and tried to hack out those horrible memories of the war. Draco had caught him with the blade, digging out the flesh from his own palms, cutting up and the Slytherin flew into a rage. He broke down, sobbing without an explanation. After that incident, Draco made sure it was him who did the cooking, him who dealt with any sharp objects.
It was impossible to explain how looking at Draco, thinking of Draco brought back so many moments that would forever remain etched in his mind. Harry felt a gentle pressure just at the sides of his eyes and quickly, he turned his attention back to was strange, but something unfamiliar in the air was making him slightly edgy. He wondered briefly why he was so emotional this morning, his heart ungracefully captured on his sleeve.
There was a sudden contrast as the icy air blew in their faces when they exited the café. It continued to chaff at their noses as they adopted a quicker pace and walked amiably down the streets. Draco's face was pulled into an emotionless canvas whenever he was in public, he could almost make Harry believe he was perfect control of himself. It made Harry think of the ice that crunching underneath their feet as they walked.
A sudden shout broke into his reverie. "There he is! That's DRACO MALFOY!"
Almost immediately a silver object was whizzing towards them. With his Seeker reflexes, Harry caught the underhand movement and threw himself as a shield for Draco. It was like watching a slow motion movie, and everything in front of his eyes slowed to an impossible pace. Either from reflexes, sheer will or an unknown magic in him, he caught himself in deadliest center of the storm. His ears sang, his heart thundered against his chest. He felt his blood surging, and his breath was coming out in sharp, staccato beats.
Thud. A soft sound sang mournfully in his ears as Harry felt something hit his left chest. There was no feeling initially, just a sort of foggy numbness, as his brain fought to regain control of the situation. War vigilantes. Shit.
Breathe.
There was an abrupt pause as the world whirled on in confusing circles while Harry lay on the pavement, too stunned to think.
Breathe again.
Red, black, red, black. The colours spun in Harry's head in a dizzying display of brightness. Everything reeled in his mind as he saw himself as a baby with his dad and mom. Then there was Ron and Hermione in the picture. Then it was Draco, Draco and Draco. It was Draco kissing him. It was Draco touching him. It was Draco entering him. It was them, and only them spending eternal bliss together as one.
He wanted so badly to speak, but his mind was not strong enough. There was not enough power that could will his physical being to overcome the poison fast spreading through his body. It was funny, that as he was dying, he wasn't asking Merlin to save him, he was not pleading for his parents, he was not crying for his closest friends. Instead he was desperately trying to hold as much of Draco as possible. Harry tried to coerce his lips to cooperate so he could say something, just something, but his breath left him with each passing second. It was so ironic, how his whole life he was a candle for others but in the end, all he managed was to burn out.
Forget it, the voices in Harry's head chanted, as he felt himself surrender to the frost deepening within him. The lethal poison was fast overtaking his arteries and nerves. Distinctly, he heard Draco's voice calling, screaming his name, but it was so far off, so unreachable. Sardonically, he mentally laughed as he recalled that a poison of this standard, would definitely be worthy of Draco's approval.
Some innate instinct told him that the time he had left was just grains of sand slipping through his useless hands. And in the end, there would be nothing left for him to hold.
Is this it? Harry asked himself as the blur of colours folded into themselves and in one sweeping tide, washed him into darkness.
Draco Malfoy stared at his fallen comrade, his only close friend, his lover, unable to speak as he howled his loss to the merciless winds and rains dancing around him.
•
A/N: Dying description was based on an overdose of pills. Reviews are very welcome. :)
Shadafakup
After note: This is dedicated to those who I have appreciatively found on my stats page.
Thank you bakachan17, MalfoySlave, tati1, Redhead Kitty Kat, LostGryffindor, Relle, Djay, MyOriginalIntent, DarkJewel, fox00, Doublemint, AnjelHershey, LittleLion1, Crystallina Potter, melodramatic emma, nil-blaze, lakuniko, Kaze, Ezekiel Klitiras, and sugarbaby.