Warnings: This is a ficlet/drabble where male slash is the predominant pairing. (Meaning guy on guy stuff.) Contains main character death. Accidental suicide. Mentions of Het.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely to entertain myself and (hopefully) a few others. The world and characters belong entirely to J.K. Rowling, and I lay no claim to them whatsoever!
Notes: This is an extremely old piece I wrote years ago (when I first joined the fandom,) and only recently uncovered while trying to clean my hard drive. Not likely my best piece of writing and is really quite weird, prompted—strangely—by the fight I had with my Aunt on my birthday that year. A lot of you may not quite understand this, but I'm sure most of you will.
It's just an act
He forces himself to remember that Malfoy's a good actor. Has always been and that the venomous barbs he spits from his mouth are just a part of a character. It's not real. It's just an act. Sometimes, he has to wonder how true that statement is.
It's not the first time he has happened upon Malfoy with Parkinson. Though, she is loud enough in her passions to alert a deaf-man to what's going on and with whom she is with. And Malfoy is as quiet with her is he is with Harry. The only sound he makes are pants, controlled—almost. He simply breathes.
Another little piece of Harry breaks off from the whole, to join the many other discarded tiny bits in a roiling sea of pitch. Feeling all the more better for losing it and colder all the same.
He's beginning to question his sanity constantly.
He receives his summons two days later, to the room Malfoy dubbed 'theirs'. It looks just as it had the last time he had left. It smells the same, too. Like sweat and something oddly sweet and a tangy-bitterish hint as well. He believes it's from his blood. The threadbare rug is stained with enough of it.
Malfoy is, as usual, late. With little formalities besides the ever, "Did anyone see you?" followed by the painful, almost brutal sex.
Harry's always the last to leave. He can't bear to have Malfoy see him so unhinged once they're through. Because that's what he becomes. Unhinged.
He doesn't believe in god or gods but is determined that this is all some form of divine punishment, for what; he is unsure but he is beginning to think it has something to do with Malfoy.
Then one day, he catches a snatch of a conversation Malfoy is having with his flunkies, off to the side; just beyond the doors to the great hall. The blonde is smirking, like he caught the snitch out from under Harry's nose.
They are talking about a love potion and Parkinson in her usual nasal voice drawls, "I can't believe he fell for it. So, he thinks you love him?" She's attached like a limpet to Malfoy, but Harry can hardly care. His sole attention is focused on the next words to pass the blonde boy's thin, pink lips.
"Potter always was an idiot."
Parkinson gives Malfoy an odd look, one Harry fails to see as he flees the scene leaving the remnants of himself at the foot of the stair.
He declines the next invitation. Then the one after that and the next.
He can feel Malfoy's frustration as he avoids him in class, in corridors and more importantly, during breakfast, dinner and lunch.
His friends are worried with how little he seems to eat. How little he sleeps but somehow, Harry manages to keep up in class. This doesn't satisfy the teachers, however, who soon become involved.
Harry assures them he eats—and he does—just away from prying eyes. He sleeps as well, when his body is too exhausted to keep him on his feet, or upright.
He is banned from Quidditch for the rest of the season for an accident he caused with his inattention. It's not as if Harry had intentionally hurtled into Zabini and knocked him clean from his broom. But even in his state of emotional unrest, he saw the glint of gold and dove. It was a miracle, really, he didn't break his own neck with that stunt, let alone catch the illusive little ball and not kill Zabini.
Though Harry doesn't see it as a miracle.
Nor does he see the eyes of his nemesis turned lover turned torturer adhered to his retreating back.
*
"What's wrong with you, Potter?"
It's the middle of the night and Harry feels restless and hungry so he sneaks down to the kitchen only to run into the source of his inner turmoil.
"I thought that was rather obvious, Malfoy." A carefree dismissal. As carefree as he can force the words to be. Inside he just wants to run away and hide. For a brief, unreal second he considers closing his eyes and hoping just maybe, Malfoy won't see him.
The idea vanishes as soon as it comes. He is pushed against the wall behind him. Held by the slightly larger boy and stares up into the grey eyes of Malfoy before soft, warm lips descend on his, taking him completely by surprise.
It's so tender it's painful and so completely wrong. Their kisses were never once tender. Fragile, like Malfoy is trying to calm a particularly skittish creature. Their kisses were always brutal and one or both would almost always come away with bloody lips. This didn't work. It didn't fit in what Harry had perceived of their 'relationship' it is like a slap in the face, a final 'goodbye'.
Harry doesn't like goodbyes.
He pushes the other away with all of his strength and runs for the safety of his tower, forgetting all about dinner for that night and the fact Gryffindors are meant to be brave.
*
Life doesn't get better. It only gets worse. And on more than one occasion, Harry even toys with the idea of throwing himself from the Astronomy tower. Though he can't do that. He rather thinks the professors would disapprove of having to clean up the mess. And he's rather certain it would be messy.
Somehow, Malfoy corners him again, sitting in front of the ruined mirror of Erised. Unable to reveal the hearts deepest desire ever again. For the better or the worst, Harry is unsure but he thinks he did the world a favour. If only he had been more careful with the shards.
"Potter," Malfoy's voice is unsure, and almost sounds concerned. Though that may be Harry's fancies running away with him again. "Potter, you need help."
Harry snorts at this and wants to say something scathing but can't seem to find the energy to voice it. He glares down at his shattered dreams, blaming them for his lack of will but finding something a little more startling.
There is something shiny beside the broken shards, a growing pool of scarlet, much like his houses' colour but so much more vibrant.
Brilliant, he thinks in morbid amusement. Now he's going to think I'm suicidal.
Eyeing the slash across his wrist he has to frown. This really wouldn't look good, not deep enough to actually get the vein but would look like an attempt nonetheless. And he isn't suicidal, after considering that thought he is rather certain he isn't. He likes his blood in his body and not soaked into carpets or spilt upon cold floors.
If only he had realised this sooner.
It's not bad, exactly. He tries to stem the flow and succeeds somewhat. He wonders if Malfoy can see it. If he can, he doesn't let on, he just continues to bleat on about whatever it is he is saying. Harry barely listens, instead he tries to focus on the solid and not the wavering images before him or the fact his fingers and toes are going numb.
Then something catches his attention; something Malfoy says.
"What, isn't the potion making me malleable enough yet?" He scoffs, it sounds slightly croaked, forcing him to consider seeing Pomfrey once Malfoy is finally done. "Funny, I was under the impression it was working perfectly. Or maybe I'm just an idiot."
He isn't sure but he thinks he feels Malfoy still somewhere behind him before he speaks up, "What?"
His attention begins to drift again and wariness draws him down, Harry sighs. "Just go away, Malfoy." There is definitely gurgling this time and he can't help but notice the defeated tone it takes.
"Potter," Malfoy sounds incredulous. "Are you drunk?"
"I'm not drunk," again a slight slur and Harry's world spins dizzyingly, he wants to stand but can't. Not wanting to reveal how exhausted he actually is.
"Potter, c'mon—"
Malfoy is at his shoulder now and suddenly freezes. "No."
It's a mere whisper and holds an emotion Harry can't define. Then abruptly Harry is hauled to his feet. He tries to struggle before common sense kicks in. Be held or fall flat on your face. It's as simple as that. Harry chooses the former.
"You stupid prat!" Malfoy is angry, no furious and Harry can't understand why. "Are you really so pathetic as to take you're own life like this?"
Whether rhetorical or not, Harry is unsure but can't answer it if he's not. Instead he finds an annoying itch in his rib and immediately tries to scratch it. It's a mistake.
His fingers come away covered in more of the crimson fluid and suddenly Malfoy isn't angry. His face has gone so white Harry has to wonder what he has seen. These thoughts quickly vanish as something more disturbing darkens his thoughts.
"Malfoy," he says weakly, trying to see through blurred vision. Somehow, he has lost his glasses and his vision is dimming horribly. "I think more than just my... wrist got sliced when I broke the mirror."
Dully something registers in the back of his mind and he tugs at the shard lodged in his chest. Pulling it free, he vaguely feels the warm flow of something soaking his cloak and knows he is dying. He finds it ironic to die as he is, stabbed through the heart by a piece of his dream in the arms of the one he now knows he loves.
His realisation is too late and his consciousness slips further away to the murmur of Malfoy's voice. If it shook a little Harry put it down to being in shock. "It's just an act. I told you it was just an act."
Harry wants to say, 'Yes, but which part was the act?' Instead he manages, "Draco, I..."
Unable to hold onto life he slips into the shadows. Face dampened by tears he couldn't claim and the final resounding thought of, It's just an act.