A/N: Okay, I HAD to post a chapter… This is still the "rough" version… I'll inform all of you when the edited version goes up on fictionalley.org. Until then… I hope this tides you over… Took me a week to write… This chapter just wouldn't end! Enjoy.
Chapter 4: Internal Bleeding
Ce n'est pas possible… Ce n'est pas possible, et ce n'est pas important… mais…
It happened. It did. But I still…
No comprendo. No comprendo nada. No comprendo porque…
Just…
The lashes… Bright lances of pain, and bright fury, righteous anger set and distilled and confined into him until he felt like a molotov cocktail, set to ignite. He was controlled explosive.
He was dynamite.
That's why Harry loved him.
That's why Dumbledore picked him.
He remembered vividly the pain, the piercing agony of it, white liquid screeching through every molting piece of him.
How does he do it? How does Harry do it? Endure the pain without speaking… To know that kind of hatred directed at you, to have an easy way out… and not to take it, not to give in to it. To fight for the ideals that make you who you are… To have ideals being what you are… To be selfless and sacrificing… Is that how it feels? The lash of a whip? The slice of a knife?
He thought for a moment.
Being good, is it like… Is it like branding flesh?
He shuddered at the memory, and never thought that perhaps he already knew what being good felt like because he was good. He never considered the option. Because-
I'm not. I don't know why he loves me… If he does still love me…
His thoughts were interrupted by a bolt of agony. He clenched his teeth against it, refusing to utter a sound. It would do no good to scream, his throat would only torment him further. After a shudder, he realized that he was alone in the room.
That's alright… He thought weakly, It's okay. I knew he didn't love me… That's the one part of this whole sorry mess I did right. I made sure he hated me, I made sure he didn't care.
The cold was seeping into him, along with the darkness. His flesh was chilled wax paper pulled taut over his pallid, emaciated frame. Dark figures danced and leapt and crept ever nearer at the border of his vision.
He wanted to call out the name of the only person he had ever voluntarily loved, but he didn't have the voice. He could only sit, immobile in his chair, praying that Harry wouldn't hate him enough to leave him there. Alone, in the one place had imagined himself in…
But I only wanted to be here because he would be here… Please, please, please…
You'll take the hurt away, won't you, love? Won't you save me, please?
Please…
Dark in here… getting darker… and cold… Always cold…
The muggles screaming in the basement… One night… Wasn't he screaming for a blanket? For his wife? Then the cold, the cold again, always cold, always cold then laughter, mocking laughter then… The body, in the ceremony, the Muggle woman, they wrapped her in a blanket for the ceremony and I asked them what it was there for and they laughed and father's eyes danced and my mind kept saying no and my eyes kept saying yes and it never ever ended even when voldemort was done and everyone had left the room and I had left the room and still it wasn't over still the body of that violated woman lying in her dirty blanket on the ballroom floor and it wasn't over for her never over for me never over never over till its done
"Draco?"
never over till its done and I will wake up and be somewhere else be someone else where it wont be so dark or so cold or so terrifying and I will wake up in light and in sunshine but that will only happen when I'm dead because I will never ever get there now, cant ever get there now don't know the directions don't know the way maybe he could show me but he left
"…Dr-Draco?…"
he left and he's not coming back and I'm all alone all alone and he left just went away because he hates me because he knows me because I'm never part of the plan I'm always part of the plan that doesn't involve me he hates me just like I hated him first - he hates me just like dad just like everyone he hates me and he left like everyone left like mom left like pansy left like I left he's gone...
What's on my face?
Harry had knelt in front of Draco and placed a hand on his cheek.
Beautiful… you're back.
Draco wanted to ask where he had gone, why he had left, but he couldn't have spoken even if his throat was working. All he could do was stare into pine-green eyes, at deeply tanned skin, at hands that had joints like knobs and looked like sixteen summers of backbreaking work compressed. Hands that were no stranger to handling bricks and trowels and hammers. Hands that were clean, even with the dirt always trapped under the nails because they were hands that had never killed. Hands that were warm; tough but smooth. Hands that felt real resting against his cheek.
Distractedly, Draco noticed Harry murmuring an incantation, but he couldn't be bothered to tear his attention away towards sound. Instead, his eyes drank in the sight of the hand resting so casually on his knee, his whole being focused on the warmth radiating out from that point on his cheek where Harry touched him. For an instant, all the aches, all the pains faded away, and he was left aware only of the warmth.
"Is that a little better?"
Little better, only a little better… Just a fraction of improvement, just a modicum of change.
A little better, but still never good enough.
There was a sigh, "Draco?" Harry spoke with the resigned tone of a person forced to converse with a brick wall.
"Much… better, thanks." To his surprise, Draco meant it. His throat still felt sore, but he no longer tasted blood in his mouth, couldn't feel the ragged shreds of vocal chords where they had torn. But the moment of respite was brief. With his throat feeling absolutely joyous in comparison, the other aches and pains returned at twice their previous intensity.
Finally able to voice his pain, Draco did so with great gusto, groaning and murmuring, muttering oaths and expletives. After a few moments of rejoicing in hearing himself speak, Draco trailed off, "…fuck fuck fuck fuckety fuck fuck fuck…"
A thumb tenderly brushed a bit of dust off his cheek, "As intelligent and stimulating as this conversation is, I think I need you to talk to me so we can go about cleaning you up."
"I didn't mean it." Draco rasped out, one hand clasping his throat as if to hold it together, "None of what I said, I didn't mean any of it."
He locked eyes with Harry and didn't have to worry about the fact that he wasn't making any sense, Harry just knew.
"I figured that one out a while ago. In fact, it only took an hour after the Hogwart's Express left to do it. I realized you weren't there, and spoke with Hermione…" Harry swallowed, his eyes glimmering behind his glasses, "I wanted to owl you so badly… But I knew… What might happen if…"
Draco raised one shaking hand to rest it on Harry's cheek, leaving a smear of blood, "It was staged, the whole fight was staged. I never wanted to argue, I wanted you to know, but Dumbledore knows you and he knew…"
Harry caught Draco's hand and held it to his face just as it was about to drop from weariness, "—he knew that I would be stupid and try to involve myself. Which I would have. God, Draco, look at you… I would've done anything to keep this from you…"
"This was my decision." Draco swallowed, "'Sides, it doesn't matter. I've fucked up royally." Abruptly, Draco began to convulse with hacking, strained breaths, it took Harry a moment to realize that he was coughing, not sobbing.
"C'mon. I guess I'm not as good at that spell as I thought… Try not to speak…" Harry bundled Draco up in his arms and thought belatedly about putting a silencing spell on the room. He could only thank his lucky stars that he had installed a permanent one earlier in the summer, "We've got to fix you…"
That, Draco thought to himself, still convulsing, May be harder then you think.