Notes, disclaimers, etc: not mine. Hers. I'm sorry this took so long to write. I've been writing my screenplay. Also, as a result of that, this is written really, really weirdly. But I hope you like it.
This chapter contains: slash, lots of philosophical angst, lurking, and creepiness. Draco's POV. The italics are memories.
Chapter 14: Angel with Razorblade WingsYou stumble, fall, the neckline of your robe plunging, the delicate ivory of your neck exposed to frigid air, your green eyes furious.
"Fuck." You say angrily, relishing the word, the way it rolls off your lips and tongue, lingers wetly in the air.
You turn, almost impercebtibly, as if to check if someone other then your red-haired shadow has witnessed your clumsiness and you find me in the shadows, your mouth curling into a half-sneer half-smile.
Unquestionably this is seduction.
Memories suffocating me, folding around me, tantalizing and destructive, fading as soon as they are made clear. Your hair, your eyes, your skin, your lips.
Do you love me?
The question that begged not to be answered. That sullied the sweet sin with perfection. Before I started this I knew I could not finish it. Before I had you I knew that I could never keep you.
You hover in the hallways, a cherished angel with razorblade wings. Your friends do not sense the change but I can feel it, taste it. It's in the way you move, a fluid grace that has taken the place of pubescent awkwardness. It's in your voice, a vividly obscene quality that was not there before.
It is there because of me. Because now you have seen blood and now you have known corruption and now you see that you cannot separate love from pain and hatred. That the lines blend and bleed until there are no lines, only broken propriety and discarded morals.
Romantic notions were never my prowess. They would believe I fell for your hair, your messy air of naivety, that you were enchanted with my eyes, the way the color of my skin melts into light.
But I know what you have seen; what you have suffered. What you will seek in others.
It is not me that you are obsessed with, not me you seduce with a hesitant charm. It is my history, so different from yours, but filled with the same.
You do not want love, you do not need anymore of it. The scars on my wrists are beautiful, brazen physical representatives of what you would have done if you had not been given that second chance.
When you look into my eyes, you see that you are not my second, but last chance to renounce my destiny, to revert to truth. And you do not want me to.
Do you love me?
Love you. Maybe. Maybe I do despite knowing it is not the answer you wanted to hear, stained with moonlight and discovery and doubt. I could do nothing but close my eyes and will it all away.
Because we have both known, have always known, that it will not last. That you will give me up and before that I will let you go. That pain, no matter how fascinating and obscure and addictive, will never be so attractive as safety. Not to you.
The first time I saw you, I knew you would betray me.
And in the end? You will survive and hide in the safety of your lies and your fame and your luck. And sometimes you will look back. And sometimes you will regret. And sometimes you will cry.
Me, I will fade into the darkness, still blazing white and red as the black burns itself into my skin. And perhaps I will never forgive you. And perhaps I will make myself forget that I loved you, that in the protection of night I let my lips savor the word you could not bear to hear.
The second time I saw you, I knew I would let you.