Title: Vale
Author: Cynic ( QueenDrgn06@aol.com)
Disclaimer: See Draco? Not mine. See money? Not mine.
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Anything! Constructive Crit is greatly appreciated.
Archive: Yes Please! E-mail me a link.
Warning: Slash and Suicide.
Summary: I studied you, Harry. I know you, but you will never know me.
Notes: Second Vignette.
Hermione was the first to find the letter. The first to read the spidery text, scratched unto fine parchment in ink of deep and glittering red. The first to feel the niggling seed of suspicion grow with Harry's name, written in that graceful font. The first to examine the empty seal, a mere circle of wax, without any defined markings. The first to break the wax, cut the seal. The first to read the words within.
A muffled cry of horror and the letter floated to the ground.
Soft beating of a heart, sped with revelations never expected, but known in the deepest recesses of her heart. A girl, seeking dubious comfort in the embrace of the warm armchair, did not dare trust her empty throat. A young woman motioned to fallen epiphany, and a boy picks it up.
Hard clicking of boot against stone, two pieces of parchment clutched in sweaty hands. One of the parchment, the disclosure of emotion never before. The other, an etching of the hallowed halls of the castle that his feet now trod. A dot, of the writer, the author, fading slowly in the inevitable end to a life that had been lived dancing on the blade of a knife. Finally he fell. Finally he was cut by his own sharp edged smile. And the boy should be rejoicing in the pain of his demise. And Harry should be happy. Or if not happy, then resigned, accepting that this was a war and Draco was a casualty. That Malfoy was a casualty.
But with his black hair –drop of night- falling into his eyes –pools of deepest green- and breath coming quick, harried, all Harry knew that he was not going to accept this. That he was not going to know that the purest blood in wizarding England was being wasted upon the cold stone, and not strive to prevent its desecration.
His life wasn't his own to take. Draco was Harry's. His rival, his enemy, his deepest and most primal fear. Draco was his everything.
Doors rushed by, strides growing out of desperation. No time, no time. Never enough time. His vision was a blur of grey and tears, the flashes of color a minor annoyance with their reaching arms and worried shouts. He pushed himself still faster, every muscle striving to beat this last challenge of Malfoy's. Draco's one last test.
The door at last. He slowed and stopped, chest heaving with pained, ragged gasps. He opened the door to the abandoned classroom. He enter the altar where yet more blood was spilled to the god of Harry Potter.
It smelled of death. That's what he first noticed, the sickly, sweet smell of fresh spilt blood pervaded the room. Lying in the center was Draco, lean and lithe form sprawled out like a sacrifice. Twin pools of blood flowed from his writs, cut with the silver gleam of the knife.
Two more steps. Harry saw his reflection in the cool steel, distorted by the blood and the blade. He knelt, studying the perfect face of this boy, this man, lying before him. Lifeless, soulless, where there was once fire and vitality.
He was dead. He was dying, he was dying, he was dead. Harry's fevered brain saw a maggot crawl out of one eye ad into the other, he saw the slow march of decay end in the flash of a precious instant. He shuddered.
Tears flew freely from eyes that beheld this fallen giant. One salty droplet landed on his pale cheek and rolled downward as if he was crying.
The eyes opened. Glaze gray orbs met glistening green, and Harry turned away quickly, suddenly embarrassed.
A voice rasped, "Harry…" and the word faded into the air, yet rang clearing in his mind.
With his name, his training took over. He grasped Draco's bleeding wrists and Healed him. This was not the delicate procedure that he had been taught on injured wing or wounded paw. This was not the countless little pains, quick and easy. This was rougher, realer, something so far above them that it drew from their basest natures. He poured his hate, his confusion, his regret and some emotions he was not yet ready to name behind the magic. His very lifeforce strengthened it and willed him back to life with it. The horizontal slashes healed, white scar tissue replacing red blood.
Harry opened his eyes, the world pitching and weaving in his fatigue and the solid thing was Draco. He was equally as tired, but his stare held accusation, apology, and most of all, thanks.
"Harry?" he said again, this time concerned.
"m'fine…sensors" he pushed out.
Draco nodded slightly and closed his own eyes, still resting against the cold stone of the class room floor. Harry collapsed next to him, crumpling under the weight of his responsibility. But lying there, with Draco in front of him, he wrapped his arms around the other boy. Holding him and comforting him, taking comfort and giving it. Protecting him from the daemons that nipped at his heels.
The blood soaked into his robe, sticky and infusing it with a rich and heady smell.
((The sensors that he speaks of are referring to the sensors I am assuming that are in Hogwarts that go off when someone uses a lot of magic. So the teachers can find our boys^^))
