I know what I want

Harry pov

I rewet the tip of my quill, dipping ink in the inkwell slowly, watching the ink light off the sharpened tip; collecting into the well like drops of blood into a black pool, like a pool of souls. The kind that draw in those you hold most dear to yourself, like Sirius, drawn into a pool of death. My fault, all my fault…I place the quill to the plain unmarked scroll of paper and glance up, at the subject.

Sitting adjacent to me and up one row, laughing haughtily with his so called 'friends'. Always better, always better than everyone else. The line of his jaw, the hair of pale corn silk….pale corn silk, I write that at the edge of the paper and add to it, eyes of storm and sea, pride of the damned…Draco Malfoy. I set the line of his nose and dip the quill back in the well of souls, I draw out another soul upon its tip and use it to paint a living lie of false colors and broken lines.

I rummage around in my bag and pull out a charcoal pencil, shading the shadows that follow him, the shadows that are him with this piece of his soul, this charcoal, all that is left of him. I wish for color with me, my oils and pastels, anything, those stupid things. They were left to me. Sirius, left many of his thing to me, along with those colors, oils and pastels, sitting in a dusty box, completely untouched, expect now, by me.

I'm no good, I know that, but this is the only way I've found to let my soul bleed, the only way to let it out. I can't let them know, them….these people with no pain, their souls intact. They don't know me, they could never understand the pain…of losing everything, everyone, anything important in life. It has all been destroyed and I can't feel anymore, I can't feel.

Pain inside of me. I can't feel them, I can't feel anyone. Their words…are so hollow, I can't feel their words; I can't hear their false pretending sympathy, I can't feel their worthless vacant touches of reassurance, I don't want them anymore. I know, I know that the true fear inside of me is to lose what I have left, I can't lose them, my friends…or at least they try…my teachers and those I look up to, I can't lose them to him or anyone else. Makes no sense but I would feel better if they were lost from me by me. I would rather kill them myself but I can't, I can't hurt them so I'll leave them. I have to….I need to.

I trace the shape of him aimlessly, feeling the smoothness of the parchment and the slight texture change of ink, I trace the contour of his jaw, this is my life. My life is flat and smooth, filled with light and shadow, it has no substance, no meaning…it makes me hate my soul even more for its blood and tears. I have no worth for a soul.

A desk creaks softly in the room, under the soft thrum of working students, the sound drawing a touch of life into the dusty air, a piece of something that proves that time goes on, even if I am not any matter to it.

Soft, brown curls and a scent of clean soap, small hands, covered with ink and calluses on the fingers from reading too much, these invade my sight. I turn my head, looking at my friend, my Hermione, she is perfect and smart, pretty in her own way, she is mine, one of mine. I don't want her, I don't have her. Ron and Hermione, dating the past year, they have each other. I never wanted her, I never had her but she is the best of a friend one can find. I hope she doesn't come to hate me so much, I hope she can forget me with only good memories to reflect upon.

I have to let go I can't keep her, I can't let her be hurt, none of them can be hurt, they are all so precious to me, I can't loose them, I can't loose them to him, he's stolen everything. I smile weakly, closing my eyes to hide the pain reflected in them, to be me, for her, so she doesn't know. Can't know, no one can. She smiles back, the gentle smile holding worry for me and carrying a ripple of impressions on her face that one day will be come wrinkles. I will never see Hermione's old gnarly wrinkles that will form from laughing at the corners of her eyes and her cheeks, the wrinkles from that serious study face she always carries and that look of disappointment reserved just for me and Ron.

She pokes me gently with the tip of her quill, watching my eyes and the image of that wrinkly old Hermione disappears, replaced by this young girl's. She's so fragile and she doesn't even know, she has never seen death, she has never feared her own. She's so delicate even though she acts so strong, I never want her to know that kind of fear that I know, no one should know that fear.

"Harry, you haven't written any notes at all!" she hisses softly to me, anger and worry edged in her voice.

I smile at her shrug slightly, closing my eyes in the desperation to keep her from reading my eyes, from seeing my soul. She give me one of her looks of mock disappointment, cuffing my arm slightly and then returns to harassing Ron about his notes, her curls not quite blocking out his fiery red top of hair, now even more spectacular after the unwitting test of a Hair-Color-Electrifier, a new Weasley Wheezes product. The surprising thing is that he's come to like it and now uses to product on a bi-weekly basis to maintain the color, naturally both Hermione and Mrs. Weasely hate it.

I return my eyes to the parchment in front of me, studying for flaws that I cannot see or fathom, looking for the key into his soul. Is infatuation really something more than that? Can I not simply wish to tear his soul to pieces to find out how it works without some romantic ass calling it something as shallow as love?

Love…how can you describe it all in one word…its like explaining potions as mixing crap together and reaping results. Love is a million and one things besides love. Love is…what is love? Love is loving someone, right? If you are so obsessed with someone and your soul cries for this person in the middle of the night and you find yourself comparing you to him then, is that love?

Then if what I said is true and you call it love, then if I was to tell you that my soul cries out every night for his because in my sleep I imagine killing him over and over again in a million ways, each one more gruesome than the next? That my obsession is to imagine watching him bleed to find out why he lives at all, to hurt him in all the ways that I physically am able. That I compare myself with him to find every reason why I hate him and why he should die and yet….I could never kill him because I want to keep him.

I want to hold him and break him and own him in every way that exists. I want to touch him and taste him, taste his blood. I want to hear his voice crying out in pain for me and only me, I want him and I want to hurt him and I can't.

"What are you looking at, Potter?" Draco snaps, his eyes flashing eagerly for a fight.

I can't help but smile, my mind drawing pictures of blood across his face, "I, am looking at you." I reply softly.

` The classes change at the soft tolling chime, people slip past and I watch Draco's self-righteous sneer, twisting on his face. I smile as my minds eye paints his silken hair scarlet and his eyes blank with death, lying on a cold stone floor, blood pooling around him.

"Are you looking for a fight, Potter?" Draco demands haughtily as the class empties, leaving only myself, him, his stupid goons and his slut Pansy. Ron and Hermione…probably left without even realizing that I wasn't following them, they won't notice until they reach their next class…no, it's lunch now isn't it? I never bother to keep track any more.

I don't answer Draco's, question, if you can call it that, more like a demand. Instead I replace my books in my bag and the quills follow. I reach for the scroll of parchment, now rolled and hidden of its contents but Draco snatches it up before I can even feel the parchment.

I watch his elegant, pale, long fingers wrap around the paper, his manicured nails catching the light from the dim, dust filtered light. He sneers at it, that stupid sneer, always plastered to his face, that mask of lies.

"These your notes, Potter? I'm sure you won't mind me borrowing them then?" He knows that if I say no he can have his lackeys beat the shit out of me, there's no one here to protect me here, there never is, when it truly matters.

"It's not my notes, I didn't take any. What's on that scroll…" I pick up my bag and stand slowly, hoisting the weight onto my shoulder, still holding my inkwell in my hand, "What's on that scroll is you."

I take in the look of surprise on his face, the confusion and anger, I watch him unroll the parchment and look over the work inside. I glance at the clock, watching each and every second of my horrid life pass me by. I am destined to fight him and one of us is going to die, I may die at his hand but I will take him with me before I go. I will not let him hurt any of them.

"It looks exactly like you, Draco honey." Pansy coos in her irritating, nasally voice, "It's very good. Can I have it Dracypoo? Please?"

"Want I would pound him, Draco?" Goyle rumbles, Crabbe cracking his knuckles in agreement.

"No!," Draco orders, glaring to both sides of him then back to me, "Why the fucking hell did you fucking draw me, Potter? Some sort of goody-goody plot of Gryffindor? Trying to get even?"

I glanced down at the shining well of souls clutched in my hand, dipping my finger in the oily black substance. I reach up and slowly trace a single line of ink across his face. I give him a soul while he stares at me in shock and confusion, quickly igniting to anger.

I step close to him, inches separating us and I draw his head along side mine, ignoring how his body stiffens. I pull the hair away from his ear and whisper softly, "I drew you because you are beautiful."

There and then I dump the rest of the ink from bottle to the floor in a black waterfall, the cascading souls splashing up from the floor and stain both our pants and shoes. I drop the bottle and walk away from them, I don't look back nor do I speed my pace, I simply walk as it the world was the one going too fast and out of the classroom.

Behind me I hear someone following me, after he orders his whore and goons not to follow that this is something he has to sort out. I hear Pansy whimpering because he slapped her for trying to come and for trying to find out what I whispered in his ear.

"Hold up, bastard." He calls after me, leaning against the wall to catch his breath.

I glance over my shoulder but I do not turn to him, I cannot look at him without killing him. I begin walking again, listening to my own slow foot falls on the empty stone corridor and his breathing, now returning to normal.

"I said hold up you ass!" He trots up, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me around.

I feel the pressure of his hand, griping me, I feel that warmth emitting from his body and the anger. I grab his hand, his wrist. I squeeze it until he lets go, until I realize that he has been crying out in pain, until I hear the delicate bones of his wrist give out break under my hand. I release him and look on as he clutches his wrist in agony glaring at me with such hate.

"Who the hell are you? What the hell do you want?" He yells at me angrily, fear echoing in the depths of his eyes, he lashes out at me with pain and anger, I can see beneath the mask now, I can see his pain and I can see him.

I smile softly, gazing at his perfect porcelain face, "I am what you make me to be and…I know what I want, I want many things in my life, for some reason one of them is you. I know what I want but…I also know what I can't have and I can't have you, I can't have anything I want. I can't have, I can't want, I can never have any of it so it's better to destroy it, so no one can have it at all." I walk away, leave him broken, no longer perfect. I've shattered part of his perfect little world. I want to destroy him more than anything else, for everything he has and everything he had done to me. I will destroy them all, I will make them bleed. I will make their souls bleed as mine does.