Author: Daryn Maxwell
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warnings: Slash, and a dash of angst
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling
Summary: A sixth-year Draco Malfoy scrutinizes his lover and makes a plea.
Note: Picture reference. 24 Jan. 2004; 30 minutes exactly.
It's Friday night, and again, I'm at the top of the steps leading to the dungeons, looking down.
This isn't how it's supposed to be, you know. The Hogwarts dungeons are my home, my sanctuary. I shouldn't fear heading down these stairs. But somehow, I do.
Somehow? No, not somehow-- I'm fully aware of why I dread the descent. Since last year, you've turned into a miserable wretch. You're not the brilliant light of Gryffindor any longer; your shadows are as bad as mine. The curses that have slipped from your dry lips are equal to those that have spilt from mine. Your nightmares are the same as mine, or possibly worse.
Why the change, Harry? Why have you become such a self-pitying prat? You were always so cocky, and it was that fiery confidence that burned me. You were strong, but humble. Now, you want better, pity yourself, and hate everyone around you who dares to smile. I fell in love with you once, Harry, and love? Love is forever. "Once" is all anyone needs.
But I think I hate you now as well.
I'm not so delusional as to think you care for me as I have come to care for you. When we first put aside our rivalry to explore the undeniable, perplexing attraction we had held, I knew that you would never come to love me. Then, I thought I could never feel so strongly for you, either; after all, above all else, I am a Malfoy. A Slytherin. A servant of the dark lord. But you know what, Harry? I'm still human, and I still somehow fell for you.
I take the first step down. I know that somewhere in that darkness, you're staring up at me beneath your damned invisibility cloak, waiting for me. Knowing why I hesitate and despising me for wanting to run but unable to. Despising that I despise you, that I would see you fall, that I heed your enemies; but most of all, despising that I'll always return to the corrupted being that you now are. I'll be the first to admit-- only between us, of course-- how weak I've become.
A blink, and I could swear that the walls of the stairs are stained scarlet. Whose life is it that you've crushed this time, Harry? The blood on the walls-- does it represent the death of Lord Voldemort? Of me? Of yourself? Or is it the severed love between you and your friends as you've pushed them away time and time again? Is it the blood of your mother, always watching over you even in her death, or is it the blood of mine? We both know she'll die in the upcoming war. She'll die, and my father may as well die, and I'll be as orphaned as you. You'll hate me for that, too. You love the attention you receive from the pain you've lived, and you love the pain itself that persistently weighs itself upon your heart.
I know you're watching me as I step off the stairs. You'll follow behind me silently, and we'll go to my room, and I'll lock the door. You'll remove your cloak and for the next hour, I'll make you feel alive.
Then, you'll leave, returning to the blind despair that you always feel in your own room.
Why are you so in love with your pain, Harry? There's a word for that, you know. A masochist. You're a bloody masochist. Do you think I don't see this? We may be rivals, enemies, but I know you. We're not even lovers, really, are we? You turn to me not out of affection, but because it stings to have he whom you loathe most-- besides the dark lord, of course-- touch you. You'll never let a girl kiss your neck, your chest, your shoulders the way I do because that would be proper and right.
You hate me. I love you. You pleasure me. I hurt you.
And it will never be enough. It's what you want, but I'm not. Your persistent rage will come between us and I'll be discarded utterly. Once you enact your revenge-- and if you survive-- you'll dismiss me as if I were no more than an obnoxious scab in your now-perfect life. I'll never see you again. Perhaps you'll simply kill me, or perhaps you'll leave me alive but never look my way again.
I know this is how we'll be, but I don't mind. No matter how I love you, I hate you, and no matter how much you need me, I'm useless as well. This is how we'll keep from scarring each other helplessly. This is how we'll get by once the nightmare is over. But I have one request.
When your life is drawing to a close, Harry, think of me. As you lie on your deathbed, whether you're alone or surrounded by friends and family, think of mine. Love me or hate me-- it's up to you. But I pray, remember.
Remember our fights. Remember our kisses. Remember sneaking about at night, thinking nobody knows what we're up to but us. Remember how it feels to have me beside you, beneath you, above you, within you, around you. Remember how I taste, how I sound. Remember how much you hate me, and remember how much I love you.
Remember watching me descend these stairs.
Remember running away.