WARNING: Slash, means homosexual, or guy/guy relationships. If you don't
like it, don't read it.
Disclaimer: if only I could own the sizzling Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy *drools and promptly short-circuits the keyboard, beats out flames, and continues typing*
A/N: Seriously, REVIEW. I guess I will continue this story, but I have such an incredibly horrible case of writer's block that you should not expect regular chapters. It is your responsibility as readers to review SO REVIEW ALREADY!!!!!! (For those of you who are actually reviewing, thank you very much)
A/N 2: Just to let you know, i think Harry might turn out to be a little out of character in this fic. He's just turning out that way. I'll keep him in character as much as possible, but I can't guarantee it. And this fic is going to be going very slowly.
A/N 3: I'm going to do italics with * now just cuz I feel like it.
Enjoy!
Essence of Your Life: Chapter 4: What must be said
I make my way to McGonagall's classroom for detention and I arrive several minute early, so I sit back and relax, one of the few times I can let my guard down.
Surprisingly,-
*Unsurprisingly, you mean*
-Potter is late. Well well well, the old fool's Golden Boy has yet another fault on his record. But it's really not that unexpected. Day by day, you see his spiral into darkness, when he is plummeting to the dark chasms of his soul. You see the degradation of his innocence in his face, and it is heart-wrenching.
Now if only I had a heart.
It's long been torn, trampled, ripped, destroyed. The fact that my father is a Death Eater indeed has indeed had an effect on me. I no longer have a heart, a conscience, a superego, any part of humanity, within me anymore. I know I am fortunate: I have seen the effect feelings have on others, and I know that I do not want that fate. But when I'm so cold, I wonder if I'm missing out on something, if there's something more to this life than simple calculations and moving matter with mind.
I wonder if I'm supposed to feel so empty.
"Of all people, I thought you would know not to have your back at an open door." The Golden Boy, late half an hour, saunters in, with a smirk on his face to rival the trademark smirk gracing my face.
"You're late." It's odd. With that smirk on his face, the only thing I can do is merely state the obvious.
He keeps on smirking and says nothing. That smirk makes me want to just stand up and do *something* to him to stop that blasted smirk.
The thing I use to drive girls insane by the multitude is now being used by my archenemy to purposely.
I know I ought to do something, so I just do what all those girls did when I smirked at them: I kiss him
I don't know why except for the fact that I just have to stop that damn smirk. Nothing I say will stop it, no one I tell will stop it, nothing he hears will stop it, and nothing I do will stop it.
Almost.
When I pull back, horrified at myself but unwilling to show it, nothing has changed.
Except for his eyes.
He's still smirking, but his eyes that used to be cold and impassive are now bright and sharp with pain of an unspeakable intensity. You see that his soul is lost and he's begging for a savior to come and help him.
*He's begging for you to save him*
He wants to somehow get rid of everyone's expectations and yet still stay true to the person that is himself. It is impossible. The image that is now "Harry Potter" is seen the savior of the world and nothing else. He is made up of everyone's expectations
*f you were with him it would be possible*
To rebuild himself into someone not weighed down by everyone else in the world expecting miracles from him, into someone who sees joy in the very light of day.
I can't help him there. I see joy only when others cry in misery, when others scream from pain, when others beg for death as a merciful end.
How am I supposed to help him when I can't even tell him what must be said?
There are so many things left unspoken, that must be said, but can't be.
Suddenly I feel the incredible need to tell this ebony-haired god standing in front of me everything that is warring inside my soul.
Apparently he feels the same way
"Listen, Malfoy, I know you probably won't understand, but I have to tell you something, maybe because you're the only person that stands a chance of understanding."
*You probably will understand*
Because I go through what he goes through. Perhaps not as intense, but I know what it feels like to have expectations weighing down on you, threatening to pull you down into the dark depths of your mind, with the barest sliver of hope to hold onto, keeping you that barest distance away from insanity and death.
"Whenever people talk to me nowadays, they all say that I need to save the world, to save them from Voldemort. They say that that's the reason I was put on this earth, to save the entire wizarding population from the "evil tyrant". I'm sick of it." His jade eyes are glinting with emotions too raw and intense to be expressed.
"They say that they care for me, that they're concerned for me. They say that they want me to be careful, that they know what should be done and that I don't. I know they're lying. I know they just want to make sure I'm all healthy and in perfect physical condition for when I finally face off Voldemort. They just care about whether or not I'll be able to defeat Voldemort. They only care that I kill him and save everyone else. They don't care about me as myself. They only care about the multitudes, that are sleeping ignorant in their houses, unaware and disbelieving of the dangers that await. I know they're there. I know what can happen if I just step out of my bed. They don't know, they have no idea of what it feels like." His eyes, those intense, sparkling, bitter, malachite eyes are tearing into me, seeking understanding, seeking some sort of salvation, seeking absolution, seeking something.
I don't know if I can give it to him
*You can*
*You've always been able to*
"Potter, I don't know if I should be the one telling you this, but Weasel and Mudblood might actually really care about you. They've known about your burden for a long time, and they may actually be your friends." Why am I the one to give him consolation? Why am I telling him the things he needs to hear?
"I know what it feels like to have expectations poured on you, to feel like you have to be perfect unless you want to be crushed to oblivion. I know what it feels like, and I understand, but I don't think I can help you. I am evil, and I don't regret any of the things I have done to become evil. As much as you hate it, you are a symbol for everyone out there who wants to believe that our world will not be ruled by darkness. Everyone expect you to at least face off with Voldemort, as do I. If I am one of those people who have expectations of you, how will I help?" These words are pouring out of my mouth, I'm trying to express my feelings, I'm trying to make him understand.
I can't help him
"I just want someone to listen and not judge me, any more than they already have. You know what it feels like to be in this position, where everything is expected of you, yet you can give them nothing back but disappointment. That's all I want, that's all I need. Someone to listen." I don't think I will ever get over at how intense his eyes can be, cold and yet warm, begging for understanding, yet building a wall to shield him off from others.
"I'll listen."
With that said, we just stand there, in perfect harmony, in perfect silence, until McGonagall steps into the classroom. The tranquility that was present has been broken, and circumstances are back to normal.
Except for one thing.
I feel a weight lifted off of me; I still feel like I cannot breathe when I remember everything in this world, but I have said what must be said.
I know that any form of relationship with the famous Saint Potter is playing with fire, but I've always been a pyromaniac.
He will speak, and I will listen. He will ask and I will answer. He will give and I will receive. We still aren't friends, but we aren't enemies. We have not spoken all of our secrets, but neither do we hide anything directly.
For the rest of the night, we work in silence under the direction of McGonagall. We don't speak, but then again, we don't need to.
We have spoken aloud what must be said.
Disclaimer: if only I could own the sizzling Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy *drools and promptly short-circuits the keyboard, beats out flames, and continues typing*
A/N: Seriously, REVIEW. I guess I will continue this story, but I have such an incredibly horrible case of writer's block that you should not expect regular chapters. It is your responsibility as readers to review SO REVIEW ALREADY!!!!!! (For those of you who are actually reviewing, thank you very much)
A/N 2: Just to let you know, i think Harry might turn out to be a little out of character in this fic. He's just turning out that way. I'll keep him in character as much as possible, but I can't guarantee it. And this fic is going to be going very slowly.
A/N 3: I'm going to do italics with * now just cuz I feel like it.
Enjoy!
Essence of Your Life: Chapter 4: What must be said
I make my way to McGonagall's classroom for detention and I arrive several minute early, so I sit back and relax, one of the few times I can let my guard down.
Surprisingly,-
*Unsurprisingly, you mean*
-Potter is late. Well well well, the old fool's Golden Boy has yet another fault on his record. But it's really not that unexpected. Day by day, you see his spiral into darkness, when he is plummeting to the dark chasms of his soul. You see the degradation of his innocence in his face, and it is heart-wrenching.
Now if only I had a heart.
It's long been torn, trampled, ripped, destroyed. The fact that my father is a Death Eater indeed has indeed had an effect on me. I no longer have a heart, a conscience, a superego, any part of humanity, within me anymore. I know I am fortunate: I have seen the effect feelings have on others, and I know that I do not want that fate. But when I'm so cold, I wonder if I'm missing out on something, if there's something more to this life than simple calculations and moving matter with mind.
I wonder if I'm supposed to feel so empty.
"Of all people, I thought you would know not to have your back at an open door." The Golden Boy, late half an hour, saunters in, with a smirk on his face to rival the trademark smirk gracing my face.
"You're late." It's odd. With that smirk on his face, the only thing I can do is merely state the obvious.
He keeps on smirking and says nothing. That smirk makes me want to just stand up and do *something* to him to stop that blasted smirk.
The thing I use to drive girls insane by the multitude is now being used by my archenemy to purposely.
I know I ought to do something, so I just do what all those girls did when I smirked at them: I kiss him
I don't know why except for the fact that I just have to stop that damn smirk. Nothing I say will stop it, no one I tell will stop it, nothing he hears will stop it, and nothing I do will stop it.
Almost.
When I pull back, horrified at myself but unwilling to show it, nothing has changed.
Except for his eyes.
He's still smirking, but his eyes that used to be cold and impassive are now bright and sharp with pain of an unspeakable intensity. You see that his soul is lost and he's begging for a savior to come and help him.
*He's begging for you to save him*
He wants to somehow get rid of everyone's expectations and yet still stay true to the person that is himself. It is impossible. The image that is now "Harry Potter" is seen the savior of the world and nothing else. He is made up of everyone's expectations
*f you were with him it would be possible*
To rebuild himself into someone not weighed down by everyone else in the world expecting miracles from him, into someone who sees joy in the very light of day.
I can't help him there. I see joy only when others cry in misery, when others scream from pain, when others beg for death as a merciful end.
How am I supposed to help him when I can't even tell him what must be said?
There are so many things left unspoken, that must be said, but can't be.
Suddenly I feel the incredible need to tell this ebony-haired god standing in front of me everything that is warring inside my soul.
Apparently he feels the same way
"Listen, Malfoy, I know you probably won't understand, but I have to tell you something, maybe because you're the only person that stands a chance of understanding."
*You probably will understand*
Because I go through what he goes through. Perhaps not as intense, but I know what it feels like to have expectations weighing down on you, threatening to pull you down into the dark depths of your mind, with the barest sliver of hope to hold onto, keeping you that barest distance away from insanity and death.
"Whenever people talk to me nowadays, they all say that I need to save the world, to save them from Voldemort. They say that that's the reason I was put on this earth, to save the entire wizarding population from the "evil tyrant". I'm sick of it." His jade eyes are glinting with emotions too raw and intense to be expressed.
"They say that they care for me, that they're concerned for me. They say that they want me to be careful, that they know what should be done and that I don't. I know they're lying. I know they just want to make sure I'm all healthy and in perfect physical condition for when I finally face off Voldemort. They just care about whether or not I'll be able to defeat Voldemort. They only care that I kill him and save everyone else. They don't care about me as myself. They only care about the multitudes, that are sleeping ignorant in their houses, unaware and disbelieving of the dangers that await. I know they're there. I know what can happen if I just step out of my bed. They don't know, they have no idea of what it feels like." His eyes, those intense, sparkling, bitter, malachite eyes are tearing into me, seeking understanding, seeking some sort of salvation, seeking absolution, seeking something.
I don't know if I can give it to him
*You can*
*You've always been able to*
"Potter, I don't know if I should be the one telling you this, but Weasel and Mudblood might actually really care about you. They've known about your burden for a long time, and they may actually be your friends." Why am I the one to give him consolation? Why am I telling him the things he needs to hear?
"I know what it feels like to have expectations poured on you, to feel like you have to be perfect unless you want to be crushed to oblivion. I know what it feels like, and I understand, but I don't think I can help you. I am evil, and I don't regret any of the things I have done to become evil. As much as you hate it, you are a symbol for everyone out there who wants to believe that our world will not be ruled by darkness. Everyone expect you to at least face off with Voldemort, as do I. If I am one of those people who have expectations of you, how will I help?" These words are pouring out of my mouth, I'm trying to express my feelings, I'm trying to make him understand.
I can't help him
"I just want someone to listen and not judge me, any more than they already have. You know what it feels like to be in this position, where everything is expected of you, yet you can give them nothing back but disappointment. That's all I want, that's all I need. Someone to listen." I don't think I will ever get over at how intense his eyes can be, cold and yet warm, begging for understanding, yet building a wall to shield him off from others.
"I'll listen."
With that said, we just stand there, in perfect harmony, in perfect silence, until McGonagall steps into the classroom. The tranquility that was present has been broken, and circumstances are back to normal.
Except for one thing.
I feel a weight lifted off of me; I still feel like I cannot breathe when I remember everything in this world, but I have said what must be said.
I know that any form of relationship with the famous Saint Potter is playing with fire, but I've always been a pyromaniac.
He will speak, and I will listen. He will ask and I will answer. He will give and I will receive. We still aren't friends, but we aren't enemies. We have not spoken all of our secrets, but neither do we hide anything directly.
For the rest of the night, we work in silence under the direction of McGonagall. We don't speak, but then again, we don't need to.
We have spoken aloud what must be said.