Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything affiliated with Harry Potter. This is not written for profit and I obviously make no money. I write simply for my own entertainment and no monetary gain.

Author's Note: This is NOT a happy tale, nor is it a "quick fix fic", but know that it will also have a happyish ending. This story is also archived at AFF under the name Cerberus Sky. That site is currently down and my monster needed a new home, though the rating will have to be lowered here since in all actuality BMAO is NC-17. I am actually wondering if this chapter alone isn't cause for me to start editing down. Hopefully someone will let me know before they kick me out of here.

Warnings: Slash themes, strong adult language,drama, angst, angst and more angst, mental illness, alcoholism, blatant disregard for HBP.Perhaps some others I may've overlooked here.Some may find this fic to be OOC and/or AU. I don't agree too much with the former, but eh . . . on the latter. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. You be the judge.

Dinner and a Show

It is something for
Every sharp edge that has tunneled through
My trembling insides,
Stroking a cold lullaby across my skin

(This is retribution
This is being entrenched
This is never letting go of stains)

(Later in the Great Hall)

Goddamnit it all to Hell!, Draco fumed as he took his seat at the Slytherin table, Of all the people to have seen that it just HAD to be Potter!

The last thing Draco had wanted to do was embarrass himself like that. He wondered if Potter had known he was drunk on the way to school and that he hadn't been taking a nap, that in fact, he'd passed out cold. His head was aching and he felt more than a little shaky. What he really wanted to do right now was escape to his dorm, close the curtains, curl up with a bottle and lose himself in oblivion. He knew he wouldn't be bothered by his housemates, as the majority had decided to not speak to him. Apparently, word of his "incident" with the Muggle music was spreading fast. Great friends he had. Nothing but a bunch of leeches, he thought sulkily, Hangers on and nothing more. Gods he hated his life.

Slouching down in his seat he looked across the room at Potter talking and laughing with his stupid friends. He was gorgeous and Draco's heart gave an involuntary lurch even as his groin stirred. He licked his lips with longing, a desire to taste the dark haired boy's very soul if he could. But he knew he couldn't and that only hurt more.

He admitted to himself then, he was in love with Harry Potter. He knew he was staring, gawking even, but after the realization he'd just had, he didn't really give a damn. He. Loved. Potter. He had known for years that he wanted him, and badly, but coming to the conclusion that it was more than just a crush had left him dumbfounded. Then he noticed a pair of bright green eyes staring back into his own pale grey ones.

Oh no. He caught me, Draco groaned inwardly as he quickly looked down at his plate, wishing more than ever that he could go to his room and stay there forever. Just him, a bottle and the small silver dagger he kept with him at all times. There was something in those brilliant green orbs that he couldn't define; he wanted, more than ever, to be able to look into those eyes and be lost, the world be damned. Licking his lips nervously this time, he glanced back up to see Potter still watching him, his eyes bright with curiosity.

"Fuck this," Draco muttered and shoved himself away from the table, unable to take the emerald green gaze. He had to get out of there, and now. Screw Dumbledore's speech and piss on dinner. He stormed out of the dining hall toward the Slytherin dormitory, his face burning and every fiber of his being shaking.

He barreled through the doors of the Great Hall and into the corridor, almost running to the dungeons. Panting heavily, he arrived at the outside of his dorm and a thought dawned on him: he didn't know the password. Slumping unhappily against the wall Draco resigned himself to waiting for his housemates outside. His mind was racing; first Potter had seen the cuts, and then he'd caught him staring at him. Damnit! This was not turning out to be good start of term. Draco was shaking all over now, totally sober for probably the first time in months, and he desperately wanted a drink, hell, he needed one. Unfortunately he had finished the small bottle he had brought with him on the way to school. Frustrated and on the verge of panic, his eyes darted around wildly, looking for something, anything to distract himself.

The longer he sat and stared the more he realized that nothing was working. There weren't even any paintings on the walls by the dungeon and he was forced to stare resignedly at bare stone.

Damn! Damn! Damnit! He had crossed over the line of panic now causing his breath to come in ragged gasps and his hands to shake terribly. None of his thoughts were organized; they just whirled around his head like a tornado. As soon as he would think he'd gotten ahold of one, it would flutter away, back into the screaming whirlwind that had once been his brain

Without the comfortable haze that would come with a drink or two there was only one thing he knew of that could calm his racing heart and force his mind to focus. He truly didn't want to do it, especially out in the open, yet his hand, seemingly of its own volition, was creeping towards the pocket that held the dagger. No, no, no. That same simple word repeated over and over again in his mind like a mantra even as his questing fingers closed around the cool metal.

As soon as the solid weight of the dagger was in his hand, he began to relax. His face and body went slack as if boneless as his eyes lost focus and glazed over in unresponsiveness. He was on autopilot. Having no other outlet for his anxiety, he knew this was the way it had to be; the cold steel in his now steadying hand could ease the pain in his heart and he would take that small reprieve; even at the cost of bodily injury.

Draco lifted the dagger slightly, watching the light glint deadly off the blade and a wan smile twitched at his lips. With a quick and practiced motion, he had the right leg of his pants pulled up to the knee to expose the white expanse of his calf. Bringing the blade to his skin and letting the familiar bite settle into his senses, he hissed through clenched teeth. "Worthless", one cut. "Fucking", two cuts, "Nothing", three cuts.

And he smiled.

He could breathe again and his thoughts were starting to order themselves once more as the blood began to slide down his leg. Draco watched it dispassionately, dipping his fingers in the warm, red liquid and raising it to his lips. He had taken to tasting his own blood just a month or so ago, it seemed to offer more proof that he was real, not just some wraith. Before that he had always been content with just cutting, but there was something primal and so very real about having your own blood slide down your throat that he found it added to his sense of calm.

For two years now he had been slicing himself open, trying to determine the nature of his flaw. He still hadn't figured it out, all he knew was he wasn't good enough; for anything. Or for anyone, he thought sadly, a face with tousled dark hair and bright green eyes coming to the forefront of his mind.

Just picturing Harry's face sent Draco into one of his favorite fantasies. A fantasy of Harry's fingers digging sharply into his hips hard enough to leave bruises as he rode him furiously. He was beginning to grow hard as Fantasy Harry released his grip on one of Draco's hips and smacked him soundly across the back. He moaned then, rubbing his hard on against the seam of his pants.

"You like me fucking you, Draco? Hmm?" Fantasy Harry's voice rasped quietly as he leaned forward to whisper in his ear, licking then biting the lobe.

"Oh gods! Yessss! Make me yours," cried Draco in the fantasy he was now almost entirely lost in.

"Love me," he whispered aloud in the corridor as Fantasy Harry drove his hard lengthinside of him brutally. At times when this fantasy was allowed to play out, he could almost feel the length of Harry stretching him and he wondered if maybe a pain such as that could replace the pain he lived for with self mutilation.

Voices in the hall around the corner drew him out of his delightful reveries. "Figures," he muttered, quickly yanking his pant leg down over the bloody lacerations on his leg. At least I can get a drink now, he mused. He noticed his hands had started to tremble once more. With a heavy sigh, he stood to face his classmates as they began to file into the corridor that led to the dungeons.

The poem quoted at the beginning is from a piece entitled "Altars" written by yours truly. Yes, yes, I write poetry. Shameful. Heh.