Always
Warnings: Violence, Gore, Implied Slash, DM/HP pairing. If you can't stand lots of blood and are a prick about two guys in love, don't read further.
Disclaimer: No, I don't own Harry Potter or "Always", by Blink-182. Though, I wish I did. I'd be rich! Anywho. Don't sue me. You'd get a pencil. Because I'm that poor.
Yeah. This is pretty much my first Fan Fiction. Enjoy 3;
I've been here, before,
a few times. .
And I'm quite aware
we're dying. .
Panting.
Short, gasping breaths, reverberating throughout the room, shuddering off the walls and reconnecting with his ears, making him hear his own sounds of pain.
It hurt. It hurt so fucking bad that he desperately wanted to die, even if it was in the dungeon of his enemy, alone and with no one that he really loved. Not his boyfriend—no one.
In that respect, his fears were coming true. Almost all his life he'd been alone, and now in death, he was alone once more. He was absolutely terrified, though this did not show. Tears refused to come long ago, and he would not have let them come if they did decide to.
The moans of pain were his only friend. That and the soft splatter of crimson liquid seeming to drip from his every pore, landing on the stone floor and creating a sort of music with his haggard breath. They reminded him how close he was, taught him what the sounds of dying slowly from blood loss actually sounded like. He'd only heard anyone die silently from a quick, simple spell, except that one time. . .where she screamed.
He could feel his body sinking against the cold stone walls. He couldn't actually feel the stone, the roughness against his already painful wounds and bare skin, but he knew, with an acute awareness, how it'd feel had he been able to sense such things through the blinding pain coursing through his nerves. The senses that he was so used to relying on were escaping him. Even his magic left his body. Not that he'd been able to do anything with it, anyway. His wand had been taken away, snapped into bits, and then he was tortured—mutilated.
Even the pain of the torture couldn't compare to the pain he was feeling just from the after effects. It was both mental and physical—he had not planned to die like this. No. He had planned to die in victory—if he died at all—, his friends surrounding him and crying in happiness and sadness, for not only his body, but for their freedom. But this? He didn't want to die so helpless, so alone. However, he was dying and there was nothing to do about it. He didn't even dare hang on, for the pain was so bad that he just wanted everything to disappear, to fade away and just leave him. An odd thing, it was, to wish so desperately to die, and have the one thing you want the most totally evade you, and slowly torture you more by unseen hands.
His wish was granted sooner or later, and he thanked whatever God was up there. It was still slow, though. First, his hearing began to fade. The pants and the slow dripping of blood turned into a distant echo and once they were gone he realized just how much he'd been relying on the lethargic beat that they created. It was an aching silence that followed, filled with searing anguish and his mind turning to complete mush; thoughts swirling in a haphazard manner, not allowing him to grasp any one of them, let alone dig through them to remember the happier times in his life, if only to forget the pain. For him, no comfort was allowed.
Hands fumbled, and he was surprised he could even move them. They felt the gushing blood; it was as if he had cuts everywhere. One, a deep one, a knife wound, stabbed through his stomach, mercifully missing his lungs so he didn't gurgle when he tried to breathe. Puncturing his lungs would have been too easy, though. Too quick. They didn't want to give him any such luxuries, even if it was excruciatingly painful. Lower, two identical cuts ran down his sides, cutting into the oblique muscles and trailing down over his hip bones. He remembered the pain when that sensitive area was cut. Even that wasn't as bad as what he was feeling now. .
The hands traced the wounds lower, over cuts down his thighs, ignoring the sore protesting in the over-stretched muscles of his arms and the burning around his wrists from where they'd tied him. Thankfully the position hadn't broken his arms. . Another stab wound was in his calf—no wonder he'd had such a hard time walking. .
His body straightened and he let out a cry of pain, filled with agony though he couldn't hear it. It was odd, living your life, taking advantage of your hearing, and at death. .he didn't even know if he really screamed. It was as if his mouth just opened and nothing came out but blood, gurgling down the corners of his lips and ruining his almost-tanned complexion with crimson. He felt his mouth close and wondered why it had opened in the first place. His mind was starting to go slowly, too, he knew.
Those eyes, the ones that many in his boyhood had said were so brilliant; the ones that adamantly stared into his boyfriend's gaze as they made love; the ones that were adored—they opened and he found vision to be a white blur. He could definitely make out the chains on the other side of the room, the ones which he was thankful he wasn't in. They were beyond painful—it was in those chains that he'd lost track of the days. There were no windows in the room, he remembered, even though he couldn't see well enough to confirm that distant thought.
Suddenly, the swirling in his head dimmed to a roar, and one phrase that he'd learned not to fear rang out in his mind: I'm going to die! He forgot all about his supposed "learning" and became frightened, like a panicked animal knowing he was being hunted. Of course, he'd known about the pain, about all the blood, about the numbness settling in his mind, about the pants of death, but he wasn't prepared for the rush of sickness and absolute longing not to be in the position he was in now. He was too young! He didn't want to die! He had so many things he wanted to do, so. .so many things. .
His thoughts dimmed. The loss of blood made him turn cold, where as it had been a warm feeling mixed in with all that pain before. Now that he was freezing from the inside out, he fell into even more agony. It was as if his flesh was being melted from his bones at that very coldness. . Another scream that he couldn't hear and wasn't sure if he even uttered passed his lips and his eyes jerked open once more, turning to the bars of his chamber. In all the light, in all the mussed grey of the rock and darkness blending all together, he could briefly make out a mop of short blonde hair and a young body. .
In his last instances, his last thoughts were that his boyfriend had turned him in. It was his boyfriend that had done this to him—had ultimately killed him. It was all his boyfriends fault, and while he knew this before, he couldn't help but feel a dreadful hate flash through his body, banishing the pain for him to relish in a realm of numbness, if it wasn't for the abhorrence that was running out of his veins like the blood he spilt.
The funny thing was he hadn't even seen it coming. His boyfriend was perfect. Everything that he could ever wish for. .and then it happened. Everything changed and he hated it all. He hated the cruel spin of fate and most of all he hated the blonde on the other side of the bars. His boyfriend should have been in his place, for his treacherous deeds! But no. It was his fate. His destiny to die. That didn't mean he had to accept it. .He felt his mouth open, to say something, but a choked gurgle passed his throat, spilling out blood. He gulped down his last breath mingling with his body's liquids and closed his eyes, accepting death with one last curse: that the blonde would die as slowly and painfully as he, himself, had. .
There, in that dark dungeon, Draco Malfoy watching on, the savior of the Wizarding World died, slowly and painfully, and the blonde had at least the mercy to shed one streaming silver tear down his golden cheek. And then, impatient, long fingers brushed the moisture off of his cheek and he schooled his expression into that of clear hate for his "ex-boyfriend" whom he'd loved, beyond anything. But, like many others, he couldn't resist the pull of power, even through such an ordeal as handing his love to death. With that tear gone, he turned on his heel and marched from the dungeons, up to tell his master that the foe was dead. .
Har. A short little drabble of nothingness. I truly do like Harry! But I was in the mood for something a little. .darker. And so, this came about. Heh. Isn't it fun? The song is Always, by Blink-182. I thought it was fitting.
Yay four pages! This WILL be an ongoing story, so please review?
