A/N: NOOOOOOOO. I'm so behind. Oooh - but I like this one.

Why do I like the dark ones the best? I ask myself.

*silence*

Prompt #46: 8/23/17

449 words, according to Google docs.

The war came back. It always did. Draco sat bolt upright in his sweat-soaked sheets, panting and gripping the comforter with all the strength he could muster. He didn't even cringe as the cloth tore - he would deal with that later.

Flash of red and green speared his vision - bodies thumping to the ground, blood trickling slowly through the stones, grand turrets and huge towers crashing to the earth. Inhuman cries filled his ringing ears - werewolf, giant, demon, and every single creature he could remember.

And then there were the screams of the people. Those were by far the worst. He could tell whom each scream belonged to - Lavender Brown's early on in the battle, Crabbe's later on. Each face he had glimpsed haunted his nightmares, accusing him of all the crimes he did and did not commit - so many.

He couldn't take it anymore. Swinging his body off the bed and standing on shaking legs, he peered closely at the scars lining his wrist. He'd promised to himself he would never do it again.

Funny, how different he felt this time around.

Heading to the bathroom with almost clear-headed intention, he slipped past the slightly-open door and ignored the light switch, opting to light a candle instead. He had and always would hate the harsh artificial light of electricity, and choose not to use it in almost every case.

Glancing for a second in the mirror, he tried not to flinch at the haggard image presented to him - his cheekbones protruded out of his face and eyes were hooded in darkness. He was not a pleasant sight.

Turning to the cabinet next to the tub, he opened the drawn methodically, taking out a razor. Not his preferred tool, but he was too tired to go to the kitchen for the knife.

He was so tired.

Propping himself up against the tub, he placed the razor against his upturned wrist and slowly drew it across to the other side, relishing the sharp, bright pain that accompanied it. Watching the blood flow in fascination, he placed the razor slightly above the first cut and did it again. The lines of the wounds calmed him somewhat - it was one of the few things in his life that were organized and straightforward.

A slight darkness shadowed his vision, and he smiled. Unconsciousness would come soon, and with it, peace.

Unfortunately for him - or was it really? - a red-haired woman, scarred and battered by the war like he was, couldn't sleep either. She would save him from the darkness, and, combining the shattered shards of their souls, could make a somewhat whole human being again.

But for now, he would enjoy the silence.