Author's Notes: Again, the feedback rant. I am a very hungry feedback whore. Hearing from reader is what keeps me writing. So, if you read this and like it, email me. Or if you read this and hate it, email me. Or, if you read this and hate my writing style, email me. You get the idea. This is a special commission for Satori, because she has flouffy blonde hair, bitch boots, and an almost unhealthy obsession with Draco/Harry.
By Darkangel Rose
A forehead pressed against windowglass, Harry looked through it in search of an excuse.
He was so sick of being good. His mouth tasted like old chocolate, he wished he were anywhere but this normal little car on its normal little way to a normal little house. His throat itched with regret. He swallowed mirrorshards that cut him from the inside, he wished that he didn’t have to feel.
Mirrorshards, he could have saved Sirius, could have prevented all this.
If only, if only, if only, if only, if only, if only, if only, if only….
He hated Dumbledore. He hated Snape. He hated Voldemort. But most of all, Harry thought as he saw the broken swingset of the park near Magnolia Crescent, he hated himself.
Harry looked back, tried to see what he knew was impossible. Unlock, click¸ open door with a snap even though the car was moving, and then he was free, dumped onto the pavement like a goldfish from its bowl.
Draco stared at him from the single remaining swing. Expensive leather boots dug trenches in tanbark dirt. Draco’s eyes were grey and shining and full of invitation and I want you and come hither...
Harry didn’t know what to say. He went.
Draco smiled at him, smiled with redlips that stretched slippery over his sharpteeth smile. The first two buttons of his shirt were undone. Whiteflesh, so tempting, such perfect skin. A black bowtie hanging loose around a pale neck, Harry wanted to use it to tie the bastard’s hands together and then fuck him right there on the tanbark.
Draco’s eyes smouldered want, he could see Harry’s thoughts. Licked his lips, he knew Harry wouldn’t be able to resist.
Harry was so very sick of being good. He took three steps forward and kissed Draco, kissed him hard. Longfingers curved around his neck, nails dug into the skin, it felt so right. Draco bit his lip, bloodtaste, slick red metallic, and Harry loved him right then. Loved him with all of his battered and confused soul, and he understood green and silver and darkness and wanting to protect himself.
Draco stood up. Crooked finger, come hither, and Harry went.
Draco’s father sent someone to collect Harry’s things. The Dursleys didn’t understand, didn’t know who to thank for ridding them of Harry.
They didn’t see Harry and some pale blondeboy standing behind the man. Didn’t expect the Killing curse until it hit them. Harry did not cast it, just told the man what to do. As Dudley writhed on the ground, Cruciatus and a silencing charm, Harry stood there and smiled.
A serpent writhing in his stomach, he still hated them, still wanted to see them hurt more. A hand on his shoulder, Draco shook his no. No, they had to be going, had to leave before Dumbledore realized.
Whitepaper tacked to the suburban door. An hour later, McGonagall arrived with the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
We have Harry Potter’s body it said The Dark Lord intends to have a feast tonight. Here’s to hoping he makes a better entrée then a savior of the world.
She gasped, didn’t want to believe it was true. Inside amidst the chaos and Mugglebodies: a pair of broken black-rimmed ugly glasses, and a shattered mirror.
Wind whipped through their hair, exhilaration, and cue laughter as Harry kissed Draco again and forgot all about Ron, and Hermione, and Hagrid. I have seen too much ugliness, he said as Draco pointed the broom north, I want to surround myself with so much beauty.
We Malfoys know about beauty Draco replied kissing Harry’s neck.
Harry believed him.
“HARRY POTTER IS DEAD” the newspapers screamed. Draco showed Harry, and they laughed about it together. The wickedness was like a poison, and Harry swallowed it quickly: he wanted to be forgotten and found, wanted to find a place of beauty inside himself. A forehead resting against a mahogany bedpost, Draco locked the door and they were finally alone.
Draco unbuttoned his shirt and Harry drank in the sight of him. Malfoys do not know regret, don’t understand it. Draco was pale lean marble perfect and Harry wanted to kiss every inch of him.
So he did.
They understood each other, understood the difference between giving and submitting, between hating and loving and wanting. They fucked all night, and fell asleep wrapped up in each other.
Draco was a poison drugging Harry, and Harry didn’t want to wake up.
The funeral was very, very quiet. There was so much crying, so much ugly grieving. Harry stood in the back under a cloak and black cowel and watched. Ron and Hermione, sobbing into each other. So sad, he thought, to loose the third wheel. So selfish as to wish he were still theirs, still their savior and friend and scapegoat.
Harry did not feel. His core eaten away by poison, so carefully empty, so carefully blank and un-incriminating. Harry ground his teeth together as Dumbledore gave the eulogy. Dumbledore, the man that would have him die for the greater good. Harry imagined the blue-eyed wizard screaming in pain at his feet, and smiled.
Beneath the shadows and black fabric, all that showed of Harry’s face was the smile. It was a
Snape was standing in the back. His frame looked smaller than usual, as though he had been folded in upon himself at the edges. He was all corners and unpretty, but Harry stood beside him. Harry hated him.
Why are you even here? Harry asked, his voice was silk and man and different. Snape did not recognize it. You hated Harry.
I didn’t. Snape confided, and his ugly face was utterly, completely blank. His eyes were open but closed on the inside, two closed black doors. Harry backed away two steps, didn’t know what to say, and the smile was gone. He didn’t have to strength to smile in the presence of such truth, in the presence of such reality and realization and hurt.
Harry shook his head. He couldn’t go back, didn’t want to. His green eyes were frantic, he looked around quickly. He wished Draco were there.
His breath was too quick, he didn’t understand. The confusion was like that of a victim waking up from being drugged, from being poisoned. He wished Draco were there: Draco, who cold quell is every fear and make him forget. Harry didn’t understand why he had done it, what had happened.
Then he remembered Dudley.
His stomach turned, and he rushed to the door and was sick. Tears leaked from his eyes, he had just wanted Draco, just wanted to take his beauty and infuse it into his bloodstream like light and poison. He hadn’t wanted this.
There was a hand on his shoulder, Harry shied away. He didn’t want to be touched, or understood, or to exist. He couldn’t be seen, couldn’t go back to being a child and a Gryffindor. The light would scald his skin and show the tattoos, the marks and the shame and the kiss marks from Draco’s serpentmouth.
It’s alright Remus told him, and Harry’s insides froze. His voice was hoarse and tear-stretched. Harry’s at peace now.
Harry was chaos. Remus, he had forgotten Remus. Remus, who had lost his lover and then Harry in a matter of months. Guilt crawled on his skin, he didn’t understand how Remus could bear to keep on living.
Remus smiled, Harry could hear it. His smile was nothing like Draco’s. It was gentle and giving and resilient and hold on to what you love.
Harry was not a Malfoy. He regretted his choice.
A hand on each side of his face, and Draco kissed him softly that night. Harry submitted himself to the darkness, he was too stained to return to the light.
He cried that night as Draco made love to him, Draco pretended not to notice.
He was 20, and the world had long since forgotten the ‘dead’ Boy-Who-Once-Lived. There was a battle in Hogsmeade, and Draco kissed his cheek quietly before he left their bed. It was their pact: Harry gave Draco what he could to aid the Death Eaters, and he never had to see Voldemort. Another promise: Harry would be the one to kill Dumbledore, and Remus wasn’t to be touched. Harry took another sip of his wine from the bedside table, didn’t want to think about it any longer.
Draco was in the kitchen when he got up, whitetiles against whiteskin, he was naked.
We need you today he said They have Dumbledore.
The knife was hidden in the sleeve of his robes. He couldn’t go back, couldn’t fix it. But he could end it.
He still hated Voldemort.
He cast the spell, and his hood was up. The mask, the shadows, Dumbledore couldn’t see who it was who was torturing him. Harry wanted him to know.
Harry lowered the hood, and for the first time in 5 years the face of Harry Potter was seen outside the Malfoy Estate. He removed the Cruciatus, and knelt to let Dumbledore get a good look at him.
As the Headmaster gasped Harry lovingly said the words, and with a green flash and the roar of Death flying overhead, killed Dumbledore.
The hilt of the blade pressed against his wrist: he was ready. Step, breathe, step, breathe.
Cue snakesmile, Voldemort nodded approvingly at him. Harry buried the eleven inches of steel into the bastard’s left eye, and cast the Killing Curse to be sure.
It happened very quickly, no one could understand. The prophecy had been leaked to the papers, and hope had been lost for killing the Dark Lord. The papers had said that Harry Potter was dead.
His scarred forehead was flecked with bloodspatter, and Remus was the first one to reach him.
Harry?! he asked.
Greyflash, Draco was gone with the small sound of expensive leather boots slapping against the pavement and a cloak swirling through the wind.
Harry was free and condemned and alive. It felt beautiful to him.
Greeneyes looked right into Remus. Harry Potter is dead. he said, and meant it. I am no one.
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