Rating: R/M for disturbing themes, sexuality
Summary: He's never felt more miserable, but he's a masochist anyway.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. The lovely boys belong to J.K. Rowling.
Spoilers: HBP is implied. Yet, it is very, very vague. .
Feedback: I'll make a point of saying it: I like concrit. So, if you think my writing is lacking, please do not hesitate to say so. It will not offend me, but I'll probably love you forever.
Notes: An unsettling piece of work; probably the most screwed-up fic I've ever written.
Crash. The sound of a door closing swiftly --and rather abruptly-- nearly making the alarm clock on the bed table shatter, awakens you. Opening your eyes, you drowsily stretch yourself and attempt to rise from the uncomfortable bed. It's past midnight and the hooting of cars has subsided a bit, even though it is still relatively noisy outside: the nervous footfalls of a pedestrian can still be heard, playing tricks on your all too imaginative mind. You find yourself transported to a horror movie, where a stalker lingers on every corner. That amongst other fancies makes you shudder.
Languidly, your long limbs reach out for the space beside you, only to find it empty—only the crushed pillow and the tossed blanket gives you any indication of his former presence. Even his scent, that powerful roguish perfume, has disappeared. Similarly to a ghost, he has the left a shadowy hint behind. Nothing else.
He's gone again. He's left you alone, again. It's the same, never-ending story.
This has to be a fucking joke, but it isn't. Indeed, it is nearly funny--sardonically masochistic-- to observe how much this isn't a joke. It isn't---nothing ever is. You never felt more miserable than now. Sadly, to your dismay, you have often felt miserable, more often than you can count. Alas, you don't care to count.
You rather choose not to think about the present or the future; it only makes your eyes roll and an indignant voice within your head scream with vehemence.
Heaven forbid, you are starting to believe that God really loathes you, that he is keen to see you suffer like a wretch, a miserable dog. You can't even bear seeing your reflection these days or care to dress elegantly anymore. There's no one out there to admire you, anyway. So, why should you care to make an effort?
You've been reduced to live with muggles, whom you've misunderstood for such a long time. It was quite the shock to find out that wizards aren't any better or worse than them.
The Ministry of Magic considered this the rightful punishment for a Death Eater, who'd hardly ever been one. You were too weak to be even that. Sighing, you reflect on how goddamn cruel it was to leave an eighteen-year-old, inexperienced and still incredibly naive, to fend for himself. In a world that is both strange and awfully, callously cruel. Sometimes, you wish this were a dream. Unfortunately, escape is impossible. Or, better said, you can't – are unwilling – to escape; the shackles that bind are very heavy, indeed.
No, the flashing lights that keep coming in and out of the windows are real. As are the sounds of the howling mob outside: drunken thugs looking for a neck to slit open and pockets to steal. Indeed, life is a colourful and violent trip, where survival is the most important. You're scared, but thankful that you've got this room to lock yourself up in. Others aren't that lucky; they can only confide themselves to empty street corners or bridges that are haunted by the sounds of passing cars.
Each car, a fragment or part of a life that one's missed and can never regain; it is irretrievably lost.
The floor creaks while your weary feet make contact with it; the wood is old and there are innumerable stains that make it look misused, dirty. Just like you. After all, you're nothing but a dirty bastard who lives on washing dirty dishes in measly restaurants. It's a filthy, menial job and you don't mind. No, you don't mind at all or, better said, you cannot allow yourself to. It's what you are used to doing because being that is the only prospect future holds for you. Everything else is forbidden because you have no money, qualifications and have lost your position in society.
What makes you nearly burst out with laughter--the sickening kind--is that life used to have so many options for you. Once life was a rich affair of myriad possibilities, but that's all gone now. Gone with the wind and the only thing left behind is an empty shell, a shadow of what was once grand.
Now, you are standing in front of the window: a light breeze caresses your face and hair. It feels nice, refreshing. You are thankful because it's the first time since weeks that your nostrils aren't exposed to the odour of diesel, cigarette smoke and urine. Although you have grown accustomed to these smells, it still sends shivers down your spine to feel, consume them on a daily basis.
You've seen worse, though. The war has left you impaired, and there's not a single night that is not filled with nightmares of your loved ones: ashen-faced and stripped of life, bloodied grotesquely by the hands of death. These nightmares, worse than anything Poe could have created, are like a stigma, encircling and gripping cruelly...
You'll never forget what it was like to see your mother die--her last look was directed at you, pleading for forgiveness. She felt guilty for having made you a racist, for making you believe that the false saviour was right. For letting you join the losers' side, for making you believe in something that never existed.
Certainly, she never forgave herself. Although, you did and never felt any reproach towards her; she didn't know better, after all. Neither did you.
Yet, you still love her because she heartedly returned these affections. The love of a mother is truer than anything else. Truer than the dirty hands you felt groping, crawling down your skin just a few hours ago, more earnest than the hard thrusts that made your body rock to and fro. Your body still aches and you can barely stand because you can feel a slowly-enveloping pain crawl from your toes to the other parts of your body.
He was especially rough to you this night. Still,
when he repeatedly thrust into you, no complaint came from your lips.
You liked it, but now you feel embarrassed, cheap and oh-so-useless. It makes you feel filthy when he doesn't even look at you after the act.
But you can't help missing the person who did this you. Even if he mocks you every time, makes you feel guilty for pranks that you've never really meant to do. He, who looks down on you, as if you were nothing but a carpet for rubbing dirty shoes. The names he called you last night were less than flattering, but you don't care.
You really don't care. In fact, you think that you deserve it. It gives you a sense of pleasure to know that somebody voices your thoughts aloud and does not hesitate to make you hate yourself even more. So, you can lead this life more comfortably; it is easier to pretend hating yourself than confronting the truth.
Admittedly, you truly love that person, named Harry. Hold on to him because he's the only thing left behind of a world that was once familiar. You can still hear his whispers, his hushed moans in your ears and you still feel a slight tingle on the places where his breath made contact with your skin. You cherish these moments…they are such a rarity.
Though you don't know why, Harry is keen to destroy the little pride you've got left. When he takes you, it's as rough as can be. Instead of kissing you, he only tackles you from behind, tearing at your clothes... The rest better remains unsaid. Besides, you don't feel comfortable thinking about these things, for it makes you feel so desolate afterward.
You never told him that he was your first, the only person to touch you intimately. It happened so quickly and suddenly that you still cannot remember how it came all about. The only thing you remember is that blinding rage, overwhelming pleasure and that mind-numbing sense of forgetting.
Though, it doesn't really make a difference, for you aren't the person Harry is set on making his. No, you're only his little fuck toy that he vents his frustrations out on; he never gives you a second's thought. You aren't one of his precious friends or a helpless victim who needs help. At least that's what you think: he's never given you any reason to believe anything else.
No, you're only Draco Malfoy: the dirty spawn of malicious man. You know that now, though it took you so long to understand. Harry made you understand; he keeps reminding you of your worthlessness. Sometimes when you're courageous enough, you curse him for insulting your family's good name. It doesn't last long, though.
He's debauched you in so many way --not only physically-- but he killed so much of you that it is positively disgusting. Somewhere, hidden in the depths of your soul, there is a part of you that wants to hate him for doing this to you.
You want to hate him every time he throws you onto bed like a doll that's unable to move. Want to scratch his eyes out when he pumps in and out of you without taking heed of your own pleasure. Unfortunately, you still have the tendency to moan out when Harry viciously touches your nibbles, pinching them once in a while. However, what makes you squirm with the delight are the hoarse whispers he utters when inside of you.
You love him when he does that. It's right then and there that you know you're his.
It's the only thing you understand these days. You are still confused as to why he comes to see you when he's got so many other places he could go to. After all, he's the fucking champion of the magical world and there's not a single soul who doesn't want to have a piece of his body. It is useless to deny it.
Still, when he does come, you don't confront him, but succumb to his desires like the prying dog you are. In fact, you are incredibly glad that he comes to see you, of all people. It makes you special and that affirmation makes life just a tad bit easier.
It's still dark outside and the brawl outside has quieted down remarkably. Apparently someone's died: that's the only reasonable explanation for this unsettling phenomenon. Only the sound of hissing cats breaks the silence that hangs like a dark cloud over the place. It's suffocating and it's as if a leather strap were slowly coiling itself around your neck, trying to eliminate the remaining oxygen that's still there in your lungs.
For what seems like long, endless hours you stare out the window and imagine what it would have been like if Harry were still that boy you once knew. If the looks he gave you were not full of contempt, cynicism and hatred. Instead, you imagine that these harsh glances are replaced with tender, playful looks that make you feel loved, instead of hated.
Just now you imagine that this Harry would have never addressed you that harshly or slapped you across the face so hard that it bled. Conversely, he would have made you feel like a prince and pampered you with compliments, loving touches and protective glances. His kisses would have been passionate but mingled with tenderness and certain shyness. A grin appears on your face for a while when you reflect on how you would have driven him crazy with your vanity, made him laugh with your insolent remarks or embraced him lovingly at night. You would have done all that and more, if only things were different.
Perhaps you're wrong for dreaming about all that, but it's the only thing that keeps you alive. Fantasy is food for the soul and in dreams you can escape that awful, blood-curling life.
Suddenly you hear the door opening again with a loud thud and turning around, you see him. Harry. He looks alarmed, even though his face doesn't reveal anything. Only his movements betray his uneasiness, the despair that must be surging within his body. The aforementioned movements are tense, slow and his eyes survey the room tersely, as if he expects to be attacked by a ghost any other minute.
You've known him long enough to be able to read his body language. It surprises you and even makes you a bit happy. You've realised that you're the only living person that can read him like this. Everyone else is too blinded by the mask Harry wears to even attempt to analyse him.
Sadly, that happiness quickly washes away; it is replaced by bitter realism.
He has become like a chess game: a labyrinth of intricacies that has to be crossed. You are dimly aware of the fact that the war has taken his toil on him, too. You remember the grim look on his face after he defeated the Dark Lord, single-handedly. Back then, his face was nearly black from the dust, but his body stood erect and proud. Yet, his face--his face was like that of an old man's, defeated. He looked as if something inside had died; had been wiped out of existence.
He talks to you, but you barely understand a word he says. So rushed and incoherent is his voice that it sounds like a broken orchestra about to end. Yet, what you do understand is that he is severely upset and you brace yourself for another round of sex…when he suddenly embraces you. Just like that.
He's never done that before and you are shell-shocked; a part of the world you've envisioned is collapsing before your eyes and you can't do against it all. Harry is such a mystery to you, even if you're the person who knows him best. He's screwed up, and there's nothing you can do about it.
It's so sudden and unexpected that you let out a gasp and start trembling all over. Before you even know it, tears are rolling down your cheeks in streams and the world has become a topsy-turvy of strange colours, sounds and whispers. Semi-consciously, you notice that Harry's shuddering too; it feels like a prickle that sends jolts down your skin. It is electrifying and you feel that overwhelming need to whisper reassuring words into his ears, to make him feel that desperate love that you harbour towards him.
"I'm sorry," he says miserably, tiredly. His face is unreadable; there is no emotion in these green eyes of his. He doesn't mean it, not at all. He is only trying to sooth his own conscience and that makes you seething with rage, disappointment.
It makes you want to scream out that this isn't enough, you deserve so much more. Besides, saying that cannot rectify the years you've spent trying to gain his attention. The life you've sacrificed so he would not cease visiting you.
Even if he's slowly killing you and himself in the process; it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, anymore.He kisses you and for an inexplicable moment your dream --that childish daydream of yours-- becomes reality. It's surprising to feel the softness of his lips, to caress the untamed curls of his hair that flatten under your touch.
You remain silent and enjoy the cool touch of his fingers roaming the small of your back. It's nearly gentle and you secretly enjoy that touch; it's been ages since anyone has been nice to you. Tomorrow things will be the same again, but today you allow yourself to hope. Even if it's fleeting hope that quickly dissolves, you hope.
What's left do? The only thing worse than being without hope, is being dead. And you're not ready to die just yet. There is so much that you still want to do, but he just won't let you go.
In the end, you can't do anything other than this. Like a drunken fool, you cling to the only thing that makes your life a bit endurable, even if it's just as wrecked, broken and ugly like everything else is. Harry's just like black coffee, leaving a bitter aftertaste on your tongue after you've enjoyed him; or rather he has devoured you so thoroughly that your knees buckle. Already his kisses are losing that gentleness and he's holding so tightly on to you that it is making you squirm.
Harry can't be happy because he hates himself. Inevitably, this leads him to abhor anything that he might have loved, adored or cherished otherwise. You know that you should run away, leave him to perish in that prison that he has constructed for himself…However, you are powerless and too dependent on him to leave. Also, you are haunted by that foolish notion of being able to do something for him, even though Harry doesn't seem to want anything.
What can person, who is dead inside, want? Contempt? Apathy?
Certainly, not love.
In the beginning, you wanted to safe him and return the kindness he had granted you until reason showed you that there was no hope left. The only thing you can offer him is this: that self-destructive chaos of agony and hatred that he needs like air to breathe. And you, the eternal hypocrite, need it too.
You're masochistic like that, but so is he.