Disclaimer: I neither do now, nor have I ever owned the fabulously renowned forms of Harry and his world. I do however, indulge in messing with them.
A/N: No, I'm not giving up on anything. I have began, or am editing several chapters to my ficts, which will be posted within the next few weeks. Thank you for your patience. In the mean time, I had this tucked away, and ran across it earlier today. It was a long one shot, but I decided to break it up in to short drabble like chapters. Enjoy, I hope.
Warnings: Some disturbing imagery, mention of neglect/ abuse, possible OOC-ness, although I try to keep it minimum. 6th year AU, Slash.
Pairing: Harry/Draco. Mentorish Snape (one of my favorite kinds!)
It surrounded the castle and all that inhabited it. The night was silent, save for the few calls of the creatures dwelling in the Forbidden Forest. The sky, inky black, lit brilliant with stars and a full blue moon.
A scream shattered the perfect silence, dragged out in agony known only to those who have been there.
Hands clutched at a damp shirt, fingers scrabbling for something tangible. Something perfect. Something calm. Nails, broken and chewed to the quick, bled from small cuts littering the tips. Teeth bit his lip, trying to cut off the whimper that strove to be free. Clawing, scratching, wanting the freedom of crying into that silent, perfect night. Heat ran, liquid fire through his veins, burning his blood to ash, singing a grim saviors' song.
He cried out once more, his knees now bent, buckled beneath him, his too big pajama pants tripping his feet on his way down to the cool stone floor. Fists clenched, he slammed them down, heedless of the pain that rocketed though the abused limbs. He did not flinch as his body folded in on itself, his cheek scuffing along the floor. He laid there, the pale moonlight falling all around him. His breaths, hot and rapid, wheezed out of his overly tired lungs.
Sick, and more than a little tired, he blinked his eyes slowly, their gaze unfocused. He had lost his glasses minutes, hours, days ago. It's okay, though. He couldn't see with them any better than he could without. After all, he had been living in a world of blurred lines and fuzzy expectations for over six years now, hadn't he? Now his physical sight merely matched his reality.
Crickets sang their little tunes, unaware of the broken young man several feet above them. An owl hooted its call, others responding in like form. A howl floated up to him; werewolves were on the prowl. It was a full moon after all. A fool's moon, promising light and dreams to all who could see it. Bathed in its blue light, he gasped, hot tears stinging his eyes, falling silently down his cheeks as he buried his face into his shaking hands, trying to hide his twisted face from the perfect calm around him. It wasn't fair. No, it wasn't right that everything around him, everyone around him could touch this peace. This perfect calm.
He wanted to. Oh how he wanted to. And yet, as he reached out, it seemed as if the moon and all its promises pulled back from him violently, shivering away from the broken, raw boy. He laughed, cackled at the very thought. Of course it wouldn't want a part of him. Destiny had foreseen that, and prophecy demanded it.
Alone. Always alone. Surrounded by people, told he was loved and yet, all he felt was strange. Absurd to think he could break from his gilded golden cage.
Golden Boy… Savior…Killer.
The word was whispered within and without the castle, murmured from ear to ear. Joked about between the Slytherin groups, sneered in his own house. It began the end of his fourth year, and had somehow continued throughout the next two. No matter what came his way, he still heard that word.
Yet, it belonged to him, he knew. Just like freak, it identified whom he was to his world. It had become another title. And while he hadn't directly killed anyone, he would soon. Wasn't that what they were training him for, hoping and praying he would do?
Funny that, no? Perfect little Gryffindor. Perfect little Boy Who Lived. Perfect little Murderer. Bred for bloodshed, molded for killing, for revenge, for justice. He spat and coughed, bile erupting in the back of his throat at the very thought. What was justice? In this perfect world, he, the strange, was to cast judgment upon those others believed to be unworthy.
Was he not the one most unworthy?
Broken sobs spilled from his lips as he begged the night to answer him.
Only the silence of perfect calm responded.