Pretend to Sleep

Draco ran up the stairs from his dormitory and through the common room. A few people glanced up when he swiftly passed through the room, but continued their conversations. The stone wall opened for him, and slid closed at his back once he was through.

Barely seeing where he was going, Draco stumbled through the halls. His expression had become troubled the second he left the common room. Slowly, he was unconsciously gaining speed as he blindly turned corners and continued along corridors.

Fighting the stinging feeling behind his eyes, the fingers on Draco's right hand touched the stiff parchment of the letter from his father. Just another letter, but containing the most disturbing information yet. He was finally to have the mark burned on his arm. The Dark Mark.

Running around Hogwarts playing death eater was one thing, but getting a permanent symbol of total and complete servitude to a figure of absolute domination was quite another. Draco had idolized his father for long enough that he could do nothing else. He had to stop it, but could only think of one way.

As he stepped onto a flight of stairs, his left hand reached inside his robes and felt the handle of a dagger. It was hidden there for usually less of an occasion than this, but it would serve the purpose.

Coming to the last stair, Draco took a sharp left and collided with a solid figure. The person stumbled backward and fell, Draco landing on top.

"What the fuck! Malfoy?"

Of all people, why Potter?

Draco tried to scramble away, but strong hands were holding his upper arms.

"Let go of me, Potter!"

When Draco didn't stop struggling, Harry flipped him on his back and pinned him down. Draco was obviously at a disadvantage, and Harry wasn't about to miss a chance to make his worst enemy miserable.

"What are you doing out at this hour? Stupid twat...not so brave now are you? Why haven't you got some quick remark ready? Oh my, has dear daddy contacted you?"

As much as Draco tried to be numb to Harry's constant insults, this remark stung.

Harry's eyes caught the gleam of the knife blade in the torchlight of the corridor. "Why have you got a knife?"

Completely at a loss of words and actions, Draco shut his eyes and turned his head to the side so he wouldn't have to look at his enemy. His arms relaxed, and his elbows rested on the stone floor. Harry now had taken hold of his wrists, which were in the air. The long sleeves of the black robes fell back several inches. At the sight of Draco's forearms, Harry sucked in a breath.

"Malfoy, what the -"

Knowing what Harry was looking at, Draco snapped, "They're called scars, Potter."

"But why - ?"

"Why do you think?"

"Is that what the knife is for?"

There was a pause. "Usually."

"Usually? What else does it do?"

Draco wasn't sure what he was about to say, but stopped himself before it came out. "That doesn't matter. Get off me!"

Harry's grip had loosened while he was talking to Draco, and the smaller boy was able to nimbly slip away and jump to his feet.

Draco grabbed his knife before starting to run down the hall, and Harry, propped up on his elbows, watched his black cloak fly behind him. The blonde head disappeared around a corner.

"What the fuck was all that about?" Harry asked out loud, to no one in particular. He stood up slowly, his eyes still on the corner Draco had disappeared around. For a moment, he contemplated following Draco. The boy had hinted at doing something a bit stupid, to say the least. Would he really kill himself, or was that just talk?

No, he wouldn't do anything like that. He might cut himself again, Harry though, unconsciously touching his forearm lightly. But he'd never kill himself. Draco has too much going for him. Wealth, good looks, popularity, Quidditch skills.

After hesitating only a moment, Harry turned around and headed back to Gryffindor Tower, determined to forget the whole episode of meeting Draco that night.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Draco hurtled down the corridor away from Harry, unbidden tears stinging his eyes. Whoever called Harry Potter a savior had surely been mistaken. He hadn't stopped Draco back when they collided.

Realizing that he had been wishing Harry would stop him from his mission in the Astronomy Tower, Draco shook his head and stumbled for a few steps. He didn't need Harry. And besides, it was better this way.

He came to the highest floor he could find and ran along the corridor until he found a wash room. Locking himself inside, he faced a mirror.

His reflection looked scared, yet determined. His complexion was paler than usual. Carefully, he held up the knife and looked at it. The blade had fingerprints on it and the silver of the handle needed polishing. But that would never happen.

Draco turned on a tap and ripped off a strip of fabric from his robes. Roughly, he stuffed it into the drain, plugging it. Slowly, the sink filled with water.

Standing near the tap, Draco held the knife up to his wrist and cut a deep slit up it. Cringing, he dragged the point of the knife, under at least a centimeter of flesh, along his arm, reaching nearly to his elbow. He plunged it under the surface of the water and watched the cold liquid turn red. The dagger clattered to the floor and Draco's clean hand dipped inside his robes and withdrew the letter his father had written him, announcing that he would receive The Mark.

The heavy parchment turned red and soaked as Draco held it over his cut. His lips formed a grimace and he dropped the blood-soaked thing into the sink. He did his best to block out the unbearable pain, but it got to be too much and he closed his eyes to shut it out. He almost cried out as his legs gave way and his knees hit the floor.

Unprepared for the fall, Draco's chin connected with the porcelain of the sink with a sickening crack and he tasted blood.

The blood-water started spilling over the top of the sink, splattering his robes, and Draco leaned forward and retched onto the stone floor. Somehow managing to keep his cut wrist submerged, he choked as the hot liquid fought its way up his throat and out of his mouth. With it he could feel all the hate and shame and anger he'd held all his life. All his terrible feelings were choked onto the bathroom floor and oozed into the chinks in the rock, trying to disappear. Draco's vision blurred and he leaned back against something hard.

With a shaking hand, Draco touched his face. It was cold, and although he could not see himself, he knew he must the very shade of death. His blood mixed with his vomit, although he could not see it properly.

Suddenly, Draco's mind cleared, and he felt more at peace than he could ever remember feeling. Every bad memory and uncomfortable emotion evaporated and he was free of all but one desire. The desire to live.

Desperately, the boy clutched his slashed wrist, trying to stop the flow of blood. He started to cry, for he knew it was too late. He'd already lost too much blood. With one last sob, he slumped sideways to the floor, his good hand wrapped around the arm which was expelling enough blood that it had already killed him.

Maybe if I just pretend I'm going to sleep, it won't be so bad. Everything's okay. I'll get up tomorrow and go to classes, as usual.

But even as he tried to sleep, he knew it was over.