Pretend to Sleep, Take Two

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.

**

"Hey guys," Harry said, collapsing in an armchair near Ron and Hermione, who were both bent over Ron's chessboard.

Hermione glanced up. "You look sort of shaken. Or sullen. What's up?"

"Bishop to E five," Ron commanded, still focusing intensely on the chess game.

"It's Malfoy. Stupid prat."

Ron's head jerked up, and his eyes narrowed. "What's he up to this time?"

"He was acting strangely. He ran into me so hard we both fell down."

Hermione and Ron kept their gazes steady on Harry's face, expectant.

"Well, he had a knife. And I saw scars on his arms."

"I didn't know Malfoy cut himself," Hermione remarked thoughtfully.

"Apparently, he does. And he was running off to do it again, only he seemed really upset about something."

Ron's expression changed from dislike to a deer caught in headlights in a second.

"Ron, what is it?" Harry turned to Ron, looking skeptical.

Without a word, the red haired boy jumped up and started up the steps to the dormitory, taking three at a time. In about the time it took for Harry and Hermione to exchange questioning glances, Ron was back downstairs and out of the portrait hole.

"What's up with him?" Hermione frowned. "He didn't even stay to finish a game of chess."

"Was he carrying ripped of bed sheets?"

Hermione froze. "You don't suppose..."

Harry threw up his hands. "Well, I'm not going anywhere. I've had my fill of Malfoy for the day."

Hermione's look was sympathetic. Harry was always the hero, and she knew he got sick of it. But from what she had heard, Malfoy was going to kill himself. Not that it was Harry's responsibility to do anything, but Malfoy was going to kill himself. Granted, Malfoy had done his best to make Harry's life hell ever since they had met. Still, life is such a precious thing, no one, not even Draco Malfoy deserved to have it taken away, even if he seemed to think so.

But Ron had gone. Harry didn't have to go, because Ron had. God only knows what possessed him to run out of here like that, Hermione thought. I should go, but I don't want to see him try to kill himself. That might look messy, and she had a weak stomach. Research, that was it. She could look up spells and potions that would save lives. Something to make her feel useful, but not to actually have done anything.

Hermione headed for the library.

**

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.

He must have passed out for just a second, because when he opened his eyes, there was someone crouching over him, pulling at his arm. Draco struggled to focus his eyes, and saw that the person was Ron Weasley. He took a double take.

"Weasley? What're you..."

"Shh, Malfoy. It's going to be okay."

Suddenly, Draco found he needed to explain what he had done.

"I cut myself, with that knife. And I'm bleeding. Right here-" Draco tried to show Ron his bleeding arm, only to realize that Ron was tying a knot on a long, tightly wound strip of fabric that was stemming the flow of blood around the wound.

Even as he watched, the pure white of the fabric turned red, in a dark stain that crept steadily across the make-shift bandage. Draco panicked.

"Ron," he said, clutching at the front of the other boy's robes. "Am I going to die?"

Ron sat back, a steadying hand on Draco's shoulder. He stared directly into Draco's eyes, which were wide and frightened. Tears were welling in both pairs of eyes as Ron wrapped his arms around Draco.

"No, I won't let you die."

"No, don't let me die, Ron, don't let anything happen. I'm sorry I did this," Draco babbled into Ron's chest.

Ron tried his best to comfort the boy he knew was dying. He started talking to distract Draco from the pain that was not purely physical.

"I'm going to take you to Madam Pomfrey, and she'll stop the bleeding and everything will be okay. No one will tell your father, so he won't have to know anything happened. Life will go just as it normally does, only better. We'll all be happy, and we won't have to fight. Voldemort will go away and no one has to hate anyone else, because rivalries are silly and don't mean anything."

"Do you mean it?"

Ron couldn't bring himself to speak, only nodded his head.

"Ron, does anyone love me?"

At this question, Ron's heart melted.

"Of course, Draco."

"No, that's a lie."

Draco's head was pounded and he couldn't see Ron clearly anymore, but he kept a firm grip on his shoulder.

"If I didn't love you, would I be here?"

Draco actually smiled, and leaned his head against the wall. His eyelids closed, and Ron almost thought he wouldn't open them again.

"Ron?" Draco said, his eyes still closed.

Ron squeezed Draco's hand in assurance.

"I- I-"

"I know." Ron pulled Draco into a tight embrace, which he could feel was reciprocated by the pressure against his back. Suddenly, the pressure was gone, and Draco's head fell limply against his neck. He pulled Draco away from him slightly, and looked in horror at the white face in front of him, the head lolling to the side, arms limp. He gently rested Draco's body on the stone floor.

He glanced around, for the first time noticing how much blood Draco had lost. His bandage had helped a little, but the floor was crimson. He had arrived too late.

Eyesight obscured by salty moisture, Ron knelt beside Draco and took one icy hand in his. He stroked the back of Draco's hand, reflecting on the boy's last few moments. Suppressing a sob, he leaned forward and placed a kiss on the cold boy's forehead.

Wiping his eyes, Ron stood and looked around the wash room. The tap was still running, and a trickling sound was still coming from the water flowing over the edge. Draco's vomit had mingled with his blood, but both substances were already being washed away by the tap water flowing onto the floor.

Ron stepped to the door, his footsteps echoing softly around the room. He had blasted the lock off the door so he could enter, but he barely noticed as he pulled the door closed after him. He didn't know what he could do know. He wanted to go somewhere and vomit, to purge himself of the painful occurrence he just had. He had just watched his worst enemy die, and it was the worst thing he had seen in his life.

The concept of unnatural death had irked Ron ever since he had watched Charlie die in the hospital of a fatal dragon bite. His brother had bled to death, but unlike Draco, he hadn't done it on purpose.

It was time to move on, and Ron knew it. Death was a part of life, and it was something he should get used to, with the coming war.

I ought to tell someone. Ron mused. Telling someone promised to be a challenge. I'll write a letter to Dumbledore. Then I think I'll ask Harry for a game of Quidditch.