Let It Pour

Draco paced the patio that spawned from the upper end of a staircase leading to the Slytherin dungeons. He sighed deeply. Damn, it was past midnight and had begun to rain. His tears that rested on the decaying stone were now barely detectable, joined by fat drops of rain. Just barely, he thought.

He shivered, bare white skin under his robes already drenched. He held his hand out, watching drops gather and then slip from his smooth palm. He deserved discomfort, worse than this. He felt he deserved if it was possible, more pain than he already suffered. The one person he had ever wanted to be friends with, to love was repulsed the fact that he, Draco Malfoy took breath. What the hell did that say about him?

In his meandering over the rough stone he came across a goblet that previously had been full of wine and was now running its contents over mixed with the ever hastening rain. He picked it up gripping it firmly, wanting to slam it up against that rather solid looking surface which was his dormitory. Draco stopped eyeing the wall, watching the crimson liquid slosh over on his pale hands. To Malfoy's senses it looked like blood and smelled of his father Lucius.

Draco leveled it near his usually contemptuous gaze. Now his gray eyes were wide with wonder and fear. The goblet's stem rested precariously between his middle and ring finger. Without knowing it, Malfoy was reeling like a drunk his mind fermented by cruel memories of his father. Awful holidays he spent with psychiatrists and Lucius telling him he was sick for his infatuation and nightly cries of 'Harry Potter'. Then to put the final nail in the boy's coffin Lucius had betrothed the fifteen year old boy to that bitch of a pug-faced slut, Pansy Parkinson. It was all as if he saw his father's face in the drink, telling him this tale over and over again.

After a few minutes, Draco's horrified wonder ceased and as if in a parting phrase he heard his mother Narcissa's prim sing-song voice, "Anger like yours will eventually make way for dementia." He laughed loudly, anguished by these words nonetheless. Finally he released it onto the wall, over-adorned thing breaking into at least two scores of pieces. Those pieces, the pallid boy reasoned, were the shards of what was left of his will. Broken and useless now, he gave himself over to animal impulse. Slowly he made for the door that led back to his Hogwarts. Pausing first, he took a blade from his robes. The damn thing had been cutting into his leg all day. In Transfigurations they had been turning nail files into knives. Malfoy had nicked his finished product, convinced he would be going into a depression such as this later in the day.

He chuckled reminiscently for a minute and scampered down the dusty steps, his bare feet picking up every malady of dirt along the way. The knife was small, pathetic like Potter. Nothing that could be the suicide weapon of a Malfoy. He had a plan, something that had been in the works ever since his 'therapy' sessions with his favorite teacher, Snape. Before leaving his Common Room he paused at an ancient trophy cabinet he had been eyeing for a year. In it glinted the sword of Salazar Slytherin. Silently he pulled his wand from his robes. "Alohomora," he whispered and the lock clicked open. Hurriedly he slid the door open and grasped the serpentine hilt, sliding it gingerly out. This will do, he thought as he dashed to the door.

Quietly he crept up three floors to the Gryffindor Common Room and dormitories. The Fat Lady was asleep and he made to hack the canvas to shreds with the smaller knife. She screeched but was cut off by a nasty gash across the face. To Draco's insanity-ridden eyesight it appeared she bled. Bled all over the floor, onto his feet and robes. No matter, the painting swung the door open with a whimper and he leapt over the threshold, a frighteningly familiar look of satisfaction on his small face.

Still as a ghost he finally hovered over Harry's bed. He was beautiful. Unlike Ron Weasley in the next one over, Harry was still and deathlike in sleep. Gingerly he swept two cold fingers over Harry's lips. To Draco's amusement, the darker-haired boy awoke instantly as if he always planned on being attacked in his sleep. "Hush my sweet," the triumphantly deranged Draco cooed. Silently he turned away from Harry, one hand still over his mouth as the Potter boy struggled and tried to get out of bed. "This will only take an instant," Draco said, just audible over the snores of Harry's fellow Gryffindors. The impatient Slytherin took out his wand and put Harry in a body-bind curse that kept him genteelly on the bed.

Draco clumsily used the sword to make a deep gash in his arm. He sucked some of the blood out, reeling slightly from the large amount of blood lost. He stanched it against Harry's bedclothes as Draco knelt beside him. Malfoy kissed Harry with his bloody lips, wanting a few drops of himself into Harry before both of them died. On Harry's lips Malfoy made a shallow slit and partook in some of the blood that ran down his chin. All this was silent procedure, that woke none of the others until the proper time. Draco Malfoy was still somewhat himself and wanted an audience for the show's unasked for encore; the sight of their two bodies laying tragically that is.

Now the knife was hovering over Harry's chest and then ungracefully jammed in and then wrenched around. The only sound was the contents of that particular spot with grappled around just under the flesh. Blood flowed freely over Harry's pajamas as he lay there, still paralyzed from Malfoy's curse. Draco knew it was time to fulfill his end of the bargain. The sword which had lain idle did no more. Draco raised the glinting thing and his last words were, "Wait up for me you greedy bastard. I won't be long."

So much blood from that night rained down on the floor that Ron Weasley slipped on it when he awoke.