The Draco Tear-Jerker

His face was hidden in shadow, but anyone would have known who he was by the silver-blond hair that covered his head. The ice-gray eyes that were downcast under long, silky black lashes were as cold as any winter's day, giving him the appearance of fragility and at the same time, strength and a sense of always having been there. His skin lacked that human, pinkish peach colour, to be pale as the moon-glow at night. His lips were slightly parted as his breath came in ragged. In his straight, finely carved features was all the pain and sadness of the world, a devastating sight to behold.

And his wrists were red--red as a rose blooming in the winters snow. It swirled and where it was thickest, it was darkest so that it almost reached a blackish colour where it fell underneath the wrists onto the cold, hard floor. Blood, just visible in the sparse lighting of the windows with their shades drawn. The panes that could be seen through their dark curtains lent a view to a night in which there were no stars, only clouds with stormy grayness.

Yet Draco Malfoy only watched as blood ran from his wrists.

*

It wasn't the first time he'd watched as the blood trailed down his forearms in thin, but steady, trickles He made no move to stop the flow. He never had.

The first time had been an accident, that he remembered. If he had ever wanted to call on the exact memory of that day, way back in his fourth year, he would have found his mind to have it preserved well. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see the odd shape of the package from home, feel the awkward angle of the knife in his hand again, sense the frustration at the spell that bound the package shut, hear the empty sound as he missed the package with the knife's point. He could still see how the crimson blood had beaded in a thin line, like a teasing pair of lips somehow settled into a white-lighted beacon that was the paleness on his wrists.

To add to the cruelness of the pain and shock, the package contained a journal and a bottle of ink, to (as the note written in an unknown hand stated) "write his thoughts down, and remember his school days." He'd burned the journal, and smashed the ink bottle, his face contorted with the anger that someone had wanted him to remember.

The past wasn't something to dwell on, it was something to forget, as he was constantly reminding himself. The past is the past and it's over. There's no changing it, so he may as well forget it.

Of course, it was harder to forget a past that stared at him twenty-some odd times from his own body.

*

Now, however, Draco balled his hand into a fist and squeezed as hard as he could on nothing, his short nails digging into his palm. The muscles and nerves in his forearm tensed. The already dwindling flow of blood slowed even more. Four times he did this, each time he cut. Just to be sure that it would eventually stop. While it seemed a suicide trip, he was in no mood or mind to die. Not yet.

His arm tensed, then relaxed again. The trickle had almost stopped. He took in a deep breath, and almost choked on the amount of air. He began to breathe normally, his chest feeling constricted from the lack of air he always had after a cutting. The pain simply took his breath away, along with his thoughts and feelings. The searing blade was a blessing to him, the ultimate relief.

Draco moved, shifting from his knees on the cold, hardwood floors, for the first time in a half hour. Cramps shot up and down his calves, and he reached for them to work oxygen into the starved muscles. After a few minutes, they backed down enough for him to get to his feet.

Careful inspection of his new cut led to the conclusion that it was no longer bleeding in any way that would run. The area around it ached, and there was still that burning pain on it, the skin trying to reconnect his separated flesh. He winced, but only slightly, the most he dared to even in the dark privacy of his room. Trying to ignore the pain, he strode over to the wardrobe and pulled it open. Yards of expensive, heavy-cut materials spilled out. He ran his hand over the different materials--silk, velvet, and others, before stopping at the far left side. He pulled out a rough, black jumper.

Quickly, Draco shrugged the heavy jumper on, carefully rolling the sleeves down to cover his wrist. The tender area screamed as the rough material made contact with the open wound, but he paid it no mind. Instead he took a skimpy rag from the open wardrobe that he'd stolen from the kitchen house-elves, and preceded to wipe up the small amount of blood that had remained on the floor.

Draco then threw the now bloody rag into the wardrobe, not caring where it landed inside, and crossed over to the bed. Once comfortable, he finally embraced the exhaustion from his cutting, and fell into a dream where the walls seeped blood and rats with ruby-red eyes that nipped at his clothing and tore at his skin. In the morning, he wouldn't remember it.