Atonement

Atonement

Draco's chest rose and fell shallowly as his thin frame was wracked with another fit of violent coughs. He groaned and raised one shaking, paler than usual hand to wipe his mouth and was only marginally surprised to see that the back of his hand was stained with blood.

His other hand was clutching a small glass phial that still held a few drops of an acid green liquid. As his body spasmed again, Draco's arm thrashed back against the floor and the phial shattered in his hand, sending small, diamond-bright shards skidding across the mahogany hardwood floor.

Draco felt a few of the pieces imbed themselves in his palm, but instead of a sharp, biting pain, it was more of a dull throb, from miles away, hardly noticeable. Anything he did feel was fiercely downplayed by the intense, burning agony emanating from his abdomen.

Ironically, Draco had chosen that particular poison because it was supposed to be painless. However, no one who had taken it had lived to tell the tale. It was generally used as a suicide poison, and those who took it didn't want to survive. This irony wasn't lost on him, but he wasn't able to give it a whole lot of thought, either. Every time his thoughts were drawn from the all-consuming pain in his gullet, it seemed as though a white-hot lance would impale him, and his mind was jarred back to the task at hand.

Draco coughed again, and this time he was gratified with a fine mist of crimson spraying tiny droplets across the floor in an intricate yet sporadic pattern. He rolled onto his side, curling into a fetal position, and clutched his stomach desperately, praying for an end to the pain.

He let out a howl of agony as he was roughly turned onto his back, his abdomen searing with agony. He looked up at the person who had moved him and let out a growl. The very person who had caused this, coming to rescue him? Today seemed a day tailor-made for irony.

Draco tried to pull away from the grip on his shoulder, but at this point, he was barely strong enough to cough, let alone move. He spluttered and tried to turn his head, but a vial of liquid was forced down his throat. He lay back on the floor, breathing shallowly, as the ache in his stomach gradually lessened. "Why did you do that?" he accused hoarsely, his throat still raw from swallowing the poison.

The face hovering above him was a picture of hurt and confusion. "Why did you do that?" he asked, tone just as accusing. "If I hadn't noticed your potions cabinet open, I wouldn't have even known-" he trailed off as he choked on a sob.

Draco was unmoved. "Goddamnit, I want to die!" he croaked. "I can't do this any more." He gazed up into verdant eyes beseechingly. "I wasn't supposed to fall in love with you," he whispered. "There wasn't supposed to be any sort of emotionally attachment." He was forced to look away as green eyes filled with realization and horror. "I was supposed to be able to betray you, and I can't. I couldn't face my father and the Dark Lord a failure, and this was my only escape," he mumbled, gesturing with his glass-imbedded hand.

The blonde watched as Harry left his side and returned moments later carrying a wicked-looking dagger with a jagged blade. He didn't remember the Gryffindor having anything like it, but then, he knew Harry had his secrets.

Draco was hit with a fresh wave of spasming pain to his still-sore abdomen as he was slowly pulled into Harry's lap, his head carefully cradled against the boy's neck. He watched as his palm was raised in front of him in one of Harry's hands, the other hand dragging the silver blade across the center of his hand. The dagger was so sharp Draco couldn't feel any pain as blood welled from the wound to stain his pale skin crimson.

Harry quickly opened his own palm and pressed the two wounds together with a faint hiss. Draco raised his eyes to gaze up at the other boy searchingly. The look of quiet determination on Harry's gaunt face was oddly reassuring to Draco, as was the sensation of their mingled blood trickling warmly down their wrists.

Then Harry turned his head and leaned down to press a single kiss, sweet and loving, apologetic and infused with passion, to Draco's lips. With slow, deliberate movements, Harry used their intertwined fingers to lift Draco's chin, exposing the soft flesh of his throat.

Draco let silver eyes, brilliant with tears, drift closed, knowing what was coming and welcoming it. His expression was one of intense relief, and, with his eyes shut, his countenance was almost innocent. He didn't make a sound, nor did he even twitch, when the cold blade slid into his throat, severing his jugular vein, carotid artery, and his windpipe in one clean slice.

Harry didn't even wait for Draco to die before he ran the blood-soaked metal through his own throat. He collapsed backwards as the hot liquid poured down his front, soaking his clothes. He noticed from far away that Draco was still in his arms, their fingers still interlaced. A small smile spread on his face as his lips formed words he no longer had the capacity to say. "I forgive you."

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A/N: Ok, my third deathfic in a span of less than a month. Well, at least it's not fluffy and prosaic. I'm not sure I'm happy with the title, but it's all I could come up with, and I'm not patient enough to wait and think of a better one before posting this. This was originally written just to see how much I could hurt Draco before it got to me, and as an exercise in describing pain. However, it actually turned out to be a pretty decent fic, so I decided to post it.