Death Wish

~~death wish.

In my dreams I'm dying all the time

As I wake it's kaleidoscopic mind

I never meant to hurt you

I never meant to lie

So this is goodbye

--moby, ``porcelain"

All Hallow's Eve and even the ghosts were subdued. There was no party this year, and instead the Gryffindor seventh-years sat around the fire in the Common Room, telling stories about the old days, happy stories where everyone was alright in the end-- stories where moonlight revealed the things hiding in the dark, and daylight brought all the old sights into view, every time you woke up. Harry was staring out the window, seeing faces in the distant, yellow moon-- they smirked at him, and they sneered, and they never smiled. He felt a bit ridiculous, sitting so far away from the others, and he was sure he was probably hurting their feelings, but he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't stop a lot of things. He glared at the moon, his mouth tasting of ashes.

"Remember Malfoy? He was a git, wasn't he? Remember that time we caught him trying to break into Hagrid's hut last fall? He insisted that he'd left his precious Dragon Cane there during class, but we all knew he was trying to steal the eggs again," Seamus said, laughing.

Ron snorted. "Yeah, we sure got him back for all those stupid pranks in the end," he said, and then started, falling silent as Harry's shoulders twitched and he got up quickly, looking as if he was about to leave.

"Hey, Harry, sorry I mentioned it, okay? Stay. We were just about to roast some marshmallows...." Ron held out a shimmering package with the words "Marsha's Mellows" in horribly cheerful orange letters.

A smile twitched briefly on Harry's lips and he dropped to his knees beside the others, fishing out a marshmallow and slipping it onto a stick.

"See, that was fun, wasn't it?" Ron said, when they were all laughing manically from all the sugar. His face was strange when it was twisted in this uncharacteristic mask of concern, almost like it wasn't Ron at all. He rather looked like Percy when he was like this, Harry thought. Percy.... And suddenly he couldn't take it anymore. Not right now, not with the moon burning little trails upon his back, not with the whispers that wouldn't shut up in the back of his head, not with Ron looking so strained and so horribly sincere. He missed Hermione. They both did, but Harry-- Harry was handling it. She would be blunt and tell them all what sentimental fools they were being, and go off in a huff to do some "light reading" by the window, the moonlight turning her into someone subtly unfamiliar. Of all of them, it suited her best.

She was in London now, helping out the Ministry because they needed her, and because she'd graduated early and because it was just too dangerous, having any of his friends near him anymore and he pushed and pushed and finally she decided she could be of use there, too. Ron wouldn't go. Sometimes he thought Ron would never go, not for a second.

Harry got up, mumbled, "Be back soon," and then he was gone, slipping through the portrait almost at a run.

He didn't need an invisibility cloak. He didn't care to know where he was going or who could find him. The darkness would find him, no matter where he went, the darkness would find him. Tonight, everyone was invisible-- and the only thing Harry wanted to see was the moon, anyway. Last year, around this time, he was still crying, still hiding it, still clinging to corners, holding on to walls when no one was looking, fearing he was on the verge of collapse. Now there was nothing to hide, and there was no one looking. No one at all. His mouth set in a thin line, Harry walked stiffly down one barely familiar corridor after another, his path unswerving, straight down the center now-- he had learned. Of course there was nothing solid, nothing to hold onto, nothing to stop him from falling, and he might as well not bother to pretend.

He avoided the lake, knowing Ginny would be there, sitting by the still, cold water-- not saying a word, not even to the one she had once claimed never left her. Harry fought a shiver, because he wasn't cold, not anymore. Or maybe he was always cold. Best not to notice, anyway.

He walked onto the Quidditch pitch, surprising himself. It didn't seem like the night for flying-- dark and windy and full of silent murmurs, creeping like shivers down his back. He stood very still, questioning the moon with his eyes and the tilt of his head. Tonight, the moon answered. He went to get a simple school broom, his step a little lighter, his fingers clenching already, in anticipation of the feel of solid wood beneath them.

When he flew, his shoulders felt lighter, his toes more alive, and his mouth could almost fashion itself into an accidental curve. He liked the awkward, stiff feeling of flying on this broom-- it suited him. The smoothness of his Firebolt, the ease of speed, the feather-light turns and victories tasted bitter upon his tongue. But he liked this, this creaky, sandpapery glide through chill October air. Yes, it suited him. The moon flared golden from this height, still taunting him with barely distinct shadows, their meaning just out of reach-- finally, a Snitch worth chasing again, odds worth fighting against. Something about this night, this moon, made him feel loose, unwound, quixotic even. He would chase after the golden moon and never come back.

He knew he wasn't alone, he'd known almost before he took to the air. He had practice ignoring certain unavoidable facts, but this was beginning to become too difficult. He didn't want to know, really, he didn't. His eyes tracked the shadow as it darted across the field, coming closer and then receding, always within view. It was almost like something (someone?) was trying to appear it wasn't, in fact, following him. But no, that was just ridiculous. Harry pulled up, soaring ever-higher, higher than he'd ever gone before, his eyes streaming, strangely, with tears, the wind screaming in his ears, feeling hollow and exhilarated and very much alone. And then he dropped, straight down, his control sutble and well-practiced-- but anyone watching would've felt their heart stop. It was meant to seem suicidal, but Harry was too good, just too good to believe he had any chance of really falling after all this time. It was a feint of course, of his own invention. He pulled up, barely ten feet from the ground, his heart pounding, but not from his stunt. All he could do, for endless threadbare, mute moments, was stare, without really processing.

The face was pale, paler even than before-- it was blazing white, illuminated, it would seem, from within. The eyes were darker than pitch, gaping windows onto abyss, and now, finally, Harry believed he could fall.

"What the hell did you think you were -doing-, you sodding idiot?!" rang the scream, and was coming from everywhere at once, almost from inside him, at first, and then, suddenly, dizzyingly slamming into the pale shadow advancing on him, locking into place. His face was twisted with rage, and he seemed to be getting more and more solid to the eye, his voice settling into Harry and filling out the corners. It was the same, yet totally different.

Harry's voice, on the other hand, had totally left him. He might as well have swallowed it. Harry had come embarrassingly close to falling off his broom at the sound of him, but held on, his knuckles white, his broom etching patterns onto his palms.

Draco was close now, so close that Harry's senses flared suddenly to life at the proximity, and he noticed the faint scent of dying leaves and standing water and the distant, warm spice of baked apples and pumpkin and cinnamon, but he could've been imagining it.

"You always did have a bloody death wish, didn't you, Potter?" he snarled, and there was a long, silent pause, crackling with tension like so many dying leaves. "Always...," he said at last. Softly, resignedly. His arm raised, reaching slowly for Harry's face, his features twisting painfully, the emotions running across them too many to enumerate. Harry jerked away, gasping, breathing hard, unable to stop his body's fine quivering, unable to speak, unable to wrap his mind around any of this.

"You... no... no... no," he croaked, his trembling obvious now, the words pushing their way past his lips from sheer desperation. But he had nothing to hide, not anymore, not from him.

Draco smiled, his face still soft, his fingers a breath away from Harry's cheek, hovering, smoothing the air over his skin where no solid sensation would be possible. Harry shuddered, his whole body convulsing, a huge throaty sigh ripping from his lips.

"Why... why... why, Draco?" he cried, nearing complete incoherency.

"You always did go in for the stupid questions too, you know," Draco said with a sigh, almost affectionately. "Why do you think? You're the savior of us all, surely you can figure out one little mystery."

"Damn you. Damn you, damn you to hell, I hate you... I hate you. Why did you have to...." He bit his lip savagely, tasting iron and tears. He glared at Draco, feeling absurd, surreal, enraged, and in more agony than he could remember ever enduring. Nothing was fair, of course, but this was possibly an entirely new degree of sadistic.

"You resent me, then? For this?" Draco murmured, surprise faintly coloring his words, but his face entirely still, not readable at all now.

"Resent you? I loathe you, I despise you, I hate you more, even, than myself. I wish -I- had killed you, you fucking bastard!"

Draco laughed then, his mouth jerking into a familiar maddening smirk, but his eyes were suddenly shining silver and as perfectly haunted as the moon.

"I wish you had, too. I wish I was with you even then; I wish I could've looked at you until I couldn't look anymore. You know it, or you knew it, at least. Didn't you? Don't you?" This last, almost inaudible, barely louder than a breath, or a heartbeat.

Harry closed his eyes, thinking that if he looked a moment longer his heart might just stop, unwilling to beat alone. He wasn't that brave, after all. He didn't want to look, not anymore, not if he couldn't look forever. Not now.

"I know," he whispered at last, the words choking him until he felt dizzy and light-headed. Or maybe it was the moon, pulling at his breath as if it was the tides. Yes, the moon.

"Look at me. Look at me, Harry. I'm here, and so are you, and so is this night, and who the hell knows about tomorrow, anyway?" Draco's voice was fading, deepening, sinking into the dying grass.

Harry's eyes snapped open. "No. No. You can't go...."

"I'm not. I'm always here, you know. Waiting for you. Not much else to do, these days," he chuckled, the sound somehow wrong, jarring in the still night air. "Though I daresay my Quidditch skills are getting better than ever from all this practice. I bet I could beat you now, Potter," he smirked, the humor crinkling the corners of his eyes now.

Harry allowed himself to be baited. He scoffed. "You wish," he said, his voice only faintly thick.

"Try me," Draco said, his old arrogance making a much belated appearance. He produced a fluttering, impatient-seeming golden ball, seemingly out of nowhere, then. "If you've got the balls, that is, Potter."

To his shock, Harry found himself stifling a laugh. "Well, show me what you've got then, -Malfoy-," he said, easily. And then there were off, their brooms darting and swooping and circling, the Snitch almost forgotten in their hide-and-seek with each other. He didn't laugh, but he felt it bubbling, trapped inside him like stray air bubbles, tickling his lungs, and he liked it, this new secret space inside him, where, even if for a moment, he could breathe.

When they spotted the Snitch it was racing straight toward them, as if eager to fall right into their laps. They exchanged a breathless sort of grin, and without a word, leapt at the shining gold peeking at them from the darkness, like the moon through late fall clouds.

And it seemed impossible, and it seemed like time stopped and the world stopped spinning on its axis, but it wasn't, and the world never stops spinning; but maybe, maybe sometimes it pauses for a breath. Their hands had closed around the Snitch at the same time, and their eyes locked in mute amazement, words unnecessary, but neither let go. Harry thought, distantly, that it was strange that his body chose this moment to waste warmth on him, now that his heart was fluttering uncertainly in his throat, feeling as if it was that thing with wings, now trapped between their fingers.

Draco smiled and let go the exact same moment that Harry's hand opened.

"Well," he said finally, his eyes a clear, unshadowed grey, showing Harry skies he'd thought he had forgotten. "This is new."

Harry laughed.

The moon looked on.

~~

Back then, in his dreams, that's how it had ended. Draco faded away, less and less distinct as his own eyes had drifted shut, and then he knew nothing, and he didn't wake. He wanted to be the one anchored to that pulse-- he wanted to -be- the pulse, the force that kept things running. He wished he could carry all of them when they fell, he wished he could be enough, but of course he knew he wasn't. It seemed insignificant to him-- of course he would give his own life in exchange. He would do so gladly, if it meant none of these dreams would come again, because finally it would be true. The dreams where he died again and again, instead. And it was simple again. But he couldn't lie, not to himself, not about this.

He would fall, as if from a great height, the earth rushing up to meet him, the bracing wind sparkling like firecrackers against his cheeks. And he would be crushed against the ground, and his consciousness would splinter and ignite and break into the smallest flaming pieces, and he would die. And into the morning, Draco would be in the air, still, a living breathing shadow in the distance. When Harry woke up, it seemed to crush him as surely as the fall would have, his heart feeling like it was imploding within his chest, the knowledge of his own continued existence something unbearable and torturous and wrong. He would stare into the morning sun every day, the palest blue becoming streaked with pink and gold, the sun suffusing everything with the gentlest glow, as if hope was something tangible, as if it had a shape, a color. He would want to laugh bitterly at the razor-sharp irony of it all, except he couldn't, because he would be crying, silently, because he couldn't have borne any more of their caring or concern or lingering glances.

By mid-afternoon he would remember that it was Draco's fault. He would focus on that, and he would get angry, and that would soothe him. He had never wanted it. He had never wanted him. He had betrayed him. He had always wanted to spite him, even if it took his death, he would have wanted to get to Harry Potter. And he regretted that Draco wasn't there, so that he could throttle him personally. Usually, by dinner, he would get really quiet, his gaze so deadly even Ron seemed to know better than to approach him. Hermione had tried, before she left. And some part of him wanted to respond, it really did. Some part of him was crying out, asking, begging for her help. But a much larger part of him wanted to spite everyone that loved him, wanted to lash out and punish and never, ever regret. His pot roast and broccoli took the brunt of his violence, most of the time. Then there was the flying. So she had left. And Harry, he was glad.

And then there were the nights, always the nights at the end. And then there were the dreams, where he broke. Or sometimes the waking nightmares, where he had found other ways to break. He knew it wouldn't be long, in those endless minutes at the brink of midnight. He knew he wouldn't have to last much longer after he incinerated Voldemort and spread his ashes across the continents, after he found whatever semblance of a soul he might possibly have possessed and tore it loose, tore it to pieces so tiny no one could ever imagine putting them back together ever again. Then he could rest, and there would be no more dreams.

Harry couldn't quite remember that time, right now. Couldn't connect himself with the boy who would've laughed at the painful destruction of his enemy before falling himself. The faint memory of what must've been a kind of insanity might tickle at the edges of his consciousness, but didn't quite penetrate. He was vaguely thankful. He couldn't quite remember, but neither could he forget. His fingers clenched fitfully, and he tried really hard not to scream, quite randomly, from fear and joy and anger and pain and a strange sort of release. Harry had never dreamt time could stop and skip a beat. He'd never dreamt there would be someone waiting at the threshold. He'd never expected to be breathless and amazed and happy for the gift of that same shaking breath which had brought him to this moment. And for once, he wanted to throw away his questions and close his eyes and try to keep breathing.

~~

Harry was still feeling inexplicably warm as they sat quietly on the highest ledge of Gryffindor Tower, not so frightening by moonlight, when the ground was only a memory. He was still staring at the moon, unable to look at Draco's face for long. It just seemed too impossible and still deeply shocking no matter how many minutes flew by while Harry tried to believe it. He was almost comfortable letting Draco's drawling voice soothe his nerves, though why it would do so was a mystery to him. But all he could see in the moon was Draco, anyway. He couldn't get away, and if he were honest, he had never wanted to anyway. He might be going mad from longing for the untouchable, but it was just about the only thing that made him feel alive these days.

"There's no rest for the wicked, you know that, don't you, Potter?" Draco said, as if continuing a conversation he'd been having-- most likely with himself, Harry thought.

"Ha. Yes, I suppose. It's true that I haven't gotten any for ages now," Harry said, smirking wickedly.

Draco started, looking at Harry more closely, and, seemingly satisfied, rolling his eyes. "Yes, well, I can't say I'm sorry about that, really."

"You always were a selfish git, Malfoy. Possessive, too," Harry said, his lips twitching, belying his words.

"And you love it, Wonder Boy," Draco said smugly.

Harry flinched, and turned his head away.

Draco wished he could take it back, but without much fervor, since he couldn't take back much of anything, and they both always used to think they had to live with that. But then, they were both known to be wrong, though neither would ever admit it.

Draco's hand hovered over Harry's, which was clenched around the cold stone ledge even more tightly than a minute before. Gently, like a butterfly's homecoming, Draco laid his hand over Harry's, not really touching of course, making Harry shiver with tingly, prickling cold-- but it was all he could do. Harry knew it. Swallowing convulsively, he whispered, "It's alright. This past year took the edge off, don't worry."

Draco sighed, decidedly uncomfortable with all the angst lurking just below the deceptively calm surface they'd achieved right after their game. There was a reason he hadn't talked to Harry up till now. "Don't bullshit a master, Potter. And anyway, you didn't really expect us to grow -old- together, did you?"

Harry's head whipped around, and he was glaring at the pale, softly glowing form next to him, no longer noticing or caring about his discomfort. "What would -you- know about that, Malfoy? You were always just going to marry Pansy and raise good little hypocrites to bring glory to the Malfoy name anyway, weren't you?"

To Harry's utter annoyance, Draco laughed, seemingly genuinely amused by this. "What do you expect me to say? That I regret everything, everything I am, everything I was ever going to be, that I'm the way I am because I'd never done what I wanted in my life, that if I had it to do over again, I'd choose you and to hell with everything, to hell with me? Is that what you want, Potter?" Draco's voice was clear and even, and only one who knew him well would detect the pain lodged in it, like the tiny seeds that must be scattered secretly in the barren autumn earth they couldn't see from their perch.

"I never asked you for anything. Never," Harry said quietly, his voice just as even. "So don't you lay your guilt trips on me, goddamn you. I was the one who said you do what you have to, and you bloody well know it."

"Oh yes, meet Harry fucking Potter, great long-suffering martyr, everyone. Where is that pedestal, I think I've misplaced it in my attempt to see you as an actual fallible human like the rest of us. Don't you-- ever-- pull that holier-than-thou crap on me, Potter. Don't you -dare-." Draco had gotten up and was now floating in mid-air, glowing fiercely, as bright as the moon now, staring straight at Harry, not that Harry could've looked away if he'd wanted to. "Don't you dare pretend you didn't want me on my knees, repenting of everything under the sun and pledging my life to you alone, you fucking hypocrite," Draco ground out, each word knocking harshly together like stones in an avalanche. And indeed, towers were falling, somewhere in Harry's mind.

"So what if I did, Malfoy? So what?" Harry cried, his voice hoarse, his cheeks flushing with heated life. "You'd be alive now, then, wouldn't you? You'd be alive and we wouldn't be having this fucking stupid conversation, and I could've just thrown you to the ground and fucked your brains out instead of playing this fucking game," Harry finished, tears now pouring down his cheeks unchecked, unnoticed.

Draco's fingers were tentative, but somehow almost solid, almost touching the tears, soaking them up, making them as much a part of him as the cold, fickle moonlight. Harry had never really stopped crying, not really; not if you knew how to look properly, all this time, and Draco knew it, had known it.

He wanted to kiss him more than anything, right then-- more than he wanted to take back all his inevitable choices, more than he wanted to be alive, even if for tonight, and he could almost hate Harry just for that. Not that there weren't plenty of good reasons to hate Harry, anyway, he'd always known. Almost as many as there were to love Harry, really.

"Don't do this. Don't do this to me, Harry. Merlin, please," Draco whispered, unable to continue like this, unable to disappear. Unable to even leave, leave him, leave this alone, like he knew he should. He'd done enough damage.

"Well, what the fuck do you want me to do, Malfoy, tell me that," he growled, the anger there as second-nature, effortless as always between them. It made things easier and it tore them apart. It was the only thing keeping him from -falling- apart.

Draco closed his eyes, whishing he could show him like he used to, wishing he could do anything at all. But there was nothing. There were just these words, stupid and more than useless between them. And he couldn't cry, or leave, or hold him, so Draco said it anyway. "I want you... I want you to wait. Wait, Harry. Live for me. I'll still be here in the morning, and so will you, and that's enough, isn't it. Isn't it?" He looked at Harry, almost imploringly, almost feeling something resembling need, and hope, and any number of things that he shouldn't, and couldn't, but at this moment, none of that mattered. Nothing but this-- just this-- just him, and Harry, and the sky around them ever mattered, anyway.

"You're a stupid fucking bastard, you know that, Malfoy? I always thought so," Harry said, sighing, looking down as if he could see all those hidden seeds if he stared hard enough.

"That's the spirit, Potter," Draco chuckled. Harry glared at him briefly, then went back to his morose examination of the darkness beneath them. "Don't be such a wet rag, Potter," Draco said exasperatedly. "I don't stick around cry-babies."

Harry's eyes, completely dry now, flew to Draco's face instantly, his expression suitably resentful for Draco's taste. "Fuck off and die already, Malfoy."

"Now that's better," Draco said, smiling.

Harry's lips flattened and he raised his eyebrow in a perfect imitation of a certain blond Slytherin. "You -would- think so."

"Rather," Draco said, archly.

It was Harry's turn to roll his eyes. Without saying another word he slipped onto his broomstick once again and pushed off. For long moments, Draco just stared after him, a swiftly moving shadow beneath the lightening sky. Suddenly, he passed by in a long, sweeping arc, his voice clear as he called, "You coming, Malfoy?"

Draco allowed himself a somewhat ridiculously relieved grin. "What do -you- think?" he called back, looking forward to Harry's reply.

Later, neither one of them noticed when the pale November sun came up.