Butterfly's Sleep

b u t t e r f l y ' s s l e e p

He never truly thought it'd come to this.

It was true he was frightened and world-weary. It was true that he was filled with a poison he couldn't control, that was slowly hollowing him out. It was true that he was essentially a rock- immovable, immutable, emotionless, and yet powerless to stop its own decay. It was true that while he was strong on the outside, inside he was filled with watery acid; an acid that corroded from within, until the entire structure collapsed.

However, it wasn't true that he had ever thought that this poison would drive him out here, between the fringes of the Forbidden Forest and the Hogwarts lake, a dagger clutched in one slim-fingered hand. He'd never thought the poison would grow this strong, that he would grow this weak.

That poison was his own venom, like the venom of the cobra that he became.

He'd learned to become an Animagus. It had been an independent study, beginning in the summer after fourth year. Or at least it had been, until Lucius had come upon him one day. His father hadn't said anything. He'd simply left his son to his own devices.

Leaving me to my own devices is what will destroy me. I hope you realize that.

He'd truly thought(and hoped) he might become a dragon. Any class of a dragon, it didn't matter. But instead, when, after two years of labor, he finally transformed, he found himself upon the floor- all sixteen feet of him- in the form of a king cobra.

Cursed are you above all the livestock, and all the wild animals... upon thy belly thou shalt go, and thou shalt eat dust all the days of your life...

It was the first thought that came into his mind upon the change. He knew he was merely paraphrasing from the Muggle Bible- he didn't know the exact words, and had only heard of this from reading one of his textbooks. Yet he realized, after a while, that the form of the serpent fit him better than even the dragon could.

He was cursed, fated to eat the dust of bitterness and hatred all the days of his life.

There was another thing. After reading about king cobras, one book revealed to him that the king cobra was not actually a true cobra.

A mockery, a travesty. That was another thing he was. Something that used a name to try to fit in somewhere else. God knew that he had wielded his own surname like a blade. But in the end, he had cut himself, fatally, taken down by the hatred in his name to die like a dog.

The last thing he had ever read about king cobras was that they were ophiophages - snake-eaters. Cannibals, who were immune to most of the poisons of other snakes, but used their own poison to kill others and devour them.

Draco shuddered. There was no wind, but he was suddenly cold.

It wasn't even just the hate and the bitterness that had done this to him. Those things only gave poison acrimony and fire. Poison grew sweet and silky by other means.

He glanced back towards the castle. It shone, nondescript and impassive, in the moon's pale light. The other students were probably staying up late, this Friday night, delighting in the fact that they did not have to wake up early tomorrow. That they could spend the entire weekend talking and laughing with their friends, without a care.

Of course. Perfect Gryffindors did not end up by the Hogwarts Lake at night with bloody thoughts. They stayed inside and flaunted their honor and their morals.

He could hear the laughter faintly, drifting from the open windows of Gryffindor Tower, borne on a light breeze. The puff of wind was warm with the last traces of August heat, but after an initial soothing brush, the wind seemed to turn cold as it parted to flow around Draco.

Draco watched the Tower, his eyes fixed on it. No doubt someone had pulled a little trick, a joke of some sort. It was, after all, the beginning of seventh year, when young wizards shaped the hopes and dreams that would guide their lives. Most people in seventh year became almost drunk with the realization of independence and adulthood, euphoric with dreams yet to be realized. Most people let out all their emotional tension in the form of wild play- both innocent and sexual- and ridiculous practical jokes.

Most people. Not me. I let out my tension on her.

Draco made no more effort to stand. He fell, first to his knees, then to his side. He rolled to his back, watching the night sky, a black cloak pinned up with myriad of stars. A waning crescent moon hung in the sky. Memories rose unbidden in his mind.

'Isn't the crescent moon beautiful, Draco? Isn't it?'

He was experiencing the opposite of what everyone else was experiencing. He was also feeling that sensation of drunkenness. But he wasn't euphoric with dreams and independence, he was filled with fear of it.

'Yes. It's beautiful. Symmetric, perfect. It shines like silver...'

A single butterfly floated across Draco's field of vision. Fluttering softly, it landed upon a nearby twig, and scrutinized the blonde intruder upon its grounds with as much curiosity as a butterfly could have. Draco returned the gaze, letting his eyes glide from the perfect obsidian body to the jeweled wings, violet spangled with splashes of silver and gold.

'Butterflies... they're what gave me my name. Did you know that?'

Without those ornamented wings, it'd just be another insect, trundling along, bound to the earth, fated forever to look like a little walking twig. But with them, it could hide the plainness of its body with the blinding beauty of its wings.

'I know I'm not beautiful... I feel I should have been, to be worthy of you.'

Draco watched as the butterfly flicked its wings once, before turning about and wandering off further down the twig.

'Why do you think you have to be beautiful on the outside? You're dazzling within.'

He lay a moment, before stroking his hand on the hilt of the dagger, fondling it as he would a lover.

'*ahead in time now, to that time, the blissful time when time stood still for them and let them see beyond, to something better*'

'Are you sure you want to do this? Are you sure you want to make this commitment?'

A sickening sensation gripped him. What was he doing? Would this solve anything?

Sure it will, he hissed to himself, his thoughts venomous as his serpent form's poison. It'll save Potter and his friends the agony of having to see me every day.

And another thing- it'll spare me the agony of having to answer to my father every day.

'I'm sure.'

His slender fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger, unsheathing it in a single swift motion, the edges of the blade whisper-sharp. He rose to his knees, gazing at the naked, shining silver blade.

This is the best course. What have I to look forward to?

The blade flashed through the air, summer lightning crashing from above and scything his chest in two.

'Draco... what would you do for the sake of love?'

Draco gazed at the great rent in his chest that poured forth blood. A look of disbelief etching his face, he released his grip on the dagger. His fingers swam through the currents of crimson as he let his hands slip from the hilt to cup beneath his wound.

'I don't know.'

Draco lowered his face slightly, watching the thick, dark red liquid pool in his hands, and tentatively raised his hands slightly, morbidly fascinated, to lap at his blood.

Let us just test the purity of this blood.

He tasted the normal tastes of blood; the coppery taste of iron, a slightly salty tinge. But even beneath that there was something worse, something so terrible as to border on ecstasy, something acidic that burned gently at his tongue with a sensation of sweetest agony, giving way to a persistent bitter aftertaste that caused tears to spring unbidden from his clouding eyes. The tears cut a clear trail from the corners of his agonized moon-silver eyes down his blood-smeared face, giving him the look of a feline.

This taste, is the blood of all those the Malfoy line has murdered and caused pain to. This is the taste of the agony we have caused.

He let that realization sink in, let the knowledge sear every cell, every synapse in his body, let it sink into the deepest recesses of his soul.

'*ahead in time then, after that time, after that thing he now called the Occurence, the time he spoke of with bitterest agony, when he spoke of it at all*'

'Why?! She was a pureblood Slytherin, she was of an old family!'

'She was also of a family threatening to turn traitor. It was a necessary action, Draco. It was nothing. A poisoned needle, a gentle stroke. That was all it took. But thank you for bringing our attention to her. We wouldn't have known of her if you hadn't made her acquaintance.'

Then he bent his head once more.

'*an incredulous whisper, from someone not willing to believe*'

'I.... killed her?'

He continued to lick at his bloody hands, tearing the liquid from his shaking pale fingers. He suddenly hated the red that marred his skin, was struck with a mad desire to cleanse himself of it by whatever means necessary. He then moved to his arms, licking gently there, removing the crimson from his skin, revealing his pale, porcelain-like complexion, hidden beneath; scouring away the impurity of his soul and to try and reveal the purity beneath. His efforts, however, were fruitless, as more blood came flooding out of the jagged wound, irrevocably staining his clothing. He lifted his head again, realizing this; he could try to hide the blood on his hands- to remove it for good and finally proclaim true purity with two bare white hands - but more would just keep coming. There was no end to it; there was no purity in him. He closed his eyes, letting this revelation imprint itself in his mind.

'Her blood is on your hands, not mine, Draco.'

The aftertaste of the blood from his hands turned sweet upon his tongue, the taste of liquid butterfly wings and crescent moonlight.

Then he took hold of the hilt of the dagger once more.

This blade is a dam, whispered unseen voices in his mind. Take away the dam and all your agonies will flow away, like a river unchained. Let the pure blood you prided yourself so much on flow like water over the ground, and then you will feel it; all your misery and pain, the impurities of your self, swept away with your blood, the purity in yourself. Take the purity and the impurity from something, and there is nothing, a blissful medium.

And then, you may see her face in the blood, the face of the one whose blood still stains your hands.

Do it.

He could feel his dying heartbeat reverberating through the blade and vibrating through the hilt. Once... twice... a pause, and then thrice.

'*his mind, spinning back in time, back to that moment, when the both of them were more alive than they had ever been or ever would be*'

'Do it, Draco... I am ready.'

'*a gasping, an arching of a back beneath snow-white sheets, and then a gentle moan as the blood began flowing*'

The blade exited his body with a wrenching, tearing sensation, rending untouched blood vessels and reopening the initially broken, all bleeding together into a rushing torrent of purity, impurity, pain, and pleasure.

He overbalanced and fell backwards, landing roughly on his back, blood trailing from the open, gaping wound. The force of the impact caused blood to jerk0 from his veins, propelled by the failing pumping of his heart. The ichor fell into space, splattering the grass and staining the air with a crimson haze.

'What is that? What are you holding, Draco? Her hair?'

He gazed at the night sky, his eyes searching forlornly for the moon. It was a crescent tonight... oh god, let me see the moon once more before I die.

'You saved her hair? What kind of stupid sentimental wretch does that? Throw it out.'

"Va..." The syllable died in the air. An upraised hand fell back to earth, drained of the strength blood would have given it. A dying heart still pumped feebly, spurting blood out of ragged, severed blood vessels onto the torn ground.

'It was so beautiful... dark red, like fine wine. I couldn't bear to see it cremated with her.'

He felt uncomfortable. He hadn't realized blood could dry so quickly. He was already caked with it. All the blood on his hands had somehow spread, becoming as great an amount as the blood that stained all the hands of his ancestors.

'You won't see it cremated with her, then. You'll see it cremated now!'

Everything was blurring. The blood that should have been nourishing his eyes was now nourishing the soil and plants. Or perhaps it was tears that caused his vision to smear so.

The butterfly took flight again, blurring through the air before his eyes.

Draco? Are you coming?

His eyes focused affectionately upon nothing.

Oh Vanessa.... how long have you been waiting there?

~fin~