Premonition Of Pain

Premonition Of Pain

*

You will not break me.

He remembers it clearly - perhaps the clearest, with that recollection of arrogance engraved upon his eyes. The skin and blood in perfect clarity; dark crimson from the corner of elegant lips, the sheen of sweat and mottled bruises on gleaming white, elegance pooled across the dungeon floor on shaking arms yet still so inexorably unbroken that he just wanted to scream.

Because for every curse that drove the man to the knees, trembling, retching, bleeding, he would gather himself up once more; pulled down for a heartbeat only to sweep to his feet, daring him to do it all over again, to do it interminably, endlessly.

The dungeons didn't overshadow his prisoner, his body never failed, his resolve refused to waver with all the damnable conviction of the mountains welded to the edges of the earth; and for all his righteous fury he knew he was fated to be staring into that smirking face over and over no matter how often he got him to the ground.

Smirking; always smirking and never screaming.

"Are you quite finished?" he'll ask, and his voice will still be as smooth as honey though by all rights it should be hoarse and broken; he'll be as polite and courteous as ever, and perhaps it's only out of spiteful amusement or something else entirely.

Time and time again, and the answer never changes - another curse, and his grey eyes will still be laughing.

I defy.

*

There is no hope in his eyes, but he doesn't need it.

He dictates his death, as he controls all things, without remorse or sadness. Disappointment, possibly, but that of a blunted nagging sensation that perhaps he had not executed everything correctly. Which was a form of guilt in and of itself, though the world at large would never understand and he never expected them too.

The staircase falls away beneath him, carpeted and broad, and he smiles at the irony of his own demise as he strokes gentle hands down his son's curved back, following the sharp nubs of his spine and then sweeping up again. Softly, calmly, adoringly; and when they kiss it is just that, feather light, reserved.

He had always been cold... They had always been cold; and with every touch what warmth there was in their bodies is drained away, and they smile into the perfection of winter, curved into the embrace like two pieces of the puzzle at long last fitted together. Fiercely stark and undeniably natural under shocked, disgusted eyes - and he laughs when they part, numb with the chill, and the sound is like sweet, honeyed wine over smirking lips.

When he raises his arms ever so slightly Draco slides the cloak off his shoulders with steady hands, and he descends the steps in a swirl of silver without pause; arrogant, defiant, determined to dictate every phase of this final chapter with a single-minded conviction to put the world to shame.

The Dementors do not touch him - he is cold enough already from Draco's embrace, and every memory he has is tempered with darkness, unable to be stolen away. He walks, and he owns every step, every heartbeat - every person who stares with wild eyes and grim satisfaction as he goes to his death.

Every person bar one.

Draco is not smiling, he's barely breathing - but he raises one hand when his father's head shifts in his direction, and they acknowledge the moment with identical nods and the self-same smile, perfect reflections of touching acceptance for the space of a heartbeat, as tears trail silver and agonized down the son's pale cheeks.

A moment later and the figure sweeps from the final step, filled with the power of his certainty, with his sheer determination that he will never be broken.

When his knees touch stone, he tips his own head back, blonde hair a pale halo and robes pooled about him in perfect folds. He is smirking, still, and does not close his eyes as clammy hands grip his jaw, wet and dead - his lips part, his gaze narrows.

You will not have me.

Those eyes never close until the last moment, when the brutal inferno of winter bleeds out like paint in the rain and the breath in his throat catches, flutters, and is sucked away, leaving him empty; and when he falls, it is with an elegance that by all rights should have left him - a perfect shell.

*

When Draco Malfoy walks to the Dementors there is no one there to hold him.

Nonetheless he still smiles as he moves to his death, with thousands of eyes on him but none ever touching - he does not acknowledge those he knows in the crowd, though surely there are hundreds of them. His eyes are fixed ahead, his head high, his steps unfaltering; the silver robes billow around him, and he looks ever inch like his father.

So when he kneels no one is surprised that he is the one who tips his head back, smirking into the eyeless face of his own demise with all the arrogance his blood had ever obtained.

That message again - You will not have me.

Yet before those lips can touch, he speaks - whispers, though it rings throughout the silent hall, is swallowed by that gaping mouth.

"Coming, Father" he says, and there is no pain in it, nothing but that same certainty that he will control his fate, and gain from it everything he may ever have lost. His eyes close, and for all the chill in the Dementor's touch he is surely colder still.

*

He remembers, and he weeps.

Blood running in rivers from that torn, mottled skin - but the grey eyes are still so sharp and his back is ramrod straight, a swirling mass of monochrome that will not go away.

You cannot touch me.

There is a three-page spread in The Prophet the next day, outlining every detail, and he shoves it under his pillow at night - because the pictures of their kiss are the closest he'll ever get for now.

*

No one gets into the Manor and comes back alive.

Except him.

He sits in silence with his back pressed into their monument, smiles, and closes his eyes.

We defy.

When his breathing finally slows, Harry Potter dreams of life.