Blood Clot

It took all the strength I had not to fall apart

Kept tryin' hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart

And I spent, oh, so many nights just feeling sorry for myself

I used to cry, but now I hold my head up high

--from "I Will Survive"

by Gloria Gaynor

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

To cast me off discourteously

For I have loved you oh so long,

Delighting in your company

Your vows you've broken, like my heart,

Oh, why did you so enrapture me?

Now I remain in a world apart

But my heart remains in captivity

--from "Greensleeves"

The non-religious version

Draco's POV

PART SEVEN

Rage

I wanted to kill him.

Kill.

Kill.

Kill.

Hate coursed through me so severely that it hurt. Well, that is, being around him gave me a headache. I wanted to retch every time his image came to mind. Which, unfortunately, it often did.

Part of my hate was directed at myself, though. I really should never have even tried repenting for my past deeds, and letting my hormones come on to Potter like that...not smart. I guess I had let my wishful thinking net my mind. Never again.

But God, it had been so hard to repress, even if I had known he would reject me, would I have been able to stop myself? I loved getting Potter angry, it was my daily high, my heart's elevation, my smile's rise. Pure bliss. I always got an extravagant amount of pleasure from knowing that I was the cause of that anger, that beauty shining out at me with fierce, utter obviousness.

Memories of times he'd been angry with me flashed through my mind; that ebony hair, so dark, glossy at a glance--it shone in the light, a dark contrast that belonged to a beacon of virtue brighter than the sun. Smooth, tanned skin, slender figure, tempting lips...those lips, so soft, slim and round, so gentle they had been, trembling beneath mine, ah, that mouth from which spilled melodious dialogue. And his eyes...they flashed with such violent, brutal fury, sparkling emerald, more gorgeous to me than a thousand veelas.

With the both of us alone in the corridor, and he with no excuse to leave, having arrived in the same corridor as I of his own will, I had lost control. He had been right there, so close; the situation had been utterly to my advantage, with him standing there across the corridor, angry--he was irresistible. I had known there was no way to satiate my sudden rush of desire--his fault--other than going after him like a hound running after a rabbit.

But his sudden vulnerability, the way his eyes had been like open windows, revealing to me his every emotion--it had all been fruitless, and had only resulted in disaster. Damn him. How dare he succumb to the lust like that, and then just throw me away like a worthless rag! My blood burned just at the remembrance of the pain he'd given me.

But even harder to bear than the physical pain was the mental pain, the hurt of having been refused--and so entirely. What utter humiliation! My heart was bruised and my soul hungered still...I'd zealously grabbed all the opportunities given to me, only to leave with empty hands. These hands of mine shook with the force of my emotion, as I sat at dinner, brooding and starving--but not for food, oh no...what I hungered for was revenge. Revenge, more sweet than truest love, more sharp than any dagger.

I looked up away from my maelstrom of thoughts as Goyle's beefy hand thumped at my left on the table. My eyes narrowing in irritation, I hissed, "What do you want?"

"Er, well, Draco, I wondered if you plan on eating that piece of pie..."

Stupid thug. He and Crabbe had no care in the world for anything but food!

My frown sourer than ever, brows furrowed, I turned to contemplate the oh so innocent apples contained in crunchy crust. The piece of pie sat there facetiously, as if saying to me "Life is pointless right now, so why breathe?" Which is exactly what I didn't want it to tell me. Like I didn't already know that. God, I could almost see it's beady little eyes, reproachful, acting as if my gloom was MY fault, sneering out at me from two chunks of gooey fruit.

My anger began to boil more and more inside me, as the pie seemed to scream out vile little accusations, each one worse than the last, each one blaming me for my intense misery. How dare it do that to me! None of it was my fault! It was all Potter's fault, not mine! How dare it accuse me! Why that little...!

Standing up with a huff, I snatched a fork, and plunging it into the triangular dessert with a sweet splatter, I yelled, "You capricious fucking little wanker! It wasn't my fault, I told you! It was Potter's fault, all his, he did the pushing away, not me, so stop giving me those bloody accusing stares! You low life son of..."

I paused for breath, and then the Slytherin across from me, staring wide eyed, whispered, "Malfoy?"

I realized then that almost everyone there, from all the House tables, was staring at me, astonished. I gulped, frozen in place, the fork still in my hand. Blaise said, loudly, so everyone could hear--damn it, this wasn't a show!--"Hey Draco...you alright? Who are you talking to?"

I blinked a few times. Who was I talking to? I had been talking at all? What on earth?

Then, reality flooded back to me, and with a mental groan my anger was shattered. I replied, "My...Er, my....my pie...I was speaking to my pie.........." I barely saved myself, stuttering, transforming the word pie. "P-pipe-arsed friend Goyle here! I was talking to Goyle; not only does he have one stuck up his arse, but it's a pipe instead of a wand. Stupid thug."

I turned to Goyle. "What's your problem, accusing me like that?"

Goyle, the useful blob of confusion, just blinked at me stupidly. Smug, I turned to back to Blaise, saying, "We'll fix it up later." Then I sat back down.

Slowly, mutterings and whisperings buzzing all around, everyone sat down again and stopped staring, although many weird looks were shot in my direction from various people. Sighing resignedly, I shoved the plate with the pie on it to Goyle, murmuring, "It's yours." Eyelids feeling heavy, I lay my head on my arms, and slowly sank into a dazed, half-dreamy sleep.

-----*-----

I wanted to scream, so intense was the rage that coursed through me. Punching my pillow furiously, my rejection scenario and the humiliating incident earlier that day spun over and over through my head.

That bastard Potter. I wanted to kill him. Murder. Hurt. Pain. I wanted to kick him in his face, bash in his limbs, watch gleefully as despair shone from his teary eyes. I laughed, morbid and insane, cackling with horrific fantasies floating in my mind...

Revenge.

Oh, I wanted it so badly. And yet deep down, I knew I couldn't get it. Impossible. With Potter, everything was a challenge. He would ignore it, or not be effected by it, or...there was just no way it would ever be enough to actually return to him all the pain and hurt and rage he'd incensed in me. Revenge! My brain screamed, revenge!

But I couldn't get it, couldn't taste its sweetness. Never.

If you intend thus to disdain,

It does the more enrapture me,

And even so, I still remain

A lover in captivity

--from "Greensleeves"

The non-religious version

Draco's POV

PART EIGHT

Déjà vu

Goodbye, school. For a while at least, until Christmas break ended. Yawning, I slowly climbed up the stairs into the Hogwarts Express train, making sure to hold onto the rail. My face reverted to neutral, though, as I walked down the aisles to mine, Crabbe, and Goyle's usual compartment. Disappointingly enough, Crabbe and Goyle were already there. Telling them I wanted some time alone and not to come looking for me, I continued my search for an empty compartment away from other filled ones where I could lay down and sleep.

For the rest of the day with my outburst at the pie, people had stared at me. Finally unable to take it anymore, I'd rushed out of Potions, pleading a bad stomach ache. An hour spent at my common room, andventually, I did become ill. Whether it was from stress, high blood pressure, emotion, or whatever, it had given me an awful headache, as well as a nauseous-ness that had taken me some time to throw up.

But I had escaped the infirmary an hour before bed, skipped common room chat, and stayed up for most of the night scribbling boring letters to boring foreigners I barely knew--my parents made sure I established relations with various esteemed persons. When my urge to sleep became too great, I took a stroll around Hogwarts to keep me awake. Then, upon returning to the common room, I brooded by the fire for I knew not how many hours. All in all, the night had been pretty uneventful, but had left me with not a wink of sleep.

I held in my gasp of delight as I finally found an empty compartment, and rushing into it without abandon I slammed the door shut and collapsed onto the soft, plush seat.

I woke up what seemed like moments later, to hear a harsh rapping sound at my door. Shouting in dismay, I sat up sleepily, and barked, "What do you want?"

There was no answer, but an envelope with a paper threatening to fall from it was slipped underneath the door. I noticed the envelope had "From Harry Potter" written on it. Blinking, I reluctantly allowed some of my weariness to slip away. Snatching the letter from the floor, I tossed the now empty envelope out with a curse and then unfolded the paper. What was this about Potter? Usually I was relieved from his bothersome presence during the train home at Christmas Break. He and that dog Weasley stayed at Hogwarts for the few days before break, until now.

However much I had idolized Potter before being rejected, I had never seen his handwriting. I found it was crisp and swirly, yet simple. I immediately fell in love with it, tracing the M, before shaking myself out of it and biting my lip. Remember: you hate him, I told myself. Shaking betraying thoughts away from my head, I read the message:

Malfoy

What was with you the other day? Were you langered, or what? Stabbing your pie, yelling at it, putting the blame on Goyle, and of all things, talking to your buddy Mr. Pie about ME? And what did you mean it was my fault? WHAT was my fault? I did not push you away, you git. You forced yourself upon me, pinning me to the wall! My only way of getting out of it was to attack you. Why do you always expect me to enjoy it when you toy with me? I don't like your games, Malfoy, so stop playing them.

And stop blaming things on me.

Oh and by the way, if you're going to be yelling at any other food, how about yelling at the last piece of my crusty chocolate birthday cake? I only ate half of it, and I'm sure it would like some company.

--HP

I reread the message again, and then tucked it into my pocket. I really didn't know whether to laugh, to pretend I'd never gotten the letter, or to look for Potter to talk to him...or brood. Deciding that brooding wouldn't get me anywhere, I took out the message and just stared at it, mesmerized by each swirly letter. His initials, HP, were especially elegant, a fancy twist about the letters that made them different from the rest of the words.

I licked my lips. Hmm...chocolate cake? I wasn't sure about yelling at it--no, I'd rather yell at him, to get him angry--but maybe eating it would be nice.

Hmm...

But wait!

What about my anger towards him? He had rejected me! What was I thinking of, pondering about accepting his chocolate cake offer, and not getting angry that he was calling what I did 'games,' and not letting me blame him for it all? Damn him. Damn my indecision.

Sighing loudly, I rushed my hands, decorated with silver diamond-studded rings, through my hair, exasperated. I had just flopped back onto the seat and begun to fall asleep again when there was a knock at the compartment door.

Slipping off my coat to use it as a pillow, my eyes still closed, I stretched, kicking my boots off, and mumbled, "Come on in." Stupid messenger. At least they had the decency to knock quietly this time.

"Er...I was wondering if you got the message I sent to you..."

Blinking blearily, I was only half conscious, and lazily stretched my hand out to cover a large yawn. Sitting up, my brain slowly processed what I'd just heard, and I immediately recognized the voice.

Masking my shock, my apprehension, fear, uncertainty, and indecision whether to hate him or not, I opened my eyes, giving the Boy Who Lived a level, emotionless--yet not disinterested (Yes, there was a difference between disinterested and emotionless)--stare. Here he had me in an entirely vulnerable position, sleepy and undignified, coatless, bootless (I had learned my boots could have an intimidating effect), and for once not having apprehended his arrival.

Nodding toward the seat opposite me, I kept my gaze on him, saying, "So, Potter...got that chocolate cake with you?" He actually had the heart to smile, and nodding, but refusing to sit down like I'd implied, he pulled out a small round plate on which sat a dull, square hunk of cake upon the top of which oozed dark frosting.

Taking it from him, I dipped a pinky into the frosting, and licked it from my finger. Sweet. Almost too sweet. But I nodded in half satisfaction anyway. Potter took a few steps closer, standing only a ways away. If I wanted to, I could touch him, reach out and grab his coat, pull him into a passionate lip lock--but no. I wouldn't let those thoughts infiltrate my mind. But then again, I wouldn't hate him either. It was no use. Revenge was basically a hopeless goal, and hating him did nothing. Angering him, however, was still something I could do easily and with happiness.

"Potter...it was your fault. You know it was your fault. You provoked me, and you arrived there; haven't you learned by now that your presence disgusts me? Therefore, it was your fault any of that happened. For heaven's sake, the Mudblood and Weasel would know it was your fault if they heard. And you did push me away. Yes, I am blaming it on you. You stupid Gryffindors, you all confuse yourselves because you admire me and lick my shoes so much that you're dazed. Blimey, is it because I'm a Slytherin, or is it just me?" I smirked, taking another swipe of frosting from the cake.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw this hadn't had the effect I had wished it to. He simply stood there glaring with an unsettling mildness. Damn. I decided to throw in an insult to his nearest-and-dearest for good measure.

"Too bad your friends are too stupid and untrustworthy for you to talk to about my horrible deeds, hmm? No use mentioning mum and dad aren't around to back you up." I added in a patent sneer, knowing that always bothered him. Sure, it was a page from the dull book, but it always worked, and he hadn't the gall to toss a comeback mentioning that if his presence disgusted me, I certainly would never have snogged him. Maybe he was still too muddled about the situation to mention it, the dafty.

He got riled up, of course. It was so easy, I almost laughed in glee as his face burned with fury, those dark thin brows curving sharply downwards. Ebony mane flying every which way in chaos, he leaned towards me in anger, eyes flashing, and whispered, "You stupid git, one more joke about Gryffindor or my friends and family and I'll break your pale pointed nose, you rat! I would rather have detention than lick your sorry excuse for boots. Transvestite."

It was my turn to be furious. Lashing out with curses and insults in a fierce reply, I was too busy--no, it was not laziness!-- to actually get up, but thrust out a foot and jabbed him in the ribs, making him fall to the floor.

It hurt so much to know that, as much as I hated him, I was captivated by him even more. Even the way he stumbled to the floor at my kick, it entranced me. Slender body twisting to catch himself, hair whistling through the air in a dark flash, his eyes were wide behind the glass shields.

We glared at each other, me down at him, pinky dabbed with frosting, face frozen with a frown, he in disarray from the fall, glasses more crooked than ever. I felt myself falling for him again as his mouth turned down in a tiny pout. I wanted to ravage him then and there, that pout was so adorable.

But instead, I held myself steady, and waited for him to make the next move.

He sat there for a minute on the floor, continuing the glare stare, but then slowly got up, and just stood there, watching me lick-and-dab, lick-and-dab, slowly freeing the cake of it's edible frosting. Not half as yummy as I was sure he would be...mmm, Potter, his mouth, his scent, his skin, his innocence, his vulnerability, his protests, his mind, his soul, his body...absolutely delicious package he was, in all. And I wanted that package, I wanted it, stamped with my name on it, as well as: "FRAGILE. Do not touch."

However, it wasn't just pure physical attraction that made me want Potter. There was more to it. It had been hard to admit it to myself, but I'd gone over it one night when the insomnia struck too strongly to fight against. The thought of him made me feel...well...it was hard to think about it, especially since I'd been recently rejected--the sting in my heart was only a particle of what had pained my heart earlier. But before that had happened...he had truly meant something special to me.

He was everything that I wasn't, and yet also everything that I was. He fell, I caught. I shirked danger, he plodded through it constantly. He made sacrifices, I avoided having to. He ignored all darkness other than the most threatening, I swam in the darkness, caught in it's net. We were so alike in some ways, yet in others, so very different. We were like two gusts of wind. One warm, comforting, slow in the hot summer, the other frigid, vicious, swiftly rushing through winter.

The mysteries that whispered in the air around him intrigued me. Questions swirled through my mind, his voice, his gaze, his presence excited me. He had done so many great things, so important, and yet he didn't revel in the attention, nor did he openly suffer from it. And yet although ignoring things like this, even his ignoring wasn't done the same way I did mine. He was still Harry Potter, Gryffindor, optimistic, brave, vulnerable, innocent, helpful. He was so damn virtuous. I really couldn't fathom how he managed to be like that all the time. It irked me, and yet it drew me to him, also. Add in the fact that his slightest gesture inflamed me with desire, and it could almost be said that I'd fallen head over heels in love with Potter. But of course, Malfoys didn't do that. So it had to be something else; it had another, utterly dissimilar name.

Thinking of Harry Potter, yes, I had to admit, however cliché and strange sounding it might be...the thought of him made me feel this strange warmth inside. God, that sounded so sick and mushy, but it was true. I had felt that, once our non hostile relationship--whether it be friend or more--was established, I could tell him anything, trust him with everything.

But as soon as I thought those things, I cringed from them, reeled away, back to land, away from the unfamiliar watery territory. What was wrong with me? Sre, I had come to terms with the fact that Potter attracted me, but, as had been proven, pursuing my desire for him didn't result in anything but disaster. Those hopes and dreams had been shattered when he'd pushed me away. He hated me, hated kissing, hated my passion towards him. And most of all, he hated intimacy of any sort between us, which was exactly what I wanted.

Sighing, I swiped the last humongous glob of frosting off the cake, and then put the plate down on the floor. Then I sat back up, and lifted my head up to gaze back at him. My throat itched with the urge to say something, anything, but I kept the silence. Usually I didn't mind silence, or loved it, but I was trying to decided whether to say something nasty, thus reverting to usual, or say something different, or wait for him to speak. As it was, I quite liked the way his eyes were locked on mine, so I remained silent.

Emerald eyes gleaming sharply, he reached out his hand, and pressed it firmly to mine. I could feel his palm, moist and warm against mine, and then, in a sudden move his fingers clamped down over my knuckles, tightly holding onto my hand. Slowly, I automatically moved to do the same, so that his right and my left hand were interlocked in a firm hold.

I stood up from my seat slowly, so close to him that I could feel his body heat. His scent, his closeness, and his hand gripping mine all had a special intimacy to it that I treasured. Staring into his eyes, I was suddenly inflamed with, not lust, but the desire, the desperate, raw, yearning need to know every bit of him, his thoughts, his habits, know more than everyone else did. Everything. Not Harry Potter, not the Boy-Who-Lived. But Harry. Just Harry. His eyes spoke to me of a spirit, someone. Someone brave, honest, faithful, loving...but I didn't know that someone. But oh how greatly I wanted to. Compared to his life's richness in affection, understanding, friendship--all those things that made his heart, his being, so very strong--I seemed poor.

His voice a low tremor, he whispered, "How can you expect me to love you, to open up the core of my soul to you so readily, when through my eyes you're almost a complete stranger?"

Then, he let go of my hand, ripped his gaze from mine, and fled.

Oh, curse it!

Déjà vu. I had been rejected. Again.

I felt the blood rush from my fingertips, now isolated from the warmth of his skin. Just as the blood rushed away, so did any misgivings in my heart that he would ever feel anything remotely similar to love towards me.

It was all because of who I was, and the intimacy I strived for.

I'm a whisper in water

a secret for you to hear

you're the one who grows distant

when I beckon you near

--from "Bachelorette"

From the CD Homogenic by Bjork

Draco's POV

PART NINE

Christmas Break

I groaned loudly, my hand slowly reaching out of the comforting warmth of my thick rustling quilt. Fumbling, I brushed my hand wildly against the smooth mahogany of my bedside table, desperately searching for my wand. Mother had forgotten to put the Silence Spell on the old grandfather clock last night--forgetfulness was the result of half the night spent at a boring formal party, I supposed.

God, I was exhausted. Mother had insisted I be her clothes advisor, and had spent certainly more than an hour trying on expensive varieties of clothing. At least she had good colour taste, for my sake. But some of the witch fashion these days...absolutely horrendous! Along side doing that, she had insisted I bid her farewell at the doorway--I swear, I will never understand women and their fashionably late or early ways. Luckily father was already at the party, or he'd have had a fit at us both.

Still searching, I refused to lift up my heavy, tired eyelids. I counted as the clock began to dong the hour. One, two, three fo-ah-ha! Tightly gripping the familiar rod, I rolled over with effort born of weariness, and aimed my wand towards the clock. It was just outside the corridor, and I knew my aim was straight, for I always left the door a crack open at night--exactly the length of inches from my ring finger to the tip of my thumb. Cheers to odd habits and routine activities.

I loudly sighed, "Quietus!"

Finally, silence. My wand clattered to the floor, as, smiling, I retreated back underneath the cozy refuge of my mountain of blankets.

-----*-----

"Stop eating so inelegantly, Draco. A Malfoy does not allow others the opportunity of scorning him for his chewing habits."

I bit down the urge to fake choking or push away my plate and take out a gob of Gumble's Gimmy-Gimmy Gummies (little sour chewy flying gummy pigs--it was quite fun tearing their heads off).

Instead, as always, I murmured in reply, "Yes father," and ate a little more tediously than before.

-----*-----

Tediously, indeed. What a bother it was searching for files in father's library. Of course, only one small section was for files, and not books. But that, of course, made no difference, for each section had about one hundred books (or in the case of section F-A-1, files) and there were I knew not how many sections. A thousand, perhaps.

I sat, feet propped up against father's desk, cushioned in the floating chair, surrounded on all sides by piles of papers. Open a file, skim a few words, close, add to pile. Open, skim, close, add, open, skim, close, add; I felt like I would be searching for The File forever.

And then, suddenly, there it was:

Harry James Potter

...and from that point on, I read no more, because the door opened.

I knew, from the sound of father's steps towards me, that I was in trouble.

-----*-----

I hated when he interrogated me. I hated it, and simultaneously loved it. I hated it, because father so obviously was in control, so shrewd, so uncaring towards me, his own son. But I loved it, for in return for his lack of care towards me, I scorned him, throwing loads of sarcastic comments and sharp retorts back in his face.

In fact, this time this imprisonment in my own family's dungeons was not a punishment, but a gift. For in here, I could write my letters to Potter. He was staying at the Weasleys for Christmas break, for otherwise I would not have seen him on the Hogwarts train. Smirking, I set my quill to parchment, and began to write:

Dear Mr. Potter,

I will presume that you do not recognize the stamp on the envelope of this letter. That is because it is a very special stamp, original, unique, and quite unheard of. It symbolizes our uniting, you and I. For I am to be your pen pal.

I know, it sounds awfully absurd that some stranger you don't know is offering to be a pen pal to you and write letters, but both of us are desperate for one. You, alone and yet never alone, sitting waiting for time to pass in the time you have when not surrounded by those who love you and yet do not fully understand you, me, caged by my dark thoughts, surrounded by empty corridors in which each step of a boot sounds threatening. We are quite similar, you know. Both of our lives are haunted by a constant darkness, and yet you somehow ignore it and go about life normally, whereas I wallow in it, unable to escape.

This first letter is quite formal, quite boring, but I assure you the others won't be. Please do not be hostile. I do not mean to intrude on your life, I just want to give you some company in your time of loneliness in return for what you've given me.

Cordially,

Casidhe Fearbhirigh Bowyn

-----*-----

I sighed, running my hands through my hair. Not a single letter. It had been a week since that first letter, and I had never received any reply. It was devastating. That had been my only hope, my last desperate try at getting Potter.

Of course, my first try had been that month or so of being nice to Potter, but that had not worked. And all my next few tries had been spontaneous actions of lust, so perhaps I would have to be patient with this one.

And so, my residence in the Malfoy household going back and forth from my room to the dungeons, I waited.