Blood Clot

Draco's POV

PART NINETEEN

Hatred

I had come, over the years, to expect to know the generalizations of the happenstances of each day. I had always had a knack for instinctively knowing things: if the day would be different from the last, if I would sleep that night, if the day would be bad or good, knowing what people were thinking when they looked at me and what they would say or do next, knowing what these people felt, what type of people they were. I had trained myself to read people, their faces, eyes, hands, gestures, wrinkles, eyebrows, feet, twitching, snapping, stillness, the way a person held their head, the way they walked, spoke, moved, held their wand, where they placed their hands when idle.

It had become a pastime of mine, years ago when I was still at Mungo's, to observe people and try to guess what type of people they were, where they came from, whether they were married or single, whether they were social or not, etc. I made up little stories about each person, never asking if what I thought was true or not, knowing that some of it was and some wasn't. In the end, I never actually cared about a single one of these people, but found that I had learned things from observing them. Then the war began.

I was released from Mungo's a week or so after the first Death Eaters invasion began, in Greenwich. The news filled me with regret and curiousity: mother was dead. I never found out how she died, where she was buried, or why she had never visited me and bailed me out of Mungo's before. I had no idea what to do with myself. All I knew was that I didn't want to become my father, I didn't want to be what he wanted me to be. Feeling the need to brush away questions that filled my mind and to forget my lonely, whisper-filled past, I signed up for the army, and soon got in.

It brought out my truly dark side, all my passion, my anger towards certain people, places, and events poured from my fingertips and into my wand to deflate the lives of the black-robed bastards. It was also my way of revenge, my way to pour out the vengeance for the pain I had suffered during childhood. If it wasn't for Voldemort the Death Eaters would never have existed, and because of the Death Eaters pain and darkness spread in the world and invaded my life.

I hated the Dark Lord with a passion. Not only did he corrupt my father, who, as a young child, I had looked up to and admired, but he killed without purpose and belittled and called everyone except himself foolish. I admitted that I was a selfish, condescending, spoiled, angry person, but I acknowledged some of my enemies as smart, I let them teach me things, I never underestimated an opponent, and although some of my reasons would be petty, I would never kill or take revenge on anyone for no reason at all, or simply for enjoyment.

Being at war had had it's advantages, to tell the truth. I had become stronger, tougher, had met people. I learned what honor, loyalty, and trust were. Somehow, I found myself climbing the ranks. I went from a soldier to a captain, and from a captain to not just a captain, but a highly respected person. Other captains consulted me, young soldiers asked favors, and healers gave me paper to chart formations and scribble planning on. There was a certain delicious, dark thrill to charging out with a ton of wand-holding people behind me, and to watch them follow my orders precisely, and know that without me, they would be almost nothing.

Eventually, it was all I could do to not rush out in the middle of the night and murder wounded Death Eaters lying on the battlefield. I felt ruthlessness, a thirst for killing, come over me. Finally I had found something to do with myself, but in my eagerness to do it, to be useful, to prove myself worthy of respect, I became obsessed. For a day I remained in bed, my stomach empty, throat dry, lips and eyes unmoving, allowing my mind to slowly, slowly become blank. Then, on Monday evening, a man came running into my tent to tell me the bad news: our side was losing, and, he said, they desperately needed me. I still felt unfit to fight, troubled and exhausted, but as soon as I picked up my wand and walked out, I felt renewed and vigorous; I felt prepared.

My feelings were true. As soon as I joined the battle, I knew that I was prepared for any onslaught. So, with both sides raging on, the battle continued into the night, and on to the next morning. On Tuesday, at eleven o'clock a.m., our victory was announced. I didn't relish in it, didn't celebrate. The thrill was gone from it all, dissipated, and now that it was over, I remembered things other than the release of pent-up feelings it had given me. I remembered the anguished eyes of the dying, and the tear-streaked cheeks of the women and children searching fruitlessly on the blood-stained ground of the battlefield for the heartbeat of a fallen soldier.

Although with magic and spells, yes, it was just as bloody as any Muggle war. I had seen people ripped apart because of two spells cast on them at once. I had seen people stumble over the dead and fall, and then faint from exhaustion or fear, and then get killed. I had seen fingers from under a pile of carcasses reaching for a treasured limb, or a lost wand. Women had wept as they found pendants, photos, and other belongings of their sons and husbands. Children had wailed and shrieked even at the sight of a blood-stained or broken wand, legacies destroyed, fearing it to be their father's or brother's.

All of this, as well as the memories of my days as a madman, haunted me day and night.

-----*-----

I was somehow not surprised upon seeing Potter, upon finding him to be occupying the room next to mine. It had been all over the news when he awoke, magazines and newspaper scattered with headlines such as Boy-Who-Lived Back From Sleeping Death, and Harry Potter: Hero or Fraud? I had honestly been sickened by it all. I was sick of him. I wanted him out of my life, to forget him, and everything I had ever thought of him.

Why did everything always come back to him? He had been in a coma for three years and missed the final battle; so what? He hadn't contributed to our victory at all: why should he all of a sudden matter, what difference had he made in the world? In my opinion, none. Even when he had done the amazing as an infant, that wasn't even his doing. He had been small, young, not even big enough to know what a wand was! Yet still they showered him with fame and love. He didn't deserve any of it. I wasn't envious of him, but I hated him for being worshipped as a hero when he hadn't ultimately contributed in the end. It disgusted me.

Upon looking him over I found him to be almost exactly like the boy he had been. Sure, he had gained a bit of backbone since he now felt neglected and left out, but other than that he was as weak, indecisive, and annoying as ever. There were some minor differences, however: Now, he wasn't an open book anymore. I couldn't read him as easily. When he looked at me, there was determination and defiance in that gaze; I welcomed it, mentally congratulating him on having a bit of inner strength.

Encountering him again the next morning, I decided it was time to put the blank card into play. He was curious about me, I presumed. Well, he wouldn't get anything from watching me. Katrina had taught me not to allow things to chase me, to bother me when I wanted nothing of them. This was the tactic I would use on Potter. Instead of letting him bother me, allowing him to satisfy his curiousity, I would bother him instead, not let his presence bother or stress me, but instead make him amuse me. I would be as boring, cold, and unreadable as ever to him. That had always frustrated him; he had always seemed to think that my "nasty" attitude had been directed at him, but in fact it had been simply my easy route of getting through life: think for myself, not think about others by making them insignificant, and do whatever I could to achieve what I wanted. In a sense, that was the Slytherin way.

However, back in my Hogwarts days, when I had had my change of heart and decided to repent, that was when Fate had intruded and tried to make us a couple. That had not worked out, and never would I let anything but myself push or magnet me towards anyone, especially him, ever again.

I was just taking out my wand to unlock my door when Potter called out to me, his voice surprisingly deep and musical. In the past, I had always found his voice high, girly, almost nasal--overall, very unpleasant. But now it was different. Of course. Everything was different.

Potter was so frustrating. I found myself feeling suddenly bothered; frowning, I almost said, "Do you mind? I'm trying to have a conversation with the voices in my head." But I didn't. No. I had to keep him bored with me, make sure the card remained blank. Sighing, I turned around, asking irritably, "What? You found out who your neighbor is, who you sit by, what more must you know? What is it you want with me, Potter?"

He slowly took a step forward towards me, and eyes glinting once again with that Gryffindor determination and defiance, he replied, "I want answers. I want to know why you signed up for the war, and I want to know..." he paused, then voice quavering a little, yet trying to hide it, continued, "I want to know what happened to Casidhe. Where did he disappear to? Where is he now?"

I stared at him in disbelief. Was he insane? Firstly, he was violating my privacy, and we were almost like total strangers towards each other. What made him ask such personal questions? Secondly, he knew I had been in the war, and was still daft enough to think I had some softness in me, still possessed an inkling of my childhood weaknesses? How foolish of him.

Snorting, I said, "Casidhe wasn't real, Potter. He was a figment of my imagination. I swindled you into believing that your penpal whom you had heart-to-heart conversations with was real."

"I know he wasn't real! I know that, you bastard. But why did you invent him? What in bloody hell did you want from me?"

I leaned against the door, and staring him straight in the eye, stolidly said, "You were my enemy, the focus of all my hatred. I wanted to know what made you do and say the things you did, Potter. I wanted to find your weakness, break you, watch you crumble. I wanted..." My fists clenched at my sides. Why was I telling him this? Because if I didn't, he would never stop asking questions. I hated his insistency.

Tilting my chin upwards proudly, in a move to wave away the weak threat of his glare, I finished with, "I wanted to understand you. I wasn't sure, I don't know exactly why I wanted to, whether I wanted to understand you in order to destroy you, or because of...something else."

He took a few steps back, hand limply at his sides, staring at me, trying to interpret the look I gave him, trying to decipher the code of my words. He never succeeded, never had, never would.

"What do you mean? Explain yourself! Why do you always have to say things in riddles, in mockery? You love to confuse me, Malfoy."

"And don't you love to be confused? Isn't it a challenge, something you should welcome now that the ultimate threat is gone? Shouldn't you embrace your confusion, and adapt to the changes, and be glad you can finally be a normal human being? That's your problem, Potter. You're always trying to be someone else! You tried to be the hero, the savior, the Harry Potter that everyone wanted you to be. You were kind, considerate, virtuous, everything a hero should be. But you weren't going to be satisfied with the love of the crowds, oh no. You had to be the best mate, the best boyfriend, the best student, too." I never paused, never letting him utter a syllable when he would open his mouth as if to speak. I continued, my words flowing steadily and harshly from my mouth.

"And you had to always be right, to have everyone understand your reasoning. You hated us, Slytherins, me, people who challenged your...perfection. Deep down, you knew that it was all a façade. You didn't want to be the hero, didn't want to be perfect, it was too much pressure, too much to strive for. But you continued doing it anyway, ignoring the dark little whispers in your mind telling you to explode at everyone, to run away, to admit your faults. You denied that the truths be revealed, even to yourself."

He stared at me, emerald eyes wide, fingers splayed against the wall. Then he stepped closer again, fists clenched, eyes glittering menacingly. His brows furrowed, lip bitten; the wildness of his hair made the image even more a picture of pure fury. He wasn't annoyed any more, had charged past angry...he was infuriated, shaking with fury down to his very bones. I moved not an inch, flinched not a muscle, and continued staring him down. Our heights had varied through out the years, and now was one of those times when I was taller than him--but only by an inch or a half.

His voice was a snarl, a yell, yet only loud enough to be loud to someone close by to him: me. "Don't try to tell me who I am, what my purposes were, what I thought and wanted...You are such an insufferable git, you know that, Malfoy? It's your daily pastime to taunt and irritate people. For a while, I thought you had stopped that. I thought you had a change of heart, that maybe you weren't always nasty. But you proved me wrong, Malfoy. You proved me wrong with that joke you played on me.

"You always do things unreasonably, stupidly! You don't seem to be able to think things through before you do them. It didn't matter who suffered or what the consequences were to your actions, as long as you got what you wanted. Selfish. Hateful. Anyone who achieved what you couldn't was on your list of people to put down and hate. And you would do anything to get attention. You somehow thought that if you could get people to pay attention to you, by making them hate you or idolize you, then you wouldn't feel so thirsty for what you could never have: understanding. You never let anyone understand you, Malfoy, even yourself. When people hated you, you couldn't get why they loathed you so much, and so you labeled them as insignificant. Maybe that's why you wanted to understand me: because people agreed with and understood with what I said, whereas no one could fathom the reasoning behind your actions.

"You talk of me trying to be someone else, but really it was you! You envied me for my life, my joy and my fame that you didn't think I deserved, so you made up someone who was in my favor, and managed to, to...to make me accept you as Casidhe, for the shortest time. But now I realize that you are nothing but a nasty git. You're the same boy that sauntered around Hogwarts and taunted people only because you hated them, and hated them because they had and were what you could never be. What is wrong with you, Malfoy, you poncy git?"

I unlocked my door, and turned away from him without a word. I had walked a few steps away, when suddenly all the anger boiled up inside of me, and I couldn't stand keeping it inside, had to release it. There was no way I was walking away from him without the last word, the victory. I turned back around to face him, and tucking away my wand I marched up to him, and grabbing his collar, shook him viciously. I realized that I had wanted to do this for so long, wanted to show him how much he angered me, how frustrating he was, how much I despised him.

"Apparently, Potter, you named everything that's wrong with me already! So shut up and stop asking questions! That's what another one of your problems is: you ask too many questions. You want answers for all the questions you ask, you want answers for every mystery, every single thing you don't understand, and you expect those answer to be immediate, truthful, and understandable. And you don't even understand yourself! If I don't have understanding, then neither do you!

"You deny every negative thing you feel, every tear, every scream of rage, every incessant pulsing inside of wanting to fucking explode. You sit there and cage it all in because you're scared! You think it's wrong to think and feel all those things, and so you hide it all away. I understand that! I know how it is! But you keep on hiding parts of yourself, being who everyone wants you to be, being the ultimate Gryffindor. You just don't know how the world works, Potter. If you think you're living by only letting the so-called perfect, expected, Gryffindor good part of yourself show, then you're wrong.

"You can't live without problems, without being yourself in every single way, without letting parts of yourself out, showing every part, sometimes. Things get confusing. Answers aren't always available. People don't always love you. Things don't always go your way. Death, pestilence, anger, betrayal, conflict, they're all around us, parts of us. Live life for what it is, with who you are, not what or who you want life and yourself to be. Be yourself, always. Live! Just accept the way things go for once, allow change instead of always trying to steer things your own way. It leaves more time to ponder about eternal questions, things everyone has asked, important things. Don't always focus on yourself, Potter. Be a man, stop whining. Go with the flow, shut up, sit down, figure things out, think about others. Don't be so damn heartless, so inconsiderate."

For a few moments, Potter was silent. But then it was impossible to hold it all in. He was outraged. "Heartless? Heartless?! Who are you calling heartless, Malfoy? Damnit, I can't believe your nerve! How dare you call me heartless. I do things for people. I fought for justice, for lives, to spare people more pain and suffering. Sure, I missed the last battle, the end of the war against the Dark Side, but I won all the rest of the battles! How can you say I didn't contribute anything? All those years of encountering Voldemort, that was torture, you know. I'm not saying I'm special, that I want to be worshipped. All of my achievements were successful because of things I learned from other people. But that doesn't mean I didn't achieve anything at all. Don't throw out unproven accusations simply spawned from hatred and jealousy."

Looking back up at him from having averted my eyes from his wrath, I met his gaze for a moment, biting my lip in rage, my eyes narrowed to slits, giving him the most loathing glare I could. He had avoided everything I had pointed out to him. He insisted on staying the same stupid, accusing prat, being a fakery of what he really was, deep down, inside. Stupid! That was it. There was no use wasting my time on someone who wouldn't let himself see the truth, who wouldn't even try. Letting go my grip on his collar, I shoved him away and turned around, saying, "Don't give me any more of your crap, Potter. You think you know me and my reasons, but you don't. Just fuck off and leave me the hell alone!"

I stalked back into my room, slamming the door viciously behind me.

It was time to begin the cutting again.

Draco's POV

PART TWENTY

Shredded

The next morning I awoke to a throbbing pain in my wrists. Groaning at the sun that intruded through the windows I hadn't opened, I turned over on my side. A smile came to my lips as I remembered the previous night, but then it quickly disappeared. It had been pleasurable to hear the sound of my blade being unsheathed, pure, holy, threatening, deliciously dangerous and sharp, just as I had always liked it. I had knelt there for a few moments, the blade in my hand, thumb rubbing lovingly against the polished, glimmering hilt. The echo around my room of the ringing sound that my unsheathing so viciously made caused a shiver of delight to run down my spine.

Cradling the precious thing in my hands, I had brought the blade to my lips, and gently kissed it. In my eagerness I let the blade tip nick my wrist, and my bottom lip caught the sharp rim; that was when the blood began. Feeling almost like roaring in glee, as if I had triumphed, although I knew not over what, I had eagerly pulled back one sleeve, prepared to plunge the tip of the blade and make an extra deep cut that night. The sight that met my eyes, however, made my blood run cold.

My pale wrists, skin once soft there, were roughened and marred by the many blood clots, spots of pain bringing back memories of pain I could not forget, light and dark pink lines that drew rivers, dried rivers of blood upon my skin. I had stared for what seemed like eternity at the smattering of clots and crooked, spindly lines that were horrific and ghastly. It brought me no amount of joy to see them. The sight of them was devastating.

It was with desperate tears, hot with need and agonizing pleasure, that I further allowed my body to symbolize my pain, while mentally and emotionally I hid it all away.

-----*-----

That afternoon, I spent my time leisurely walking around the corridors of Hogwarts, my boyhood memories haunting and some cheerfully softening my mind. Little First and Second Years quickly scuttled past me; to them, I was a being whose dangerous status equaled that of the legendary punishers Severus Snape and Argus Filch.

Slytherins, however, such as an occasional boy in perhaps their fourth or fifth year, looked at me with reverence. They knew me to have been, in my past, the leader of Potions and the common room, however deranged and useless I seemed now. I felt some of my Malfoy pride return as several female 7^th years trailed their eyes to follow me, thinking me unsuspecting. I even heard a few girls from younger years huddling in excited whispers when I passed by, their silence and obvious ogling in my presence telling me of their worthlessness.

I barely saw Potter for the next few days, as he seemed to skip lunch and dinner, however, whenever I did spot him, he made sure to give me a repugnant glare if I so much as glanced in his direction. It was with great annoyance that I returned his glares, taunting him with rude gestures and smirks that only he could see. But never was the activity really worthwhile.

After a week or so of this, I gave up on so stupidly egging him on, as nothing came of it; I began to avoid him entirely. To my dull pleasure, this made him even more furious, for I noticed once that when I walked by he was murmuring words of hatred and harsh swearwords underneath his breath. But I didn't care. He could damn me to hell and I would never allow it to effect me whatsoever.

It was after almost a month of having insomnia due to bloody, gory nightmares born of memory, that I decided I needed something to do. So, after too many nights of waking myself up screaming and sweat-soaked, I snatched my 5-year-old trustworthy broom one morning--a Firebolt I had gotten fifth year--and went out to the Quidditch field. Avoiding the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, captain and Seeker talking, Beaters, two Chasers, and Keeper practicing up in the air, I went to the opposite side of the field. Ignoring the way the captain and Seeker stared at me when I grabbed the Snitch from the box, I released it, and quickly mounting my broom, was up in the air.

There was only one word for it: exhilarating. The experience brought back such nostalgia, but shoving away the memories of Quidditch games lost, I wrapped myself in the thrill and exuberance of flying again. With the same speed and agility--maybe more than--I'd always had, I whipped through the air, repressing laughter. Oh, what joy it was to feel the wind whistling past my ears, and know that it was because of my speed and not the weather.

Eventually I brought my attention away from my joy and playful pranks on the broom, putting my attention back on the Snitch it had been such a joy to grasp each rare time I'd managed it. But I had barely begun when I noticed a trace of cloak whip past me, and turning around I found myself staring into the glaring emerald eyes of Potter once again. Sneering, I spat in his direction to show my disgust, absentmindedly wondering if the spit would land on someone. Then, with a smirk I knew would drive him mad, I gave him the thumbs down, and the next moment was diving downward towards the glint of gold I'd seen.

It was with mild surprise, and perhaps a tinge of dismay, that I noticed him also plummeting, knowing it only by the flutter of his cloak in the wind. He was directly behind me. With fingers eagerly reaching forward towards the Snitch, my chest heaving, breath coming in gasps, I could almost touch the damnable ball. I knew that there was another hand, slender fingers, callused skinned, reaching, reaching, wanting to grasp that golden flutterer only to best me, to try and aggravate me as much as I did him, and not for the inner, self-satisfied glory I strived for.

With a deep breath, I lunged out further, and before I knew it my hands had closed over the Snitch. Able to close my eyes in peace, I smiled even as I fell from my broom. It was pure bliss knowing that for once in my life, I had beaten Potter, and beaten him at something he usually defeated me at, too. For I knew he was a better flyer than I was; this had made me bitter in the past, and made my victory now all the more sweet.

However, my tranceful pleasure was broken as I landed on my side on the ground, my shoulder making a sickening crunch. My vision became hazy, but when I heard Potter's voice calling out to me, I forced myself to stand up. He stood in front of me, holding my broom out to me, glancing at my limp and useless arm. I knew that he hated doing this, hated helping me, and hated the ounce of sympathy that he directed at my dislocated shoulder.

Grinning at him, I held out the Snitch with my still good arm, fingers holding it just so in a way that made the light hitting it make it glow. His eyes narrowed, burning with emerald fire, and he dropped my broom. Still aggravating him with my smirk, I placed the Snitch in his hands. He knew it was my sign of victory, his sign of defeat. By placing it back in his hands, and by catching it, it was as if I had said, "You're not the rightful owner of this. It's mine just as much as it is yours, if not more now, and I know that you hate holding it when it wasn't you who caught it."

A low growl came from his throat, and he gripped the Snitch so hard--barely missing my fingertips--that I could hear his knuckles cracking. Letting my smile drop, I gave him an apathetic appraisal, showing him I didn't give a damn or feel in the least threatened or bothered by his insistent anger towards me. Grimacing, I grabbed my arm, and with another foul-sounding crunch, snapped my dislocated shoulder back in place.

Then, tilting my head to give him a fake, innocent look of coyness, I whispered, "I hope we see more of each other," and stalked away, turning back at the last moment to give him a haughty grin. Afterwards though, back in my room, I felt shredded to pieces. When I had looked back, expecting to see his look of confusion or anger, he was instead giving me a thoughtful look.

Damn, I thought, curiousity is not the effect I wanted to have on him, the thickheaded bloke!

Draco's POV

PART TWENTY ONE

Unexpected

The next few days, I was surprised to find that Potter was present for lunch and dinner, and he silently accepted his place sitting next to me. It was uncanny seeing him so silent and unresponsive; I had gotten used to the glares so much.

Sometimes, when I remembered our argument that had taken place in front of my door, I felt this tingle in my body. Back in my room, when I remembered how, in his angry advancement towards me, we had been so close to each other, I felt my face burn with a flush. I wanted to hate him as much as he hated me--or had, before the Snitch incident--but somehow couldn't bring myself to feel it.

I found my mind wandering back to that time when I had been infatuated with him, towards my last years in Hogwarts, and remembered how painful it had been that he had captivated me more than made me feel hatred. Those glares had given me pleasure. I had felt, occasionally, a twinge of the same rush of pleasure and want for more sights of him angry I had had before the train accident. I remembered the soft kiss we had shared that day, and how extremely gratifying and delicious it had been.

At times like this, I felt like screaming, and often buried myself in the blankets and pillows of my bed in frustration, as if blocking out all sound would block out my thoughts. But of course it never did. The only thing that pacified me was watching streams of blood run down my garish wrists, and drip beautifully to stain the carpet with my pain.

He was such an annoyance, that Potter. I often found, at dinner or lunch, my hands twitching underneath the table, I wanted to choke him so very much. His silence and refusal to acknowledge my existence was the most frustrating thing I had ever experienced. Even if it was with loathing, I knew that when he had hated me every thought of his had been of me.

So I set out to do something about it. I wanted dearly to make him hate me again, make him hate me so much there was no way he would feel an ounce of pity or anything but anger towards me. I tried to scheme an episode similar to the incident with the Snitch, but couldn't think of one, which made me even more frustrated.

I tried taunting him again, teasing him in the corridors when no one else was around, making rude gestures at him behind his back during lunch--causing Slytherins at the nearby table to laugh, but seeming to have no effect on Potter himself. But finally, after a week or so of trying, the opportunity came to me by accident to get what I wanted.

I was never much for repeating things I had done or said in order to get at people. Each time I did or said something, I had made sure it would stick in people's minds, so it wasn't a very good thing to repeat anything. This unspoken rule was still etched in my head, although it had been years since I'd had a reason to dislike someone enough to insult, threaten, or bully them like I had as a boy at school.

So it was with reluctance, one day, that I cornered Potter after dinner and pushed and wheedled him up a few stairways and through a few corridors to get to where a Slytherin kid--Marbledon Erthnen--had told me it was. 'It' just happened to be a very narrow and seemingly endless magical corridor that was quite conveniently set in an area of sparsely used rooms and barely visited corridors.

First, I thrust Potter sideways into the corridor, testing it, yet also angry with him, and sure enough, as the kid had told me it would, the corridor immediately shrunk. The walls magically moved inward, so that it was just barely wide enough for Potter to stand in. Directly to his right, where the corridor used to lead forward and never seem to end, was a dead end wall.

After taunting him uselessly, I finally alit on the insults that had always caused him anger back in our childhood, slandering his parents and his dearest friends. I also mentioned, noting that it had annoyed him in our argument, how heartless he was and what little contribution he had made to the world. It was almost disappointing, the easiness to get him angry, the fact that he was still able to get riled up by the same types of insults. I knew what worked with him and what didn't, and there was no denying that age old insults slandering the same people and hitting the same nerves still worked with Potter. He was too ready to defend himself, too proud, too Gryffindor, uncouth and untactful, to just let insults roll over him.

I could almost smell the spark of the fire of his anger ignite, it was so palatable, and smirked in what I knew to be a positively infuriating way, as he turned his head slowly towards me, his eyes dark in malice. I almost took a step back then, however I wished not to admit it, for the look in his eyes was of pure hatred. I was used to his hatred, but never had the hatred been so intense; it seemed like it ran in his blood, and I knew at that moment that he felt nothing for me but loathing.

Pushing away the doubt, I returned him with an equally malevolent glare, showing him I felt revulsion as well. Double checking no one was around, I felt a pang of hesitancy--wasn't this immature? I was a grown man now. So why was I taking pleasure in angering him, as I once had in boyhood? But quickly shoving that away, I remembered that I, Draco Malfoy, did whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, and would do no matter what to achieve my desires.

Pushing myself to squeeze into the corridor--which expanded to hold both of us--to stand in front of him, I sneered, before pushing him against the wall. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as I had hoped, for the corridor was so small there was only an inch or so between his back and the wall, making the contact not half as painful as I had intended. Nevertheless, I slammed him against the wall a few more times, before placing a leg of mine between his and gripping his wrists tightly enough that he would have no defense.

It was the same scenario of years ago, when I had been kicked out of McGonagall's classroom, and later on right before lunch's end tortured Potter when he chanced upon me in a corridor. I remembered the feel of satisfaction I had felt then, having his body pressed against mine, he helpless to escape me, to escape the lust I had so easily incensed within him. Now, I didn't live to feel his fear, nervousness, helplessness, and embarrassed, frustrated denial of what he wanted. But there was nothing else left to do, to feel. Might as well use him, to be satisfied in seeing someone other than myself become frustrated.

However, we were both grown men now, and regardless of having been lying in a hospital for three years, he was much stronger than I would have thought, and put up a much better fight. My eyes widened as he shoved me against the wall, taking the time it had given him to replace his glasses gone askew back onto his nose. We stood there like that, me still gripping his wrists tightly, him pressing me against the wall, glaring, for what seemed the longest time.

He attempted to reverse the situation, moving us both around to place his leg between mine, unknowingly teasing my faint erection. Repressing the urge to wipe the sweat from my brow, I sneered at him, but with no effect. I couldn't believe how disappointing this all was. Usually things worked my way. He attempted to take hold of my wrists, palms against my skin, his fingers about to fasten their grip. There was no way I was about to let him feel the skin there, to see the scars of pain that I hid daily with long-sleeved jumpers. Quickly, I shoved him away from me with a howl of protest, and ran from there, unable to shout back a threat due to my shortening of breath.

I quickly returned to my room, and, panting, fell down upon the bed, feeling ashamed, humiliated, angry, and wondering. Why had it been so easy to get him angry again? How had my teasing smile back at the Quidditch field made him lose his anger so fast? How had he so easily rebelled against me? Why did he have to be so fucking confusing all. The. Time?!

I growled in anger, burying my face in a pillow, wishing hopelessly that I could get answers. Katrina had once told me that a pharaoh had stolen her bonnet. I had always been my own pharaoh, my own king. Now, though, I was losing control, had lost my bonnet, my ability to feel good about making Potter suffer, the thing I had depended on about myself. He was strong. What had once fulfilled my wants now did not, because I didn't quite know what it was I wanted anymore. I turned on my back, sighing. How could I be so stupid? I asked myself. But then, smiling, I slid off the bed, reaching underneath to get my precious blade...

-----*-----

That night, I didn't mind so much that the house-elf opened the curtain every morning. For, in my sleepiness--which had come from being so utterly annoyed with everything and everyone in the world, due to the mess up earlier--I was too lazy to go and close the curtains at night time, and therefore was able to bask in the moonlight, watching the blood dry and clot on my wrists.

Due to my utter frustration at everything, every situation, memory, anything involving Potter, after each line or nick had clotted I, with pain but not a single tear, sliced a third time--one more than usual--into the same cuts I'd made. This made me able to watch the blood drip and feel the moonlight on me for hours, as well as, in the end, making the blood clot more but fade into scars earlier.

But then an interruption came. It was about midnight, and suddenly I heard a faint knocking at my door. Reluctantly getting up, fully awake and clothed, I walked over to the door, stopping as I got to it. Making not a twitch, flinch, hiss, or any sound or movement to show the intense pain of it, I slowly, ever so slowly, pulled the sleeves of my jumper back down over my wrists.

After rubbing my eyes, and then just standing there with them closed for a second, I went to stand by my bed as the knocking continued, more adamant about being let in this time. Bending down over my bed to lightly push my wand to point towards the door, I whispered a spell that made it open, and then kept my wand in reach, but not in sight, tucking it in the back pocket of my trousers.

The sight that met my eyes was enough to make me think I was hallucinating: Harry Potter, standing but a mere distance away from me, glasses-less, and, as far as I could tell, wandless. What in bloody hell was he doing here?

I was about to ask him just that, when suddenly he breached the space between us in a few swift steps forward, and suddenly leaned in. I found myself involuntarily taking a step backwards as he moved in close, me barely noticing the touch of a bed post against my back. His body was against mine, oh god, I could smell his shampoo, his cologne, it smelt so good, and his face was so close, so very, very close...