Blood Clot

Draco's POV

PART TWENTY FIVE

Conflict

Deep in the pit of my stomach, something was burning. It was something I had never learned to repress, something I had never had control over. I had been always able to mask it, had only let it flare up in solitude. But now, there was no quenching its fire. Anger. It seeped through me, flowed through my veins, mixing with my blood, pumping my heart.

This fury I felt was impossible to hold on to. It flew out of me in a flurry, encompassed with every negativity I had ever thought, the result of caging my emotions for so many years. Finally, I would be able to vent it. But at what a regretful event.

I could barely believe that someone had actually laid their eyes upon it. My dagger. My love. My life! I, only I, was worthy of such a weapon, to use it as I pleased. To have an intruder, and of all people, the person who frustrated and confused me most, to trespass into my room, snoop into my personal folder, and try and lay his hands on my blade...how infuriating.

I valued my privacy, my secrets, my possessions that I felt I needed to have. I had lived my childhood in luxury, but once I had been free from my parents and the manor, I had lived life my way and only kept what I felt necessary. This dagger had remained faithful at my waist for years, loyal and undying in its perfection every time it was unsheathed.

Potter, that bastard. How dare he infiltrate my room, my privacy, my life! He would never understand what that dagger meant to me. Never. He had spoken the truth about me, when he said I never let anyone understand me. Well, I had had my reasons for pushing everyone away. I knew that to be open minded would be to allow more pain to seep in my life. If I tried to open my heart, my unique line of logic, to others, they would misunderstand and label me as something I wasn't. That was why I hated them all. They didn't even try to understand, to listen, to hear my why and how. They just wanted to be able to defeat me, to make it so that my presence didn't cause fear and apprehension in their hearts anymore.

I let out a sharp breath. Ooh, how I wanted to throttle Potter. I wanted to beat him till he hung onto life by only a thread. It was impossible to beat sense into him though, because nothing in the world made sense, and for us to make sense to each other we would have to understand each other, and that was something impossible to attain.

Seething, my teeth gritted with rage, I walked up to him, and reached out, across the corner of the foot of the bed, for the dagger. There was no way I was letting him touch it, no way he would be allowed to contaminate it. My fingers almost brushing against the hilt, his breathless, anxious whisper of "No!" didn't freeze me in my tracks, but his hand grabbing my wrist did.

We remained in that position, frozen, before I slid my gaze down to meet his. My vocal cords could barely work, I was almost choking in anger at his audacity. It was not the famous Gryffindor courage he was showing now; it was sheer stupidity. How stupid could he get? The damn brunette was always interrupting my train of thought, my direction in life, my semi-comfortably settled place. I hated being interrupted, intruded upon, hated when people tried to understand me, to know the true me, when, in the end, they would be repelled and hate themselves for having tried.

Snarling, I yanked my wrist from his grip, saying, "What do you think you're doing? What is wrong with you? What do you want from me?" My voice was rising ever higher.

"Why do you keep intruding on me? Why can't you keep your nose in your own business? Why can't you admit that you want something from me and be done with it? Why do you have to interrupt me instead of having said something in the first place?" I didn't know how loud I was, so absorbed was I in fury, but I knew I was yelling now.

"DO YOU REALIZE THAT YOUR IMPETUOUS BUTTING INTO MY LIFE AND NOT EXPLAINING YOURSELF IS ONE REASON WHY I HATE YOU SO DAMN MUCH?!"

I felt like the breath was being sucked out of me. I wanted to push him away, to smack him and leave an imprint, a symbol of my wrath, on his skin. But I couldn't, because my fingers trembled, so intense were my emotions. I needed desperately to use the dagger, to slice again and again into my skin, to feel that release, to escape the hellish, uncontrollable, overwhelmingly intense cloud of emotion that flooded into the core of my being.

I couldn't handle the feelings anymore. This was my problem. Ever since I was a child, my emotions had been extremely intense, unable to be controlled. When I was very young, I had led a happy life, content, but so strong had been my joy that my father was unable to stand it. So I had been taught to handle my emotions, to mask them so that not a single drop would leak out and show itself. Ever since then, I had always had to take shelter of some quiet, uninhabited place, or my own personal quarters, to vent out most emotion I ever felt. Thus, I had become very coddling of my privacy, and insisted that I never be intruded on without a knock on the door, tap on the shoulder, or spoken warning.

As I moved closer to teenage years, the most intense of these emotions had been fear, mistrust, and sorrow. I had locked my door, pulled closed the curtains, and many a day and night used my pillow to soak my tears. But then that negativity took a different direction, and changed to anger. Even now, free from my father, who I had hated for letting himself be corrupted, and be corrupted so thoroughly, I still was used to extreme privacy. My mother had tried her best to make sure my emotions were masked, taken control of, but only in public could that mask be kept on, and when alone I had always released my emotions from imprisonment.

Now, with so many emotions clashing inside me and all inclination to take control of them whisked away, I could only stand there, agonized. I desired to cut my wrists--my adopted method of release, ever since I'd gotten the dagger--and watch the blood spill in satisfaction as my dangerous and wild emotions ebbed away and settled down into their cages once again.

Then, I floated back to reality, away from the abstract, as I felt his hand, such amazing warmth, on my wrist. I immediately shied away, not wanting his skin on such a tender part of me. I averted my eyes to the floor, as I felt his gaze alight on the scars covering my wrists. Some were dark and light pink, faded from age, and some a bright, vivid red, the most recent which I had done just before going to take a shower, and before Potter had so rudely trespassed.

I hated his gaze on them. No one but me had ever seen them; I had always hidden them beneath a long-sleeved shirt or jumper. I didn't know what to feel, didn't want to feel any different in relation to the Self-Harm Complex, as Mungo's had called it. I physically abused myself on purpose, I wanted to cut my skin, to make those scars every single time it happened, so why did I suddenly feel guilt and shame when he saw them?

It was pure torture. I felt shame, guilt, pain, horror, fear, and yet also an exquisite relief. Finally I wasn't the only person who would have this knowledge on them as a burden. Finally someone else, someone more human than the people at Mungo's, knew about my addiction.

Then, I knew, his gaze wasn't on my wrists anymore, and gasping, I fell to kneel on the floor, willing the wetness in my eyes to leave as I stared at the surface of my blade. Why did I feel this way? I should hate him for having seen them, for having intruded on my life, my privacy, even more, and yet...

And yet I felt some sort of shelter from his gaze. Every time he looked at me, any part of me, there was this feather-light feeling inside of me. This relief, joy, and strength grew bigger and bigger each time those emerald eyes were on me.

I didn't dare to look at him, as he came to kneel in front of me at the foot of the bed. I didn't dare to move inches forward so that our knees would touch. There was nothing that would make my gaze meet his, absolutely nothing. For I knew that if I looked at him, if he let me lock gazes with the gorgeousness of his eyes again, then I would melt into his eyes, fall inside that pit, and never find my way out again, for I would be swept away by the torrent of power that emanated from him. It was a power I believed he'd been born with, a mellow, gentle, magnetic power that was made up of all of his innumerable qualities. All those feelings, that attachment and obsession I had felt for him for part of my youth, would return if I looked him in the eye now. I felt that if I let those feelings return, there would be even more emotions to have to cage in always, and then everything would change, and I wouldn't know what to expect and what was right to feel or to do anymore.

I moved not a single muscle as suddenly my dagger that I was staring at, and the streak of blood on it, became blurry. I gave a loud sniff, and then suddenly Potter reached out, and, the touch of his hand gentle and demanding, he tilted my chin upwards, forcing me to meet his gaze with mine. I had no control over myself anymore. The mask, the anger, the habit of making sure no strong emotion was felt, all left, disappeared, were banished. In their place was the core of my being, now clean, and pulsating emotion. It was a feeling so raw, this final utter release, as if a blindfold had been lifted from my eyes.

Warm, salty tears slid down my cheeks, and I felt my body shuddering, wracked with quiet sobs. Giving me a sweet and tender smile, Potter brushed my tears away, cupping my cheek with his hand for the minute before my tears finally stopped. Then, in that same gentle, firm way, he took the dagger from my hands. He held the weapon in front of him for a few moments, looking at it, allowing me to accept the fact that someone else was holding my prized possession, and was taking control of the situation.

Then, slowly, he brought the dagger to his mouth, and smoothly slid his tongue along the blade, licking off my blood and wiping the steel clean. That tongue, soft and pink, was as opposite to the hard, hazardous blade as was possible. Yet there was an appeal to seeing it swipe against the steel, to watch the blood disappear, to know the salty tang was fierce against his taste buds. I felt, suddenly, not my heart, but another part of me throb violently. It was the most sensual sight I'd ever seen, and I was mesmerized by the way he stared at me so intensely, the way his eyes bore into mine steadily as he tasted my blood.

He then put down the dagger, and leaned forward to press his hands, hard, against my scars. I cried out, the pain making me suddenly not love and treasure the cuts so much. I had no need to care for the cuts anymore, because I didn't need the dagger and cutting as my way of release: I had Potter for that now.

I pulled my wrists out from under his touch, gasping as the pressure lessened, and was about to stand up when he pulled me down by my shoulders towards him. The next I knew, we were deep in a gentle yet passionate kiss, and his tongue was working wonders in my mouth. I was lying half on top of him, and found that the harder I pressed my mouth to his, the more his tongue would thrash, and the more it would thrash, the more I rocked myself against him. As I did this, each moment of his body against mine would cause my erection to throb violently with desire.

Soon, however, I began to shiver from the cold, and stood up to get dressed. After choosing a pair of clothes and unfolding my dressing screen, I slowly and meticulously put on my clothes and combed back my hair. Then I went to lie down beside him on the bed. We both lay there on our backs, and I took the few moments to contemplate what I was doing, and to, as Potter had argued I didn't do enough, think before I acted. Why was I doing this? Actually, what exactly was I doing? I was fraternizing with the enemy. But also, I was allowing the emotions I had caged up for so long be free. I had allowed myself release from the pain I had been inflicting upon myself and had let remain inside me. I asked myself, seriously, Is this the right thing to do? I found that I had no answer.

He leant up, and as our lips met in a searing kiss, I knew he had been watching my outline as I had dressed. The glint in his eye and the needful way he pressed his crotch against mine told me so. Mmm, he tasted so delicious, his tongue was so fierce and caressing in its movement in my mouth.

Images came to me of Potter, the boy whose presence had plagued me with feelings of hatred and obsession in my past. Oh, how I had been attached to him, wanted him so very much. Now, here he was, giving himself to me just as I had wanted all those years ago. Finally I was getting a response; after so much agony, his hands, lips, and tongue were responding to my lustful kiss.

If we were still seventeen, if it was still the past, the years before the train accident, all I would need would be the press of Potter's mouth against mine that I now felt. But somehow, all of a sudden, I didn't know whether it was not enough or too much. Was he doing this just to make me feel better? I doubted the honesty behind this act, what could be simply a pretense of lust on his part. I couldn't believe that it was truly happening, refused to accept his kiss. It was almost too good to be true, too much to ask for.

I couldn't stand it anymore. This was torture. The conflict boiling inside me was threatening to flood over and kill me. I pulled away from him, my lips barely brushing against his, about to whisper words of pain and longing that only he could hear. Insistent, he pushed his mouth against mine again, his tongue flicking, hot and moist, against my lips; his hands were still buried in my hair, gripping blonde locks with desperation. Closing my eyes in an attempt to shut out the liquid form of my inner conflict, I whispered, "Don't do this; stop it! Stop it, oh god, stop..."

As I murmured this against Potter's mouth, his hot breath tickled my lips. I quickly broke the kiss and then lay there, breathless, laying my cheek against his. The warmth that emanated from his skin surrounded me like a cloud, and I wanted that skin of his to touch me everywhere. I wanted those delicate, slender fingers against me. But I also wanted for Potter to disappear from my life forever. He was too perfect to exist. I wanted him, needed him, but if I continued to want and need him so fiercely I felt I would die, and yet I would also die if he left me all alone.

Tears once again fell from my eyes, sat upon my lashes as I tried to blink them away, failing, and allowing the hot liquid sorrow to slide down and touch Potter's skin. I sat up, gasping loudly, trying to brush away my tears with trembling hands, not wanting my gross sentimentality, my emotions tinged with insanity, to tarnish him.

He sat up as I fell back onto the bed on my back, allowing the sobs to rip through me, hurt me, as I closed my eyes to the merciless, unforgiving world. I shook my head, protesting as his hand caressed my cheek, and quickly turned on my side, away from Potter. He was the enemy, the cause of my sudden inability to control my raging emotions and lust-filled body. I told myself, repeating the sentence like a mantra, I don't want him, I don't want him, I don't want him...

But it wasn't true. I wanted him so badly; I wanted to touch my skin to his, to guide his fingers as they glided over my body, to viciously, passionately press my lips against his. I wanted to allow him to comfort me, but not to know me as the truly incompetent, shameful, insane, uncontrollable vagrant that I was. I was unworthy of him, yet he had offered himself to me, and although I knew myself to be half-crazed, flooded with emotions, and unable to stop once I started, I wanted him so badly that it was almost impossible to turn away.

I felt unbearably weak, surely out-of-character in his eyes, baring the sorrow in my soul to him, showing him how puny I was beneath my heart of stone. I hated him for the way he sucked me of my strength, and ripped my pride from me as his presence caused me to cry uncontrollably. Yet I wanted to own him, control him, to make his body serve me like a possession. The fire that was my lust wouldn't stop burning at the sight of him, this man I wanted, wanted all for myself.

But he was too human. Instead of kissing me, touching me, doing whatever I wanted, he was unpredictable, and his attitude towards me constantly changed. One moment his anger, the rare anger that I had grown to love because it was the only human emotion I could relate to, would flare up and direct itself at me. The next moment he was in here in my room, finding out my secrets and trying to comfort me, sticking in front of me what I hated: pity.

It seemed that no matter what, Potter was always the one to make me question myself.

Draco's POV

PART TWENTY SIX

Fulfillment

Compassion, sympathy, pity, love, sorrow, shame, guilt, I hated all of these feelings, yet he directed them--some of them--towards me, and made me feel some of them, too. I had grown to shun, or at least to mask, these types of feelings. They were too tender for me.

I felt anger flare up inside me as his hand brushed against my cheek again, before I quickly shoved it away. Anger. Yes. Yes! Anger was good. Anger was easy. Anger was satisfying, real, harsh, fiery, fierce...familiar. At the touch of his fingertips on my back, warm and soft against my skin, I turned around sharply to face him. Glowering, I hissed, "Where is it?"

He blinked at me, cringing, and backed up off the bed. Kneeling on the floor, staring at me evenly, he asked, "You mean the dagger, don't you? That blasted weapon of yours."

I didn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right, didn't even move to make the slightest nod. I slid off the bed to stand up, towering beside his kneeling form. My eyes flittered around the room, searching for a glint of steel, or a drop of blood.

Finally, after standing, searching futilely for a few moments, I turned to look down at Potter, glaring. He had it. He had my dagger, I just knew he did. Some sort of sixth sense told me. The man was always being virtuous, always trying to help people, even if it was dangerous, even if it meant helping his enemy...even if it meant helping me. A pang of fury shot up inside my stomach, and I lunged towards Potter.

He dove past me, almost letting himself be caught as he moved his leg a moment too slow. The sound of shredding cloth ripped through the air as a piece of his robes tore off in my hands. Exhaling angrily I pursued the fleeing brunette as, after grabbing my wand, he slammed out of my room and skittered down the hallway, shutting the door to his room in my face. I sighed as I heard the click of the door locking, and slid down the length of the door, leaning against it.

Taking a cloth from my pocket and wiping the sweat off my face, I made myself comfortable, determined to wait as long as it took until he unlocked his door.

-----*-----

I woke up with a jolt as a loud click sound met my ears. I was never one to sleep in since the war; it was impossible. I had gotten used to nights spent sleepless, nights spent waiting cautiously for a Death Eater ambush, tense and grim while lying on a hard futon. That was one aspect of war: sacrifice.

Before I could move, the door I was leaning against opened, and I fell, the floor's impact jarring my skull. But my reflexes were quick, and I was still able to focus. Spinning over and up, I stood momentarily before Potter, knees bent in a ready stance, before I pounced on him.

Swearing, he tried to fight me off, but I was determined. Wrestling his wrists into my tight grip I pushed him over and over back to the floor, his legs jostling mine as we rolled over again and again, upsetting furniture and getting bruised. I grimaced as, half standing up, my temple hit his four-poster bed hard, and blood dripped down. Licking it from my lips, I shoved Potter back, and quickly grabbed my dagger and wand from the table.

Grinning victoriously, mentally congratulating myself, I was about to leave there and then. But suddenly he whispered a spell, and in my rush to defend myself our spells got mixed up, and before I knew it both of us were flying out the window.

Sheer luck saved us both, as we landed in a hedge of bushes. It was raining fiercely, tiny drops bouncing and sliding harshly against my bruised and bloodied skin. I shivered and fell to the cold cobblestone ground and then quickly stood up. Potter stood a few feet away, wand outstretched, staring at me with such intensity that I knew how easily I could die by the emerald flames in his eyes.

Breathing heavily, I took out my own wand from my pocket, raising it in defense. I stood across from him, for all the world feeling as if I was once again dueling against Potter. But he made no move, cast no spell against me. I waited, deciding not to do anything unless he did something first.

Nothing happened.

Finally, exasperated, I shouted through the howl of the wind and rush of rain, "Walk away, Potter! I don't want you in my life anymore! You know you want to ignore me just like you used to, so do it now! You'll regret staying near me, I guarantee it."

Shaking his head, he tapped his glasses with this wand, most likely putting a water-repellant spell on them. Then, Potter did the most astounding thing: he put his wand away. I stood there, wondering why on earth he would leave himself so vulnerable. For all he knew I could attack him within the next second. Why was he doing this?

I backed up as he began walking towards me, my wand falling to the ground. I never lifted my eyes from his form. He was so unreasonable! After taking from me my most prized possession he now left himself open to attack after I had purposely invaded his room and ambushed him. I had never understood why he did the things he did, and now he was proving to me the truth of my opinion of him sometimes: He could be such a stupid pillock.

He stopped a few feet away from me, as I felt my back bump against something hard. I didn't dare to look back and see, but had no doubt that it was the castle wall, and that now I had no way to escape. Fear flitted through me for a moment, his unknown intentions and my inability to understand Potter causing my mind to freeze up. Picking up my wand, he came up to me, and for a moment I was unable to look away from his gaze. The bright, stalwart jade sparkled out at me, intoxicating me with its depth and intensity.

I tried to shake the trance from myself, shaking my head slightly, trying to focus on the cold rain that slid into my collar and down my neck instead of on Potter's eyes. My heart thudded at what seemed an impossibly loud volume, as he calmly undid the clasp at the neck of my night robe, and slid his arms around my waist.

I felt separated from the world, swirling on a cloud that I felt I didn't belong on. Euphoria rushed through me like a tidal wave, and I felt almost ready to collapse. Even through my jumper and my shirt, the press of his arms against me seemed like fiery, burning rods, the contact meant so much to me. But then I felt my wand slip into the pocket of my trousers, and realized that his only purpose was to return it to me out of courtesy.

It was all I could do to keep from screaming, as my conflicting feelings of and desires to be angry, kill, ignore, he means nothing to you and never will and grab him, kiss, force, he's the only thing you've ever wanted this much clashed. As his arms began to pull back from around me, I grabbed his wrists and spun us both around. My adrenaline was so high and my concentration so focused on Potter that it didn't matter that we rammed through and shattered another window, falling into a classroom.

I pressed against him, pinning him to the desk, and then cupping his face in my hands, I leaned in and kissed him. His mouth was as soft, warm, and succulent as ever, but for a second unresponsive. Then his lips parted, and all I knew was the heat, the lust, the warmth, the moistness, and the taste, because I slid my tongue in his mouth and his caressed mine in reply. I realized that if I just accepted him I would not be conflicted, and that it was not too good to be true because life was never perfect. His kiss, a passionate reply to mine, was all I'd ever needed.

As my tongue explored his mouth our kiss deepened and the pressing of mouths became more fierce, tinged with the slightest urgency. Even as we kissed I felt myself want more, more, more, and the desire was so abundant I felt I would surely burst soon. So all I could do was press and press and press, and as the kiss quickened I felt so hot; the pleasure and passion were so intense.

He moaned, the sound sending shivers down my spine, and then we broke our kiss reluctantly, breathless. Relieving me slightly from the attacking heat, he slowly slid my night robe from my shoulders, although I still wore my trousers, shirt, and jumper.

I lifted my head up so I could look at his face. He was staring at me avidly, a flush adorning his porcelain cheeks that, with his naturally tousled hair, completed what young teens called the 'Thoroughly Snogged' look. Breathing sharply through my nose, I held up my dagger which I had kept in my pocket, and as it glinted in the moonlight we both stared at it for a moment. I was mesmerized by its harmful look and excellent craftsmanship. I felt a tiny twinge of the familiar urge to shed blood with the weapon, but shoving the feeling away, I threw the dagger with all my might in one direction, hearing a satisfying thud as it pierced a wall.

Potter smiled at me, the look in his eyes tender and approving. I felt a surge of pride for myself; finally I had done something he accepted. There was no prize better than that innocent, honest, fascinating, sexy, sexy smile. I grinned back, laughing at the mirth in his expression and the lust in his eyes. Oh, god, he was absolutely alluring, so attractive! Still grinning, I placed soft kisses all over his face, brushing my lips over and over hungrily against his smooth, baby-soft skin. There was only one word to describe Potter: yum.

I placed three small kisses on his lips, teasingly making the contact barely there, every few seconds my tongue flicking out to touch his full bottom lip. Then I made a trail of wet, hard kisses to a certain spot just below his ear. I found that, upon my sucking of the skin at that spot, Potter would moan and gasp, squirming, his hands, fingers buried in my hair, clenching and unclenching.

Laughing softly, I began to unbutton his shirt, his revealed skin and continued moaning at my sucks causing me shivers of ecstasy and a steady erection. Now breathing quite shakily myself, I got goosebumps of pleasure as I swept my hands up and down his torso. The smoothness of his skin and taut muscles underneath, as well as the constant warmth, made my hands and mouth speedier than lightning as my desire to touch him as much as and anywhere possible became too great to hold in.